Page 66 of Holiday Interference
Then, real quiet, without even looking up:
“Whatever it is, figure it out.”
It lands like a puck to the ribs.
Eli doesn’t say much. Not unless it matters.
I breathe through the jolt of defensiveness. My fists curl, nails pressing into my palms, but I don’t say anything. Because he’s right. And I hate that he’s right.
Everyone’s moving on. Showering, joking, dumping gear. The scent of bodywash and stale sweat swirls in the air.
And I’m still sitting here stuck in something that doesn’t have a name.
My gear is half-packed, hands moving on autopilot, but my mind’s nowhere near The Pit.
It’s still back in my apartment.
In my kitchen, on that counter.
In my bed, where her body curled instinctively into mine even when she was asleep.
I kissed her like I meant it.
Touched her like she belonged to me.
And then let her walk out without a fight.
I bend forward, forearms on my knees, chest heavy like I can’t get a full breath.
Something’s pressing down on me. Something like grief, but not as sharp. It’s a slow, quiet ache.
I dig into my duffel and pull out my phone.
Swipe it open.
Thumb moves to contacts. Instinct.
Noelle.
Except…there’s nothing.
My contact list stares back at me. Empty of her.
Because I never needed her number before.
Every time we saw each other, it was arranged through The Pit—PR schedules, team assignments, logistics emails from Sierra. She was always there.
Until she wasn’t.
A hollow opens in my chest.
I don’t even have a way to reach her.
I stare at the screen. Like maybe her name will appear if I want it bad enough.
It doesn’t.
My thumb hovers. Then drops the phone back in my bag, screen down.
