Page 28 of Golden

I’ve been back six days, and I haven’t gone to see Wes. I haven’t texted him either. He hasn’t texted me, but I suppose he left the ball in my court. Every day I walk past Halston Hall with every intention of going in to see if he’s there. But I don’t.

Usually Alex runs with me, but he’s broken. The love of his life won’t talk to him and there’s nothing I can do to help him. I’ve tried, but it’s useless. Zak’s even tried talking to her friends, but they can’t do anything either. It’s just going to have to run its course. I know the feeling.

My attention snags on the bus parked outside the gym and as I draw closer, I watch the swim team as they climb on board. They have an away meet with four other schools in San Francisco. I might not have the courage to go to any of Wes’ practices, but that doesn’t mean I don’t stalk the swim team via The Howl.

I slow as I approach, searching the huddle of men and women, but there’s no need. Wes’ tall, broad, frame stands out from a mile away. My heart flips at the sight of him, remembering how it felt to be pressed up against the door by that incredible body, the heat of his breath against my skin. As I reach the path outside the gym, I slow to a walk, staring at Wes as he talks with the captain, Aldo, and another senior, Ella. But he doesn’t look my way. I almost shout out but bite it back.

When he climbs onto the bus, with not even a backwards glance, I exhale and resume my run. I one hundred percent didn’t time my morning run to coincide with the swim team leaving. Nuh uh.

Feeling like an idiot, my face burns as I run the rest of the way back to the Den. What the fuck was I expecting? For him to look up, see me, and come running over? For a kiss through the chain-link fence that separates the parking lot from the running path? Muttering under my breath, I push open the heavy wooden doors and head straight up to my room on the top floor.

Instead of stripping off and getting in the shower, I sink onto my bed and pull out my phone to torture myself with our last text conversation. Our only text conversation. Wes’ last message sits there, tormenting me. I’ve left it too late to reply now.

Clicking out of the thread, I notice a few new emails, so click into the app. My breath catches when I see ‘Wes Bowers’ in my inbox, and my eyes widen as I open the email, reading and rereading the explanation before clicking on the attachments. It’s a full marketing proposal for a cerebral palsy fundraiser.

I hadn’t even realized that National Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month is March, which means we could hold the event right before spring break. Wes has planned everything. The money we’d need to fund it, proposed fundraising goals . . . everything. Even down to the fact that it’s all green, which is the color of the CP ribbon.

Clicking out of the plan, I go back to his email.

Hi Sol,

I hope you’re okay. Please find attached the proposal for the fundraising event. A lot of it is generic at this point but we can finalize the details once you get approval. This should be enough to get Dean Mason to take it to the board and get it approved.

Read through it, and if there’s anything you don’t like, feel free to change it or let me know and I can take another look at it. If you have any questions, I’m happy to help.

Wes

I read it again, trying to decide how I feel and coming up confused every time. On one hand, he’s put a lot of work into this and I’m damn grateful. It’s a million times more impressive than anything I could have put together and I have no doubt the dean will approve it.

On the other hand, he did it all without me. Not a single meeting. Was it to avoid me? Was it because I kissed him? I shove a hand through my damp hair and stare at the email as though it might start screaming answers at me.

Glancing at the timestamp I see he sent it last night. Either way, I’m going to need to respond, so I open our text thread.

Me:Got the marketing proposal. It looks great. Thank u

I frown at the words. Everything I need to say but nothing I want to say. I freeze as I see him typing.

Wes:You’re welcome. Let me know how it goes.

Disappointment is a burning coal in my gut. I’ve blown it. I should have texted back last week. I should have gone to see him. Of course, he’s done it all by himself. Why wouldn’t he? It’s not like I made him feel like he could approach me when I didn’t reply to his last text. Swearing under my breath, I offer what I hope he realizes is an olive branch.

Me: Good luck at your meet!

His reply is almost instant.

Wes: Thanks.

I groan and resist the urge to throw my phone at the wall. How the hell do I get him to talk to me? My mind is blank, so instead, I go back to my emails and send one to Dean Mason, asking if I can meet with him before winter break.

With a final glare at Wes’ last message, I drop the phone on my bed and head to the bathroom to shower. I only make it halfway across the room when a knock on the door halts me.

“You in there?” Zak calls.

I cross to the door and yank it open. “I was about to shower. What’s up?”

His dark eyebrows raise. “You’re in a delightful mood this morning. What happened?”

“Nothing,” I grunt. Which is the problem.

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