Page 126 of The Risk Taker

And I know I’m losing him.

I move without thinking, reaching for him because I can’t stand the distance, especially when it feels like something is slipping through my fingers and I’m too slow to grab it.

My hands reach for him before I can stop them, my fingers curling gently around his jaw. His skin is warm beneath my touch, a little flushed from the drinking, but it’s his eyes that gut me.

Those gorgeous green eyes I keep dreaming about.

They’re tired. Sad.

Done.

I step closer and wrap my arms around him, pulling him into me, like maybe if I hold him tight enough, he won’t leave. If I stop being a coward for one goddamn second, he’ll believe me when I say he matters.

He stiffens for a moment, but then his body sags against mine and he buries his face in the curve of my neck, his fingers gripping the back of my hoodie.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and the words scrape out like they’re being torn from my chest. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

I’m sorry I’m such a coward. I’m sorry I can’t love you in the daylight just yet. You deserve someone who does. You deserve everything.

His breath hits my neck. “Me too.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, holding him close, wishing I could be braver, wishing tonight didn’t have to end like this, but knowing it’s too late.

32

LOGAN

The library isn’t really my scene. Never has been.

It’s too damn quiet, too sterile, and reeks of dust.

Still, I’ve been camped here all afternoon, pretending to care about the paper due next week. Anything’s better than sitting in my room, hearing him in the hallway or kitchen, so that we don’t cross paths. I’d rather be here than stare at my door, wondering—hoping—if he’ll knock on my door.

I drag a hand down my face, rubbing at my eyes. They sting from staring at the blank document on my laptop.The Psychology of Motivation.Real funny since I haven’t been motivated to do anything except stew in my own misery since Nathan walked out. Or since I let him walk out.

It’s been three days. Three days since I poured out every ugly, raw part of myself I usually keep locked down, and he just… gave up.

Three days, and I still can’t decide if it hurts more that he left or that I let myself think he wouldn’t.

I lean back in my chair, the cheap wood groaning under my weight, and I try to focus on this damn paper, but it’s no use. I see him everywhere. I have his body memorized. The little linebetween his brows when he’s thinking, the sound of his laugh, the way he looks at me when it’s just the two of us.

I scroll through my playlist, searching for something to drown out the memory of his mouth on my neck, his pinky hooking with mine, and the sound he makes when I kiss him under his ear.

I mutter a curse and snap the laptop shut, the noise earning me a glare from a girl across the aisle. I mouth a silent sorry, and rake a hand through my hair.

God, I hate this.

I hate that I let myself believe we could ever be more than what we were. I told myself it was just a hookup. That we were just messing around, having fun while helping him explore his sexuality. I wasn’t supposed to catch feelings, and I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him.

And now here I am, with my heart shattered.

“Logan?”

My head jerks up, my heartbeat stuttering in my chest. For a second I think it’s him, and I actually catch myself hoping. But it’s not.

It’s Trevor, standing at my table with a backpack slung over one shoulder.

He’s a football player. I know, I know—cue the horror. Hockey guys aren’t supposed to fraternize with the enemy, let alone hook up with one. But last year, I did. More than once, if we’re being honest. Back then, it was easy. No strings, no feelings.