“Huh?” He turns to me, shaking his head then rubbing his hand down his face. “Oh, no…it’s fine. Just…a friend of mine’s kid. I’m sort of the only person they can call.”
A friend. They. He means her, but he’s just not saying it. I think all of this in a span of a single second, and then I bury the suspicion, and the weird tinge of jealousy that comes with it, because I don’t need to carry that weight. Will and I are friends, and if that’s what he wants me to know, then that’s where I’ll leave this conversation.
His mouth forms a thin, unconvincing smile, and I pretend to believe it, whispering, “Okay,” before turning toward the club. Will moves his leg back to the floor of my car, and his hands fold in his lap, his thumbs beating against one another in a nervous battle counting down the few minutes we have left together in this car. When I pull in to the club lot, Will wastes little time, pulling his belt loose before I stop, and opening his door the moment I push my car into park. I’d considered coming back inside with him, talking more, but the sweet feeling of our conversation has soured. I almost can’t wait for him to shut his door so I can pull away as quickly as he exited.
I watch his hand grip the door’s edge, swinging it a few inches more open, then more closed. His back is to me as he pauses, and his fingers wrap once—twice—against my car doorframe. He bends down, enough that I can see his profile, his sideways glance meeting my eyes and hitting them with a dose of something just shy of sorrow until his lip ticks up on the left.
“You know, you really are beautiful when you laugh, Maddy,” he says, my body feeling as though morphine has just rushed down my spine and along every single nerve. His eyes soften more, the smile making it to the other side of his face. “It’s exactly how I remembered it.”
I blink when the door closes, and I move both of my hands to the top of my steering wheel. But I keep my eyes on the other Hollister brother. I watch him walk all the way inside, and I wait until I’m sure he’s made it up the stairs, to his uncle, where there is nothing but space and building and wooden doors and glass between us. Barriers—a dozen various barriers—including the solace of my car.
“You’re beautiful, too, Will,” I whisper, my lips barely parting with the words. I wanted to see if I could say something I was feeling for him out loud, no matter that nobody could hear it.
I push the gear into reverse, and I drive home happy. I’ll judge myself for letting Will inside my heart later. For now, I like him just where he is.
Chapter Nine
Will
Dylan’s seizures are getting worse. They’re hard to predict because of how difficult everything is for Dylan. He can’t communicate, other than some limited arm movements and sounds that can’t quite form words. Tanya’s found a doctor at the Cleveland Clinic willing to evaluate Dylan’s case. The problem is getting there. Dylan doesn’t exactly travel light. A plane ride makes the most sense, because that much time on the road wouldn’t be good for either of them, but this isn’t really something Tanya can do alone by plane, either.
I knew it when she mentioned it to me, told me about the correspondence she had with the doctor, the tentative appointment. She’d never ask me to go—to help. She’s desperate for me to, though. She just can’t bring herself to ask. I get that. It’s an independence—or perhaps stubbornness, I possess—and maybe it’s why I decided to admire her instead of blame her or be angry with her when I found out she had Evan’s child.
I woke up early this morning, finished my laps and sat by the pool while the sun rose, spinning my phone in my palm until I was sure that I couldn’t live with myself not helping her and my nephew. She cried when I insisted I would come, and I told her to keep the appointment. It’s next week, which means I’ll miss workouts Thursday and Friday. Which means Curtis might cut me from trials. It hurts like hell, but it’s a possibility I can live with, because not helping Dylan would be far worse.
I’ve spent the last two hours sitting in the same place, on the top row of bleachers at the far end of the pool, trying to talk myself into undoing it all. I don’t think all of the time in the world would get me to do that, though. I give in to the ache settling into my lower back and legs, and I climb down from my perch to make my way back inside.
My uncle is hard at work at his desk when I enter our room, a small cloth wrapped around a sharp tool, his eyepiece focused, and his headlamp on. He’s so meticulous.
“You actually clean the parts nobody sees?” I ask.
He looks up at me, one eye squinting while the other holds on to the magnifier.
“I do when it means something will keep working for years to come. Seems lazy not to put in that little extra bit of effort,” he says, looking back down and returning to work.
I step back and tilt my head, feeling a little put in my place.
“Right,” I say, nodding and chewing at the inside of my cheek. “I’ll brew a new pot of coffee then. Do my part.”