Page 31 of Within Striking Distance
“Look,” I say after we’ve placed our orders, “I’m a private person, and I’m not used to talking about myself. It’s not a big deal. I applied to Beckford because I was sick of living in the city. End of story. Can we drop it?”
“We can if you tell us what’s eating at you, man,” Everett says. “I don’t care if you don’t want to tell us your entire backstory. My family is all levels of fucked up. I’d do anything to get away from all the bullshit if it weren’t for Tinsley. But something has been bugging you, Blake. I don’t mean to be a dick, but you haven’t been the most pleasant person to live with.”
I swallow, running a hand through my hair. “I can find another place to live.”
“Are you serious?” Everett stares at me like I’ve grown two heads. “I don’t want you to move out. We just want to help you with whatever’s going on. Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
“So, what is it?” Ritter asks. “Let us help.”
My chest tightens. He drove eight hours overnight to check on me. Would I do that for him?
I glance at Zac and Everett. They organised this because they’re worried about me, because I’ve worked myself crazy over a stranger in a mask. Someone I can never be with, nomatter how much I want her, because I’ll poison it like I’ve poisoned everything in my life.
I can’t tell them about her without explaining why I can’t do anything about it, and they won’t understand. They’ll tell me I’m nothing like my father, that history won’t repeat itself, but they didn’t live through it. They won’t see the similarities between us. The patterns. The darkness. The disease.
It’s inevitable. I’ve tried to fight it, but nothing ever changes. I’m wired differently, and I have to accept that. Relationships will never be easy for me.
They won’t understand.
So, I lie.
“It’s nothing. I’m just stressed with my course load. Third-year paramedicine is cooked. Advanced meds, patients, protocols. I start my clinical placements this week, and it’s a lot when someone’s life might be on the line.”
Zac’s brow furrows, but before he can say anything, Everett knocks his fist on the side of my head, and I turn to glare at him. “What the fuck, dude?”
He snorts a laugh. “Just checking to see if there are any brains in there.”
I stare at him.
“Have you spoken to Doyle? You’re taking the same classes. He could help you. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
“It’s fine,” I mumble. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Or talk to your professors,” Ritter suggests. “I’m sure there’s extra support they can offer.”
I make a non-committal sound.
“Are you sure that’s all it is?” Zac asks, studying me.Unease runs down my spine. He graduated last year with a psychology degree and is now working in mental health services at Beckford Hospital. If anyone is going to see straight through me, it’s him.
“Yep.” The less I say, the less he has to psychoanalyse.
“You know we won’t judge?—”
“Zac, chill. I’m all good. Thanks for caring, but I’ll get it under control. I’m sorry for being miserable company lately. So, anyway, does anyone want to tell me why we drove all the way here for breakfast? You do know there are perfectly good places to eat in Beckford?”
Everett grins. “Oh, we didn’t just come here for the food.”
I arch a brow.
“They just opened a smash room inside the warehouse.”
“A smash room?”
“Yeah. You know, one of those places you see on television where they give you a baseball bat or a sledgehammer or whatever and let you loose to smash shit up.” He’s practically bouncing in his seat with excitement.
“Why did we come to a smash room?”
