Page 22 of Heal Me, Love Me

I looked down at her hand resting on me.

Pain into orders.

That was exactly what I’d done. I’d left the arena, booked the flight, gotten to Sacramento, moved out, and shut off my phone. I’d taken one step after another, clean and direct, because if I kept moving, I didn’t have to stop long enough to feel how much it hurt.

Dad appeared in the kitchen doorway, his hair damp from the shower and his face clean-shaven. He looked between us, then at the plate in front of me. “You eating?”

I lifted the fork. “Yes, sir.”

While his gaze held mine for half a second, something flickered there that looked like concern, regret, andloveall tangled together.

He nodded. “Good.”

Mom stood and carried her mug to the sink. “I’m going to start a load of towels.”

Translation: She’d said her piece.

I watched her disappear down the hall, then stared at the remains of my breakfast.

Dad poured his coffee behind me without saying another word. He gave me no lecture, no order, and nothing to push back against.

I grabbed my plate from the table and stood.

My father glanced over. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“All right.”

After rinsing my dishes and putting them in the dishwasher, I walked down the hall to my old room, where my phone sat on the nightstand. For a long time, I stood there looking at it. Leaving it off would be easier. No messages, no explanations, and no chance for Keaton to hurt me further.

I ground my teeth and reached for it, then stopped myself. The second I turned it on, I’d have to deal with Keaton, and I wasn’t ready.

So I left it there, changed into jeans, slipped on my boots, grabbed my keys and jacket from the dresser, and headed to the garage.

Dad was at the workbench, sorting through a drawer of tools. He glanced up when I stepped inside. “Going somewhere?”

“For a ride.”

His gaze dropped to the keys in my hand, then returned to my face. “Clear your head?”

“Something like that.”

He nodded. “Drive carefully.”

“Yes, sir.”

I shrugged into my jacket, pulled on my helmet, rolled the bike out of the garage, and started it in the driveway. The engine rumbled beneath me.

For the first few miles, I didn’t think. I focused on the road, the bike’s weight, the vibration in my hands, and the air slipping under my jacket. I concentrated on stop signs, turns, and traffic lights—the simple shit that required just enough attention to keep my mind from going back to that hallway at the arena.

But Mom’s words still followed me.

Love wasn’t a mission, and walking away didn’t count as a win.

I kept riding, letting one turn lead into another until the roads started looking familiar for all the wrong reasons. These were streets I’d driven with Keaton when we were teenagers.

Back then, we’d waste gas just for the sake of more time alone. Sometimes we’d say we were going to grab food and end up driving for an hour with a bag of fries between us. Other nights, we’d park somewhere dark enough where no one could see us, then sit with the windows cracked, talking about everything except what was happening between us. Then one of us would finally reach across the center console, a hand ona thigh, fingers brushing, and one careful kiss would turn into something neither of us knew how to stop.