Page 57 of Undone

They’re both staring at her. Holden’s voice is different than when he usually talks to me, but I’ve heard that lower, dipped tone before. Is it flirting? Paloma’s arms are still crossed, so I mimic her stance like it might offer some protection.

Maybe I should wait to see what she’ll say?

She doesn’t say anything, and Holden winks at her—but she’s more focused on glaring at Toren and he’s got a bit of a smirk still on his lips and—

My chest sinks.

Do they know each other? Of course they do. Toren told you they do.

But in this way? The way I always glare and snip at Toren? It used to be fun, our version of flirting, I always thought. But maybe it’s not in a fun way anymore. Maybe he hates me and that anger isn’t to rile me up—he really doesn’t want me anymore.

It’s a possibility I’ve never considered fully, always locking it away with the other thoughts that send me spiraling.

My mouth opens—probably to say something real stupid, like asking them both to stop looking at each other, because I’m desperate to keep them both as mine. My friend. And my . . . my what?

Your nothing. He isn’t yours anymore.

“Holden,” Paloma says, then to Toren, “Kane. We were just leaving.”

She spins us away haughtily, following me to the training room before she leaves for the day, bundling herself up in a pretty, ocean blue scarf.

I start my music and turn on the back lights, finishing my stretch before hopping up to start my run, hoping to burn off the image of them from my brain.

• • •

I’m finishing up my cooldown when the door opens and Toren enters the room.

The heavy beat of Fleetwood Mac in my ears feels like a backing track to the entire scene. He’s so broad, slipping off his shoes by the door and dropping them by his bag, eyes avoiding mine. But I know he knows I’m here.

I can feel him. I can always feel him nearby.

And I know it’s the same for him.

I keep running, until I slow to a jog and walk entirely, bumping up the automatic speed descent to have a reason to stay on the treadmill and stare at him.

Toren’s in pigeon pose, recognizable from the ten or so times I tried to start at-home yoga and ended up quitting after two sessions. Three max.

His head is pressed to his forearms, so he doesn’t look up as I leave the treadmill and approach to grab a mat from the ones rolled on the equipment side of the room. I unfurl it and sit to stretch myself, but I’m distracted.

Sinking into child’s pose, I try to focus. I even turned off my music and took out my earbuds, tucking them into their case before I started. There’s music playing from Toren’s phone next to his mat, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the heavy sound of his breath that I can feel like a ghost against my neck.

My back is tight. It’s been a while since I ran—a long time—and mostly my calves and lower back feel tight, so I focus there.

Bending my knee into a deeper hip stretch, I hiss out a sharper breath.

“Don’t push it like that.”

My eyes shoot open, arms giving out as I fall—making the too-deep stretch worse. Hands latch to my biceps and lift me so I can readjust my legs.

Toren sets me down again, arms cross, glaring over me.

When did he even get over here?

“I’m fine.”

He clenches his jaw. “Come here.”

Come where? He’s literally on my mat.