Page 296 of Face Off

Ryan leaves the dining room without looking at me.

I remain beside Briggs long enough to see him eat the toast Cade threw at him and accept another cup of coffee from Temple. Nobody follows Ryan. The guys watch him leave, but whatever passes between them ends with Cade checking the time and telling Briggs he has six hours to make his face less alarming.

I should stay.

Briggs is hurting. Temple is still shaken, and every person around the table is attempting to hold the morning together before Bliss learns her wedding nearly acquired a police report.

I follow Ryan anyway.

He has already reached the staircase when I enter the corridor. He doesn’t slow at the sound of my heels against the stone, but his shoulders tighten beneath his black shirt.

“Ryan.”

He stops.

For several seconds, he remains with his back to me. The distance between us contains everything he said last night and every hour I spent trying to find an answer capable of making him listen.

Ryan turns.

He doesn’t look angry. Anger would give me something to answer. His face is composed, his hands rest loosely at his sides, and nothing in his posture invites me closer.

“I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t.”

The answer lands cleanly. “I know you’re angry.”

“I’m not arguing about this again, Charm.”

“I’m not trying to argue.”

“You followed me out of breakfast.”

“Because you wouldn’t look at me.”

“That wasn’t an invitation to make me.”

My chest tightens, but I force myself to remain where I am. “I didn’t sleep.”

“That doesn’t change what I said, but again proves my point.”

“I know.”

His mouth hardens. “Stop saying that.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. I don’t want another apology, and I don’t want you groveling because you think making yourself small enough will convince me to stay. I told you what I need. Anything less than that is dead air. Don’t tell me you didn’t sleep without asking if I did. Bien pinche egoísta, ¿no crees?”

Selfish as fuck, don’t you think? The words strip away everything I practiced through the night. Every apology, explanation, and carefully arranged sentence becomes useless before I can offer it.

“I don’t know what’s broken,” I say. “How am I supposed to fix something when I don’t know where it is?”

Something changes in Ryan’s expression. It isn’t softness. He doesn’t step closer, reach for me, or become the man who could once read my panic and carry both of us through it.

He looks at me the way he did when we first sat across from each other with books between us. Direct, observant, and unwilling to give me an answer simply because I’m frightened of finding it alone.

“If you came to Ryan the friend,” he says, “not the man you love and not the person you’re trying to keep, and told me this exact story about another guy, do you know what I would tell you?”