Page 31 of Crashed (Driven 3)
Maybe my lack of sleep has dimmed my usual reaction, but those words just flicked the switch to one hundred percent. I feel like we’ve time warped back to weeks ago and I immediately have my protective guard back up. The fact that he won’t look at me is like kerosene to my flame. “What the fuck’s going on, Donavan? If you’re going to blow me off, the least you can do is give me the courtesy of looking at me.”
He squints open an eye as if it’s irritating him to have to pay attention to me and I’ve had it. He’s managed to hurt me in the whole five minutes we’ve had alone together, and the fact that my emotional stability is being held together by frayed strings doesn’t help either. He watches me and a ghost of a smirk appears, as if he’s enjoying my reaction, enjoying toying with me.
Unspoken words flicker through my mind and whisper to me, call on me to look closer. But what am I missing here?
“Rylee, it’s just probably best if we call it like we see it.”
“Probably best?” My voice escalates and I realize that maybe we’re both a whole lot exhausted and overwhelmed with everything that’s occurred, but I’m still not getting what the hell is going on. Panic starts burgeoning inside me because you can only hold on so tight to someone who doesn’t want to be held on to. “What the hell, Colton? What’s going on?”
I push off the chair and walk to the ledge and look out over the water for a moment, needing a minute to shove down the frustration so patience can resurface, but I’m just plain worn out from the whiplash of emotions. “You don’t get to push me away, Colton. You don’t get to need me one minute and then shove me away as hard as you can the next.” I try to keep the hurt out of my voice but it’s virtually impossible.
“I can do whatever the hell I want!” he shouts at me.
I whirl back around, jaw clenched, the taste of rejection fresh in my mouth. “Not when you’re with me you can’t!” My voice echoes across the concrete of the patio as we stare at each, the silence slowly smothering possibilities.
“Then maybe I shouldn’t be with you.” The quiet steel to his words knocks the wind out of me. Pain radiates in my chest as I draw in air. What the hell? Did I read this all wrong? What am I missing?
I want to tear into him. I want to unleash on him the fury I feel reverberating through me.
Colton deflects his eyes momentarily and in that moment, everything finally clicks. All of the puzzle pieces that seemed amiss over the past week finally fit together.
And it’s all so transparent now, I feel like an idiot that I didn’t put it together sooner.
It’s time to call his bluff.
But what if I call it and I’m wrong? My heart lurches into my throat at the thought, but what other option do I have? I smooth my hands down the thighs of my jeans, hating that I’m nervous.
“Fine,” I resign as I take a few steps toward him. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t need this shit from you or anyone else.” I shake my head and stare at him as he grabs his hat, places it on his head, lowering the bill so I can just barely see his eyes that are now open and watching me with guarded intensity. “Non-negotiable, remember?” I throw my threat back at him from our bathtub agreement weeks ago, and with those words I see a sliver of emotion flicker through his otherwise stoic eyes.
He just shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly, but I’m onto his game now. I may not know what it is, but something’s wrong and frankly this been here, done that bullshit is getting old. “Didn’t you learn fucking anything? Did they remove the common sense part of your brain when they cut it open?”
His eyes snap up to mine now and I know I’ve gotten his attention. Good. He doesn’t speak but I at least know his eyes are on me, his attention is focused. “I don’t need your condescending bullshit, Rylee.” He yanks the bill of his hat down over his eyes and lays his head back, dismissing me once again. “You know where the door is.”
I’m across the patio and have flipped his hat off of his head within seconds, my face lowered within inches of his. His eyes flash open, and I can see the wash of emotions within them from my unexpected actions. He works a swallow in his throat as I hold my stare, refusing to back down.
“Don’t push me away or I’m going to push back ten times as hard,” I tell him, beseeching him to look deep within and be honest with himself. To be honest about us. “You’ve hurt me on purpose before. I know you fight dirty, Colton … so what is it that you’re trying to protect me from?” I lower myself in the chaise lounge, our thighs brushing against each other’s, trying to make the connection so he can feel it, so he can’t deny it.
He looks out toward the ocean for a few moments and then looks back at me, clearly conflicted. “Everything. Nothing.” He shrugs, averting his eyes again. “From me.” The break in his voice unwinds the ball of tension knotted around my heart.
“What … what are you talking about?” I slide my hand into his and squeeze it, wondering what’s going on inside his head. “Protect me? You ordering me around and telling me to get the hell out is not you protecting me, Colton. It’s you hurting me. We’ve been through this and—”
“Just drop it, Ry.”
“I’m not dropping shit,” I tell him, my pitch escalating to get my point across. “You don’t get to—”
“Drop it!” he orders, jaw clenched, tension in his neck.
“No!”
“You said you couldn’t do this anymore.” His voice calls out to me across the calming sounds of the ocean below despite the turbulent waves crashing into my heart. The even keel of his tone warns me that he’s hurting, but it’s the words he says that have me searching my memory for what he’s talking about.
“What—?” I start to say but I stop when he holds his hand up, eyes squeezing shut as the cluster headache hits him momentarily. And of course I feel guilty for pushing him on this, but he’s crazy if he thinks I’m going anywhere. I want to reach out and soothe him, try to take the pain away but know that nothing I can do will help, so I sit and rub my thumb absently over the back of his tensing hand.
“When I was out … I heard you tell Becks that you couldn’t do this anymore … that you’d gladly walk out …” his voice drifts off as his eyes bore into mine, jaw muscle pulsing. The obstinate set to his jaw asking the question his words don’t.
“That’s what this is all about?” I ask dumbfounded and struck with realization all at once. “A snippet of a convers
ation I had with Becks when I said I would have gladly walked away from you—done something, anything differently—if it would’ve prevented you from being comatose in a hospital bed?” I can see how his mind has altered bits and pieces of my conversation with Beckett, but he’s never asked me about it. Never communicated. And that fact, more than the misunderstanding, upsets me.
