Page 25 of Almost Ravaged

We’re less than twenty minutes from a national park, according to Holt University’s website, and there are bike and hike trails and multiple farms and orchards in the area.

“You guys want coffee? Or something to eat?” Ty asks.

I roll out my neck and savor the satisfying crack on each side. “No thanks.” The idea of eating has my already queasy stomach twisting.

I just want to check into my dorm, cover the provided mattress with a sheet, and sleep. At least until the guys are due to report to the ice arena this afternoon.

“Get me two Yerba Mates if they’ve got them,” Atty says, squinting at the gas pump.

With a nod, Ty rounds the bumper until he’s close enough to touch me.

I push off the car, ensuring that if he wants to wrap his arms around me, he has access.

It’s unlikely, but that doesn’t stop me from hoping.

He pauses, his hands at his sides, his brows pulled together almost undiscernibly.

Undiscernibly to everyone but me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his deep voice hoarse.

Everything.

All of this.

All that can never be.

A fresh wave of exhaustion washes over me, though it has nothing to do with travel fatigue.

I wrap my arms around my torso, ignoring the hollowness of my limbs.

We’re here. We made it out. This is a fresh start for all of us. I won’t allow the trauma to seep in and kill off the joy of this moment.

“Nothing,” I chirp, forcing a smile.

Tytus’s eyes harden.

Chin lifted, I scan the gas station, feigning a casualness I haven’t actually experienced in years. It’s easier than allowing him to look too closely, to see too much of my truth.

After a few tense seconds, he gives up.

“I’ll just be a minute.” He walks away, his hands balled into fists, the muscles of his shoulders tense.

With each step he takes, my mask slips further.

Ty pulls the door to the convenience store open, and several young people—students, probably—pour out. He holds it open for them, catching the attention of two girls and one of the guys.

Jealousy prickles up my spine as they gawk.

I have no right to be jealous, nor do I have any personal stakes when it comes to Ty. Even so, it hurts.

A yawn catches me by surprise, and I turn, relieved for the distraction, and stifle it with the back of my hand. Then I circle the front of the car to stand next to Atty.

“You’re going to be wired if you drink two Yerbas,” I inform him. We may be twins, but I tend to take on the role of mother hen. Not just where he’s concerned, but with Ty, too.

He shrugs, one hand still on the nozzle. “Wasn’t planning to sleep before practice anyway.”

“Atty.”