Page 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I don’t want to call my mom. When she gave me her ring, the one my dad gave her when he proposed, it was a pretty emotional moment. It was over the summer, and I was telling her about my plan to ask Peyton to move in with me, and then the conversation sort of rolled into future plans and me proposing soon.

She gave me the ring to hold on to for when the time was right. Well, it’s about time. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, even before Peyton’s injury. But to be honest, the last month has only made me want to ask her to be mine for life even more. I want her to have a symbol of my promise to her, to know that I’m not going anywhere. That I’m in this, with her, for it all.

And now I can’t find the fucking ring.

Anywhere.

My finger hovers over my mom’s contact info on my phone, twitching. My stomach feels sick even though I know she’ll tell me not to worry and we’ll look together. But I’ve already searched everywhere there is. I’m afraid, somehow, I’ve lost a token from my dad, something so important that, wherever it is, I’m sure it’s glowing bright. One would think that would help me find it, but nope. Nada.

“I can’t,” I mutter to myself, shoving my phone in my back pocket before grabbing my keys and heading out to my truck.

The sun is setting. My body is exhausted. Practice was killer today. We all felt it, Bryce more than me, because even though that boneheaded comment that hit Athletico wasn’t his but his father’s, Coach took it out on him all the same.

So much running.

My legs quiver as I lift my body into my truck, and I halt once I’m in my seat, hands gripping the wheel as I imagine what this is like for Peyton. This is how everything feels to her. Exhausting.

That thought wedges into my mind as I rush to Whiskey and Tasha’s apartment, hoping like hell that I somehow put that ring in something of his. We moved a lot of things last month, and I ended up giving him some of our shared appliances and electronics. Boxes got muddled. It’s possible. Not likely because I’m pretty sure I kept that ring in the watch box in my sock drawer, but since it’s not there, well . . .

I take the stairs two at a time when I get to Whiskey’s. I pound on the door, but the music is blasting on the other side. I know he’s home because I parked next to his truck, and that music? That’s not Tasha music. He’s probably dancing around in his boxers or showering with his beer, a weird thing he likes to do. He saw some dudes doing it on social media and decided to make it part of his brand, whatever that brand is. I think it’s basically loud, drunk, and obnoxious. I’m probably being judgmental, though, because he won’t answer the fucking door!

On a whim, I twist the handle, and when the door pushes open, I exhale, glad I won’t have to go all Chuck Norris on it and kick it down. It takes me a few seconds to come to terms with the reality on the other side, though.

Whiskey’s naked. And so is Tasha. And they are . . . connected.

“Oh, my God!” I slap both hands over my eyes, and the last thing I glimpse is my friend’s very white ass pumping into Peyton’s best friend from behind.

“Ahhh, what the hell! Wyatt, get the fuck out!” Something crashes against the open door as Tasha screams. I peel my fingers from my face as I glance down and see pieces of a remote.

“I’m out. I’m out!” I flatten my palm over my face again and spin around, feeling for the door and quickly stepping outside and flinging it closed behind me.

What the fuck?

My heart racing, I pace back and forth on the small landing outside their door. The music stops inside, and I move to the stairs, my wobbly legs now a whole lot worse. I step down one stair then sit on my ass, digging my thumbs into the corners of my eyes while I nervously chuckle. The door creaks behind me, and someone shuffles in my direction. Whiskey’s sock-clad feet eventually come into view. I refuse to look up.

I cover my eyes with both palms again.

“Dude, I’m not looking.”

Whiskey’s deep belly laugh makes me join him.

“What the hell, man?” I say, cracking an eyelid open and glancing up when I feel him move into the space next to me to sit down. He hands me a beer and I take it, popping the cap off and swigging down half.

“I told you I was wearing her down,” he says.

Smug fucker is grinning wide. I shake my head at him and take another sip of my beer before setting it down and leaning back on my palms.

“You’re going to have to fill me in. Is this . . . new?” I point over my shoulder as my friend shrugs.

“It’s been a week or so. We had a competitive Wii game of ping-pong, and then one thing led to another, and well—” He smiles through his dip of beer and winks.

“You smooth motherfucker.”

We sit side-by-side for a few minutes, finishing our beers while I pepper him with questions he can’t seem to answer. He’s not sure if they’re dating, but they are definitely fucking. And he likes her a whole hell of a lot. That I knew. He has for a while. I just hope this means something to Tasha, because if she’s simply messing with him to pass the time, it’s going to break this big man into so many pieces.

Eventually, I explain why I barged in on the two of them, and after getting permission from Tasha to let me inside, Whiskey and I search through the few boxes he still hasn’t unpacked by their entertainment center. Tasha forbids me from entering the bedroom, where she’s locked herself inside and swears she’s never coming out again.

“I can take a look through there, but it’s mostly her clothes and makeup shit. I took my stuff straight from drawers and my old closet to the new ones,” he says.

I wave off his offer, pretty sure I lost the ring on my own somewhere else. I give him a hug on my way out and ask him to keep the ring business between us for now. If Tasha finds out, then any element of surprise I may have planned down the road is off the table. There are a lot of things Whiskey isn’t good at, like saying no to freebies and not escalating conflict. But keeping secrets for his friends? He’s got that on lockdown.

Back in my truck, I let the last thirty minutes really set in, and decide rather than calling my mom, I’ll give my place one more toss. I didn’t check the washer, and maybe the ring hitched a ride somehow and ended up in there. Plus, the only thing I can think of doing now is sharing this massive revelation I just had with Peyton.

I buckle up and sync my phone, pressing call while I back out of my spot next to Whiskey’s truck. When the phone goes right to voicemail, I press END CALL and give it another try. After three attempts of nothing getting through, I grab my phone at the stoplight and check our shared location app to see if maybe she’s out in the arena. When her icon shows the University Hospital, I panic.

Flipping the car around, I dial Reed, and call him relentlessly until he finally picks up.

“Wyatt, she’s fine. Everything’s okay,” he says, knowing I must have seen her location since I’m calling him.

I roll to a stop, my body tingling with adrenaline. My head is sweaty, so I pull my hat off and toss it into the passenger seat and rub my forearm across my brow. I put on my hazards and wave the line of traffic around me when the light turns green, ignoring the honks from assholes who don’t know what a panic attack is.

“She and Nolan were at her neurology appointment, and they were concerned about something they saw. It’s a small blood clot, and they wanted to deal with it right away rather than risk having it travel up her leg.”

“Okay,” I say, not fully understanding what Reed said. I’m still trying to let the part about her being okay settle in.

“We’ll probably be here overnight. It was a quick procedure. But she’s going to need to heal from this. I’ll call you when?—”

“No, I’m coming. I’m already five minutes out. I have to come, Reed. I need to be there.”

He doesn’t argue, likely knowing it’s the same thing he would do if our situations were swapped. He gives me vague directions for the room Peyton’s in, and I jot down what I can using an old golf pencil and my last oil change receipt from my glove box. I hit one-ten on the highway to the hospital, and I’m parked next to Reed’s pickup in minutes.

I sprint past the information desk to the bank of elevators, repeating the room number—sixty-five-oh-one—until the elevator doors open on the sixth floor. I’m hit with an intersection of hallways that all look the same, so I ask for help when a nurse pushes through a set of doors and heads my way. She sends me down the right corridor, and by the time I make it to Peyton’s room, her original doctor, Dr. K, is leaving. We make brief eye contact as we pass, and I try to dissect meaning from his dour expression. I know everything I need to, though, when I slide the curtain back a hair and find Peyton weeping in her mom’s arms. And like a useless dumb jock, all I can do is stand here and feel helpless.