Page 4 of Rear View

My stomach dropped. Right. I hated that I hated being alone, but I’d never let her know that, ’cause Zoya was the best kind of friend.

The year before, she’d canceled a date with a guy she’d been pining over for months when I’d started having panic attacks.

Not that I didn’t appreci ate the love, because I did.

So freaking much. But I didn’t want her dropping her life for a sad sack like me.

No doubt, she’d do it again. It was bad enough one of us suffered.

I wouldn’t take her down with me…more, anyway.

She jabbed a finger my way. “Text when you get home!”

“Yes, Mother.” I would. I needed people to know when and where I was—or wasn’t, as it were.

“Rude, Ry. I’m the sexy aunt.”

“Hands down.” I waved. “Love you!”

“Love you too.”

I took off, gasping while I ran, legs and lungs burning. People side-eyed me as I darted between them.

Bursting into the Ansel Psychology Centre, I scurried down the hall, boots squeaking loudly over the off-white linoleum floor.

My professor’s faux-wood office door was closed.

The light inside illuminated the white letters that spelled out Doctor Barlowe on its frosted glass.

Slowing, I offered a quick knock, then stumbled inside.

A scowl occupied his already stern face.

His russet-brown eyes narrowed while they surveyed me.

Agitated? Annoyed? Somewhere in between? I couldn’t tell.

I flinched. “Sorry,” I said through a pant, then bent at the waist to catch my breath. “I got hung up.”

His shoulder-length bronze hair hung straight and loose, and his mouth thinned into a slash across his face. “I don’t appreciate my time being wasted, Ryah.”

I got it. Really, I did. I hated being late, but also, it was four minutes . Besides, it wasn’t like it was a habit. I couldn’t actually remember the last time it happened, but he appreciated supplication. And if it meant getting out of there in time, I’d give it.

“Sorry,” I said again. “We can reschedule, if you want.”

He was like that. Rigid. The man was somewhere in his late thirties, but he was old-school in his practice.

“No. You’re already here.” He crossed his legs and linked his fingers over his knee. “I only grant my time to a select few students as a courtesy, Miss Nolan. All I ask is for you to respect it.”

A strand of guilt tugged my chest. That was fair. I straightened, and smoothed a hand over my coat before I unbuttoned it.

He gestured to the threadbare black chair opposite his desk.

The wood was old and yellowed, the same shade as sun-aged pine.

His computer was top of the line, though, with two fancy, state-of-the-art-looking screens that swiveled left to right.

Up and down. I wouldn’t have thought the psych department had the budget for such elaborateness but there it sat.

“How’s your progress coming?” he asked.

Setting my bag down, I pulled out my draft and passed it over. Barlowe was…particular with his requirements. Emailing addendums to my thesis or questions back and forth would’ve saved weeks and countless trees, but he preferred paper and old-fashioned face time.

He scanned it, flipping through the pages as I sat there, practically twiddling my thumbs.

My foot bounced while I itched to pull up the Edgewater City Transport app.

If I got out of there soon, I could catch the 95 back to my apartment.

That bus meant a twenty-five-minute ride straight home.

Safer. But if things ran too late, I’d be stuck with an hour ride, multiple transfers and two more-than-shady stations.

Barlowe gave a lone nod. “I’ll make my notes and return them to you later this week.” Setting my papers down, he eyed me. “And how have things been with him ?”

My throat tightened. I didn’t wanna talk about it— hated talking about it.

But he’d seen the aftermath. Had been there when I’d received the worst of the threats.

Under any other circumstances, I’d never have shared it with him, but it was kind of a right place, wrong time deal.

Regardless, he was a psychologist, and he had been helpful.

I checked my watch. “The same.”

He stood and circled his desk to take the chair beside me. Angling forward slightly, he adjusted the legs of his navy corduroy pants. “And how are you doing?”

My gaze flicked to the door. I just wanted to go but I’d wasted his time once already. “Okay. I’m just trying to focus on classes to keep my mind off it.” As if that were even possible.

“Is it helping?”

I lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Some days.” I exhaled and sagged back into the seat. “I just…hate feeling like this.”

“Like what?”

I tugged my loose and decidedly unflattering jeans. Intentionally unflattering. “Trapped.”

He scratched the side of his jaw through the inch-long hair of his beard. “That’s reasonable. But when in doubt, consider your safety above all else. Don’t put yourself at unnecessary risk.”

It was good advice. Problem was, following it was the exact reason I felt the way I did. I sighed and I checked my watch again.

His mouth thinned. “Am I keeping you from something, Miss Nolan?”

Ugh. I was on a roll. Downhill. Into a radioactive dumpster. I winced and opened my mouth to offer yet another apology.

A knock sounded at the door.

Barlowe was silent for one second. Two. The tension ratcheted up. “Come in,” he called.

A pretty little blonde student, maybe a year or two younger than my twenty-three years, poked her head in the door.

“I know it’s late, Dr. Barlowe but I, um, wondered if I could speak with you about something?”

His expression morphed, that professional mask slipping into place. “Of course.” Turning to me, he asked, “Was there anything else I could help you with?”

“Nope,” I grabbed my bag and hopped from my seat. Eager. Too eager. I reeled myself back. “I’m good. Thank you.” With that, I left, barreling across campus to the bus stop and praying I wasn’t too late.

* * *

The hum of the 95 bus was loud. My headphones were in, but no music played. Music was a distraction from noise, and I needed to be aware. Still, not wearing them sometimes invited strangers to talk, and I didn’t talk to strangers.

My stop approached and I pressed the button. It dinged, and several seconds later, the driver veered toward the curb. When the door squealed open, I stepped out into the night and aimed for my building.

I tucked several strands of hair behind my ear to clear my periphery. My eyes darted around, checking the shadows. Between the cars. The people. I used the glass of the windows ahead, searching the reflection to see behind me.

“Ryah!” a familiar voice called.

I whipped toward it, heart stutter-stepping while I grabbed my chest and practically jumped outta my skin.

“Whoa,” Christian said, striding closer before he grabbed my elbow to steady me.

I righted myself, with just inches between us. He looked great, as usual. Always had. Even when he’d gone through the tail end of his gangly phase in high school, he’d still had those sharp-boned, perfectly symmetrical model good looks.

My gaze narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

I fought to keep the surprise from my face, but my voice didn’t get the memo when it rose six octaves. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

My brow furrowed. “Everything alright?”

“Kinda.” He shrugged. “Just… Chloe and I broke up.”

Okay. I should’ve felt bad. I really should’ve, but I’d been waiting for those words for a while. Well, more like three weeks. ’Cause they broke up a lot.

I shoved the image of Zoya’s “I told you so” face from my mind because the desolate look in Christian’s expression told me he needed a friend.

“Wanna come in?” I asked, trying not to let that selfish hope enter my tone. Not that I’d act on it.

He inclined his head. “Sure.”

I hooked my arm through his and dragged him with me.

Entering the building’s security code, we crossed into the lobby, then climbed to my second-story apartment.

Unlocking the emerald-green door of unit 204, I pushed inside.

When he passed through, I twisted the dead bolt and slid the chain into place.

The kitchen light was already on—a constant for safety when Zoya and I weren’t home. The beige-toned cabinets took on a yellow shade under the fluorescent light there.

I stripped off my outdoor gear and set it aside.

Christian shrugged out of his winter coat and chucked it over the closest white dining chair, his jeans and blue polo shirt showing off his lean, muscular body with the movement. Sauntering to our black-velvet thrifted couch in the living room, he sat himself down.

“Want something to drink?” I asked.

“Got any beer?”

I didn’t drink. Couldn’t afford to muddle my senses, but Zoya did imbibe from time to time. Popping the white, magnet-covered fridge open, I checked.

“We’ve only got pop, orange juice and water.”

“Water’s good.”

Grabbing some ice from the freezer, I filled a glass.

My phone pinged with a familiar text tone. I pulled it out.

Miles: You make it home, sis?

Me: Just got through the door.

He sent a thumbs-up emoji.

He was protective, and while I hated that my situation forced my younger brother to take on an older brother role, I did appreciate it.

He’d pushed for me to move in with him and his friends when he’d first left home, but seeing how said friends were his teammates and, more often than not, were all either at practice or on the road for away games, it hadn’t made sense.

Me: Aren’t you at a game now?

Miles: Yeah. Coach is gonna have my balls if I’m not on the ice in two minutes. Peace!

I smiled, then sent off a text to Zoya.

Christian’s sable eyes looked tired when he chucked his phone on the aqua-painted coffee table before him. Face up, as if he was waiting for a call.

I headed his way and set his drink down.

“Talk to me,” I said, taking the spot next to him.

Even seated, I had to look up. He stood a good seven inches over me.

There’d been a stretch when we were thirteen where I’d been taller, but the following summer, his growth spurt had hit, and I’d been memorizing the underside of his chin ever since.

“Is it okay if we don’t?” He hung his head and his dirty-blond hair fell forward. The sides were trimmed short, while the rest dusted his cheeks just below his eyes.

“It’s okay.” He never liked to talk about Chloe with me.

Not that I was overly keen on it myself, but it might’ve helped me understand…

something. Chloe knew about us and our past. He’d never told me her thoughts on it, but her face said enough, which was fair, because if he’d still been mine, I knew exactly where I’d have stood.

His hand grazed the outside of my thigh. “Thanks, R.J.”

My body heated. R.J., short for Ryah Jane. Linking my fingers with his, I smiled. I loved it when he called me that. Mostly because he was the only one who did. It’d always been that way.

A grin tugged the corner of his mouth. “I’ve missed you.”

I squeezed his hand. “I’m right here.”

His eyes dropped to my lips. I froze, my heart doing a little somersault in my chest. Still, he was in a tough place, his relationship with Chloe in the gutter.

I wanted him back. My social circle had whittled to practically nothing, so I couldn’t afford to lose him.

But I needed him to be ready, to be done with her. To want me .

He closed the distance between us, and his mouth met mine. I gasped. He kept coming and I collapsed back into the couch until he positioned himself between my legs.

“Christian.” I set my palms to his chest, nudging him away. “We can’t.” God, I’d wanted it. Needed it. But not like this. I wouldn’t be a rebound.

He drew back, gaze creased at the corners, his breath ragged. He blinked in rapid succession. “Shit, R.J.”

I lay there, wide-eyed and breathless, having no idea what to do.

His phone buzzed, vibrating, loud and obnoxious, against the table.

He went rigid, then sat up like he’d been doused in ice. “I, ugh. Sorry. I just need a minute.” Standing, he grabbed his phone and headed to the bathroom.

My stomach sank and a painful blush seared my cheeks. Sitting up, I combed my fingers through my hair to fix the mussed strands and tried not to look like I felt. Second choice. Unwanted. Alone.

He was gone several torturously long minutes before the bathroom door finally cracked open, the light spilling into the otherwise dark hall. He squeezed the back of his neck, his gaze darting from me to the door. “I’ve, um, gotta go.”

Stand tall, Ryah. Ask him who texted. Ask him who texted! “You don’t need to.” God, I sounded as pathetic as I was.

He exhaled, his chest falling with it. “No, I should. I’m sorry, R.J. I don’t want to hurt you and I shouldn’t have.” He gestured between us, then gripped the hair at the front of his head. “Crap! Just…sorry.”

My heart dropped. He looked so torn. And while the chasm inside my chest cracked just a little wider, he was hurting, so he still needed me and my grace. “Hey.” I stood, closing the distance between us, then wrapped my hand around his. “It’s alright.”

He nodded and pulled me to him, encasing me in his arms. I was midway through sliding my own around him when he drew back. Snatching up his coat, he headed for the door. “Are we still good for Tuesday? I get if you don’t want to—”

I forced a smile and waved him off, fighting back the tears that longed to break free. “It’s fine, Christian. We’re good.” He needed to go before those tears fell and exposed how raw my broken heart was. Following tight behind him, I opened the door. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“Tuesday,” he replied, then bent and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Thanks, R.J.”

He stepped out and I closed myself in.

I wanted to chase after him, to tell him I was the one.

But the sun was down, and I was alone. And I’d learned the hard way that bad things happened in the dark.

Besides, who wanted a girl that was strapped to trouble?

Christian hadn’t. Not that he’d told me as much when we’d ended things, but he hadn’t had to.

His timing and the way he’d pulled back had said enough.

Still, even if Christian had taken me back, it wasn’t like we’d be going public with it. Not when he was watching.