Page 7 of Running Risk
RYLEE: NOW
Holding my grocery tote bags, I can’t help but marvel at what each vendor is selling.
The farmers market is where I love getting produce, and I’m in no rush to get home.
My eyes scan the booths looking for hidden treasures.
I pick up a wooden spatula and listen to the whole spiel about how it’s handcrafted from walnut.
I could use a good distraction after running into Clayton last night.
I watched as he left the bar, and my heart was torn between relief and sadness.
We had to run into each other at some point, but no matter how much time has passed, nothing could have prepared me.
Part of me screamed to launch into his arms, but the stronger part of me was angry, and that part usually wins.
I was lucky it took three months after I moved back, but it’s been almost seven years since I’ve spoken to him.
I couldn’t even focus enough to read after getting home.
My eyes kept glazing over when I would have memories of our past come to the forefront of my mind.
All I could think about was what he looked like sitting right in front of me after all these years.
My heart ached. His dark blonde hair peeked out from under his hat—curled a little at the ears and the base of his neck.
He’s always had an athletic build, and now it seems the upper half of his body has been worked hard.
No doubt the years have shaped him, and now he’s taken over my dad’s construction business.
The most noticeable difference though, was the scar across his eyebrow.
It made me wonder about the parts of his life I’ve missed.
My gut clenches knowing it was deep enough to cause that kind of mark.
Clayton was still the same, though, quiet and reserved as always.
I didn’t miss his fists clenching as he left, his obvious stress tell.
Even though it’s been years, I know he went for a run as soon as he was out the door.
Some things don’t change, no matter how long it’s been.
Walking up to a vendor, she smiles. “Need another half gallon?”
“Yes, that’ll be great.” I always buy fresh cow’s milk from her, and she saves me a glass bottle. There’s nothing like having that fresh cream added to your coffee in the morning. I put the jar in my insulated tote and smile my thanks after paying her.
I walk, enjoying the bite in my forearm from the straps of my bags.
It keeps me present. A few tents down, someone sells large watermelons piled on a wooden table, and my mouth instantly waters, making my footsteps quicken.
With my ear next to the melon, I knock. The hollow sound echoes inside, and I attempt to pick it up.
The lady selling them comes over. “Did you find one you like?”
“Yes, this one.” I place my hand on the green melon.
“Perfect. That’ll be eight dollars.”
I give her the money and go to pick it up again, but my bags work against me.
Setting it back down, I sigh, knowing there’s no way for me to take it right now.
I hate making multiple trips, but it’s unavoidable this time.
It sounds too good to pass up. My shoulders sag as I say, “I’ll have to come back. Is that okay? ”
She looks at me, lines forming on her forehead as her brows furrow.
“I need to drop off my bags so I don’t drop them.”
She smiles. “That’s not a problem. I’ll put it behind the table for you.”
“Thank you.”
“That won't be necessary,” a deep, familiar voice says from over my shoulder, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand.
I whirl around, my expression turning sour.
Clayton doesn’t look at me as he says to the vendor, “I’ll carry it for her.” He takes the watermelon from in front of me and begins walking—not bothering to say a word to me.
I gape after him before turning back to her.
She looks at me with wide eyes like she isn’t sure what to do.
I scoff as I storm after him, but his strides are much larger, especially with my bags weighing me down.
I don’t like getting help, even though my mom always tells me I should accept it, but I especially don’t want it from him.
“Clayton,” I call after him.
He pauses, only allowing me to catch up before walking again.
“You don’t need to do this.”
He nods.
I huff out a breath. “I mean, I don’t want you to.”
“Understood.” He rubs a hand over his short beard.
He doesn’t stop walking, and we are halfway through the market.
I can barely keep up, but he seems to be in a rush.
It would now take longer to have him put back the fruit than to have him bring it to my truck, so I shut my mouth and follow.
The sooner we get to my truck, the sooner he’ll go away.
My gaze lowers to my feet for a second to make sure I don’t trip, but at the same moment, someone bumps into me, knocking me to the ground.
My apples roll out of my bag and across the concrete.
“I’m sorry, miss,” a husky voice says.
I grab as many apples as possible, stuffing them back in my bag when two more hands also put a few inside. Clayton and the guy who bumped into me are kneeling to help with the fruit. I get up and brush off my legs.
“It’s okay,” I say to the stranger. He’s tall with dark hair and a strong jaw, but he smiles bright as he watches me.
“Would you like help?” the man offers.
“I’ve got it.” Clayton grabs a couple of bags from my hands, standing to his full height with the watermelon in his other hand.
“Okay. It was nice bumping into you.” The stranger winks and walks away.
I can’t help smiling, but when Clayton comes back into my view, the smile drops into a frown. “What?”
He shakes his head, grumbling about something as he keeps walking somehow faster than before.
Unlocking my truck, I open the passenger door and place all my groceries inside, quickly grabbing the watermelon from Clayton so I can avoid as much contact as possible. Turning back to face him, I glare through my lashes as I force myself to talk.
“Thank you,” I say in a clipped tone.
He scoffs, and my body tenses even more.
“Do you have something to actually say to me?”
He looks at me as his head tilts to the side like he’s considering his exact words before shaking his head and looking away. “Nope.” He turns and walks back toward the market, leaving me speechless.