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He frowns, still not really looking at me. “Yes, I did.”

“Why? Because you don’t think I can manage to go to the store on my own? You think I’m so fucking reckless that I can’t manage this? Or is it that you think I’m too helpless to do it?”

“You have no idea what I think about you,” he replies, his voice flat.

I’m about to go off on him and tell him that yeah, no shit I have no idea what he thinks because he never fucking tells me. Because he’s open with me one minute and then acting like he can’t wait to get away from me the next. All of it points to him hating me for whatever reason, but since he doesn’t communicate, how am I supposed to know?

But before I can say any of that, the car tires hit a patch of black ice. The car swerves to one side, and I try to control it, to steer into the turn, but it’s all happening too fast. The road is too slick, and we go sliding, spinning across the road.

23

BRYNN

My heart lurches into my throat. I steer into the skid, trying not to panic. I remember my dad teaching me that panicking is the worst thing you can do when you’re in a situation like this because it just makes everything worse.

A little noise of surprise spills out of me as I do my best to keep us from careening into a ditch or something.

We end up spinning right off the road, but there’s a pretty solid pile of snow banked up from the roads being plowed before. We hit it hard enough that it rattles me, jerking me sideways and into the door.

It takes my body a minute to realize that we’ve stopped moving and that we’re okay. My life was flashing before my eyes there for a minute, but this could have been so much worse. If there was more traffic on the road, or if we were on a hill or if there’d actually been a ditch. The car might be a little banged up, but besides having a slightly sore side from hitting the door, I’m okay.

I look to Callan, about to ask him if he’s alright, but I stop when he reaches for me and starts running his hands over me roughly.

“W-what are you doing?” I ask him.

He pats down my sides and across my arms, his eyes frantically searching my face.

“Is anything broken?” he demands, not answering my question. “Bruised?” I’ve never heard him sound like this before. It’s like there’s controlled panic in his voice, held back by, I don’t know, sheer force of will or something. “How hard did you hit that door? Does your head hurt? Do you feel dizzy?”

I shake my head, and it doesn’t hurt at all. “No, I’m fine. I’m okay, Callan.”

It’s like he doesn’t hear me though. He keeps touching me. His hand comes up to smooth hair back from my face, like he’s checking for himself to make sure I don’t have any bruises or bumps on my head. It’s almost desperate the way he needs to make sure I’m okay. Almost like he’s dealing with a compulsion of his own. I understand that.

“Callan,” I say firmly. I catch his hands, pulling them away from my face. “I’m okay. I didn’t get hurt, and I didn’t hit my head. Do you hear me?” I keep my voice soft but firm, trying to get through to him.

Gradually, his eyes lose some of that frenzied look. His arms go limp, and he doesn’t seem like he’s being propelled by panic anymore. He lets out a breath, and I let him go, but his hands go right back to me.

Instead of the panicked checking though, his touches are loaded with something else now. It’s almost exploratory, like he’s savoring the ability to touch me. He’s breathing heavily, and I realize after a beat that I am too.

His eyes find mine, and now they’ve gone dark and heavy lidded. “Do you want to know what I think of you?” he asks, his voice rough.

I swallow hard and nod.

“Everything. Since the moment I met you, every fucking one of my thoughts has been consumed with you.”

That makes my breath catch. It’s the last thing I expected him to say. “Then why do you act like you hate me?” I whisper back.

Callan laughs roughly. “I don’t hate you. But I can’t have you.”

I frown. Really, I should just drop it. I’m already more entangled in this friend group than I anticipated being, and getting in deeper isn’t going to make things less complicated. But for some reason, I can’t leave it alone.

“Why not?” I ask him. “Why can’t you have me?”

He gives me a look. “Shit is already so fucking complicated, Brynn. I’m not blind. I’ve seen it all. I know about you and Tate, and you and Ares too. I’ve already spent this whole stupid trip worried that this is going to blow things up, so what am I supposed to do? Throw my hat in the ring too?”

It’s basically the same thing I was thinking, but somehow hearing him say it makes me indignant. “Tate doesn’t have a claim on me,” I tell him. “He’s already made it clear he doesn’t want anything serious. And Ares?” Well… that’s complicated, for sure. But still. “We have a history, yes. And maybe things are getting better between us, but he doesn’t own me. I’m my own person. I can do what I want.”

Something passes over Callan’s face and he meets my gaze head on. “And what do you want?”