I wanted to spend the night by his side and pretend everything was okay until we could have a proper conversation. But because of the paps, I had to “pretend” every time I stepped out the door, and I couldn’t do it tonight—not with Asher, the only person I’d never had to put on a fake face for.
I wouldn’t be of any consolation to him in my current state anyway. The specter of his race would hang over us, casting a shadow over everything we said and did.
I tried to put my thoughts into words, but nothing came out. There was only the sound of my breaths and the monitors beeping.
I took a small step back without thinking.
“Scarlett.” I felt Asher’s agony more than I heard it. It traveled through my entire body and reverberated in my bones, making them ache worse than any flare-up.
I hated that I was the cause of it when he’d been hurt enough that night, and I hated that I couldn’t comfort him even more.
We all have ugly feelings sometimes. It’s a part of human nature. But it’s what we do with them that counts.
I was drowning in those ugly feelings, and I needed to get out of here before I said or did something I regretted.
“I need air.” I turned so I didn’t have to see the devastation etched into his face. “I’m sorry. I have to—I just need some space. To breathe.”
I ducked my head and rushed out, the world a blur of pale linoleum and alarmed voices as I barreled past my brother and friends.
I couldn’t draw in air fast enough or deep enough to sate the strain in my lungs. I hadn’t had a full-blown panic attack in years, but I was on the verge of relapsing.
However, I still possessed enough presence of mind not to rush downstairs and straight into the arms of the paps, so I rushed to the nearest lavatory and locked myself into the corner cubicle.
I made it just in time for my earlier nausea to overtake me.
I fell to my knees, leaned over the toilet, and threw up the entirety of that day’s meals. Tears pooled in my eyes as the gag-inducing sound of my own retching filled the empty room.
My throat burned so terribly I was sure I wouldn’t be able to speak after this. Even so, a tiny voice inside my head tried to convince me I was overreacting. It was one race. One promise he’d broken out of the dozens he’d kept.
But every chain reaction started somewhere, and I worried tonight was only the beginning.
I was in love with someone who didn’t love himself, and I didn’t know where that left me. Where that left us.
I kneeled there in the restroom, vomiting until I was empty and out of tears to cry. I heard people come and go, but the memory of Asher’s confession was my only consistent company.
I was racing.
I knew three words would have the power to change our relationship.
I just hadn’t expected it to be those three.
CHAPTER 48SCARLETT
I slept at the hospital that night. I didn’t see Asher again, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave while he was there, so I curled up in the waiting area instead.
After a futile attempt to convince me to go home, Vincent convinced one of the nurses (a huge Blackcastle fan) to let me grab a few hours of rest on the staff break room’s sofa instead.
I left the next morning for work, but I made Vincent promise to update me if there were any changes to Asher’s condition.
Thankfully, there weren’t.
The hospital discharged him four days after the crash. In that time, the tabloids had a bloody field day. Details about his race trickled out in bits and pieces at first, then suddenly turned into a deluge.
Asher had allegedly been racing against Enzo Bocci, Holchester’s captain. The articles used “allegedly” because there was no concrete proof they were racing. The circumstances pointed to a race, but no witnesses came forward to corroborate the suspicion, and no cameras caught them in the act.
However, several people spotted Asher and Bocci arguing at the Angry Boar a few hours before the crash, and Bocci was apparently being investigated for his role in Asher’s accident. He was suspended until the investigation was complete. Due to his injuries, Asher was also officially out of the game for at least the next three weeks.
The world of football was in tumult, but it didn’t compare to my inner chaos.
It was Monday, exactly nine days since the crash and five days since Asher left the hospital. I hadn’t seen or talked to him since I visited him that first night. I suspected he was trying to give me space like I’d asked. I appreciated it because I wouldn’t know what to say if I saw him; at the same time, enduring his absence was like being starved of air.
So, instead of dwelling on the dull pain in my chest, I threw myself into work. Nothing repressed important feelings like a packed schedule and a class full of students.
Unfortunately, every workday had to end.
“Excellent job, everyone.” My smile stretched like plastic across my face as my students packed up their belongings. “I’ll see you on Wednesday for our next lesson.”
I didn’t say what I really wanted to say. Stay. Don’t leave me with myself.
Their company provided a sanctuary from my emotions, but they were my last class of the day, and I couldn’t hold them. I could only watch as they trickled out of the studio and took my hopes of distraction with them—all of them, that was, except for one.
“Ms. DuBois, are you okay?” Emma asked. She was always the first to show up and the last to leave. She was also shockingly observant for a seventeen-year-old. “You look a little pale. I can get the nurse if you’re not feeling well.”
“No.” I forced a smile. “It’s been a long day, that’s all. Don’t worry about me. Go enjoy your evening.”
Instead of leaving, she lingered, her expression conflicted.
