What I Need

“Oh.” I curl my fingers against my palms. My shoulders slouch. I suddenly feel smaller. Or maybe CJ just seems bigger to me. I swear he’s grown inches in his anger. “Okay, um, well, I just wanted to make sure you knew why I said that to my mom. Why I had to . . .”

“Yeah, I get it,” he bites out. He sounds impatient. “I get why you think you needed to do that, babe. It doesn’t change how I feel about it.”

“You’re mad,” I murmur.

“Getting there, yeah.”

I press my lips together. That sick feeling twists in my stomach again and knots itself deep. I don’t know what to do. I hate this. But CJ knows why I lied. What else can I say?

“You heading out now too?” he asks, tipping his chin in the direction of the door.

I want to stay here, convince CJ to skip McGill’s and talk this out, but if I don’t leave now, I’m going to be late to class. That shower sex took up all of the extra time I had.

Sighing, I nod and move to the stools pulled up to the counter, grabbing my book bag and slipping the strap over my arm. I fist my keys and turn toward the door, then shyly blink up at CJ when he takes my book bag from me.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

His smile is halfhearted. An ache burns inside my chest.

I follow behind him outside and wrap my hands around his shoulders when he stops at my car. Standing on my toes, we kiss. It’s brief and I’m more into it than he is. I tell him I’ll see him after class and CJ squeezes my waist. He presses his lips to my forehead and opens my door.

No okay, darlin’. No last minute ass grab.

I’m pouting the entire drive to school.

This fucking sucks.

When I pull into the parking lot surrounding the health building, I see Allison walking back to her car. Jaylen is behind her. They’re both classmates of mine.

“Hey. What’s up?” I ask, slowing to a stop and rolling down my window.

“Class is canceled,” Allison says. “There’s a power outage or something. Free day.” She flashes me a smile and continues walking.

Mm. Free day. We never have those.

And I know exactly what I want to do with it.

Spending time with CJ so we can talk this out is sure to stop him from becoming completely mad at me, since he’s getting there, as he put it. And spending time with CJ in front of Ben and Luke, two people I don’t necessarily need to pretend in front of, well shoot, that’s even better.

I can finally be CJ’s girlfriend in front of his friends. I feel like I’ve waited forever for that.

Foot on the gas, I pull a U-turn in the middle of the parking lot and head back in the direction I came.

When I step inside McGill’s, I spot the guys right away. They’re playing pool at one of the vacant tables near the back. Ben is lining up for a shot, while Luke stands at the opposite side to watch him. CJ is leaning his back against the wall, arms across his chest and cue in hand.

He grins and says something to Ben about his shot. I can’t hear him over the music playing overhead and the lunch crowd commotion. It’s one o’clock, so it’s fairly busy in here.

I step out of the entryway so I don’t block people coming and going and watch from the front of the room. I don’t move any closer.

CJ pushes off from the wall. It’s his turn. He bends over the table and lines up. I wish I had a different vantage point now. One from behind, preferably. When I shuffle a little to my right to improve my view, I notice CJ’s well-worn sneakers on his feet. They aren’t the ones he had at the house. I’ve seen this pair before. He keeps them in the back of his truck.

He took off his boot? Why? Why would he do that?

CJ takes his turn and pushes Luke sideways when he says something to him. The three of them share a laugh, then CJ leans his cue against the wall and carries the empty glass pitcher they’re sharing over to the bar.

He’s walking fine. He isn’t limping like he does at the house—it’s subtle and stops the second he puts on his boot, but I notice it. But CJ isn’t doing that now. He’s putting his full weight on his foot. He’s pivoting on it. He’s crossing his right ankle over his left and leaning against the bar while Hattie fills up the pitcher. He isn’t supporting his injured leg at all.

I stand there and watch through the crowd, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.

CJ would tell me if he was healed, wouldn’t he? Why would he keep that from me? This must be . . . a mistake. My eyes playing tricks on me. He was just limping in the bedroom. I saw it. I don’t understand.

Why would he keep this from me?

CJ walks back over to the table. Still no limp. No adjustment to his swagger. This is how he moves when he isn’t injured, and although I should be happy to see him walk like this again, I’m not. I feel like someone just sucker punched me. I feel sick for a completely different reason now.

Before anyone notices I’m here, I slip back outside. I’ve seen enough.

I peel out of the parking lot and speed home, thinking about all of the times I caught CJ without his boot in the past weeks and the way he was always avoiding discussion about his leg. As if he didn’t want to talk about it because he didn’t want me to know.

Not now, he’d say. Quit worrying, babe. It’s fine.

He even cut back on his PT. He said it wasn’t doing him any good anymore and he could do the exercises at home. But now, I wonder if he just didn’t need the therapy. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">