Make Me Hate You(9)
And then I made my way upstairs for my first sleepless night back in New Hampshire.
Inhale. Three steps. Exhale. Three steps. Inhale. Three steps. Exhale. Three steps.
The familiar pattern was music to my ears, my sneakers hitting the paved and winding road that led down from the Wagner’s house and toward the center of Bridgechester. My arms moved in time at my sides, my breaths quick but comfortable, not labored even after three miles.
Running had always been my escape, my comfort, my answer to dealing with stress and my celebration when everything felt right and good. Whether I was in the deepest pit of my life, or standing on the highest mountain, and every day in-between, running was always there.
Constant. Reliable. Necessary.
After a night of tossing and turning, I needed the release.
I told myself it was the jitters setting in, the nerves I felt from being the maid of honor in a wedding less than two weeks away now. I had a lot to do, a lot to plan, a lot to help with, and I had to do it all while still balancing work. That had to be the reason I couldn’t sleep, the reason I had laid awake staring at the ceiling in the Hibiscus suite, the reason my chest had been so tight I thought it would reduce my lungs to coal with the pressure.
It had absolutely nothing to do with Tyler.
I assured myself of that, as well.
The scenery change from California was welcome, and I felt all the stress and anxiety leaving me with each new breath as I ran the old familiar loop I used to run when I’d stay the night at Morgan’s. My feet carried me without my brain telling them where to go, guiding me down hidden drives and back roads and right up to the edge of town before I turned to make my way back.
It was strange how familiar everything still felt after years of being away, and yet, how it all felt somehow new, too.
The fresh air and cool New England morning was invigorating. It was still technically spring, though summer was just a couple weeks away, and I loved the smell of the damp grass in the morning, the feel of the breeze sweeping in from the mountains, the breathtaking sights of the first rays of sun making their way through the spruces and pines.
Seven miles and an hour later, and all the anxiety I’d felt the night before was completely gone.
At least, until I rounded the foyer into the kitchen and saw I wasn’t the only one up early on Sunday morning.
Tyler sat at the kitchen island, still in his navy blue sweatpants and simple white t-shirt, with one foot planted on the ground and the other hooked casually on the lower bar of his stool. His hair was an absolute disaster, the boyish waves sticking up this way and that. He had both hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea, his eyes focused on the iPad he had propped up in front of him, and Bluetooth headphones in his ears.
At first, he didn’t notice me, and I slowed my steps, standing silently at the entry of the kitchen and watching him. I’d done everything I could last night to avoid his gaze, to not look at him, and now that I had a stolen moment to observe, I found my chest tightening again, my mouth dry and sticky.
His brown eyes were hidden beneath bent brows, expression serious as he watched whatever was on the screen. Small lines creased the edges of his eyes — lines that weren’t there when we were kids. He’d grown into a man somehow, overnight, it seemed. Then again, it had been years.
I’d seen him on social media, watched from afar as his YouTube channel took off. I’d seen pictures of him on Instagram — traveling through Europe, hiking in Australia, swimming in hot pools in Iceland. I didn’t follow him, of course, but his profile was public, which allowed me to flip through picture after picture on the nights when I was a pathetic mess.
But, pictures and videos didn’t do justice to the actual man who sat studiously at that kitchen island.
He was something between the boy I used to love and the man I’d never know, familiar and unreachable all at once.
Tyler shook his head at something, letting out a frustrated sigh and kicking back the bar stool a little before taking a sip of his tea. His eyes flicked to me then, back to the screen, and then, he did a doubletake, this time fixing his gaze on me and leaving it there.
Something changed in his eyes when he looked at me, like a shadow passed over them and held him captive. I was dressed in jogger shorts and a modest tank top, but from the way he watched me, I might as well have been completely naked.
That’s what his gaze did to me, what it always had done.
It stripped me bare.
I sniffed, breaking our eye contact and walking into the kitchen like he wasn’t even there. I reached into the cabinet that I knew housed the glassware, and then dipped inside the fridge for the filtered pitcher of water, filling my glass to the top.
“Morning run completed by seven a.m.,” Tyler mused, and I turned to face him as he plucked the headphones from his ears. “That’s impressive, even by your standards.”
I shrugged. “I’m up at five almost every morning.”
“Five, huh? Used to be more around nine, if I remember right.”
“Yeah, well, a lot has changed since I was eighteen.”
“Trust me,” he said, his voice low and hoarse from the morning. “I’m aware.”
The way he said the words was almost as if they tasted bad, as if they were poison he was spitting out and onto the floor between us. Still, there was a heat in his gaze, and blood rushed to my face as I lifted the glass of water to my lips and took my first sip.