Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(37)

I don’t exactly know why tears prick my eyes, or why an overwhelming sense of betrayal surges up my throat, constricting it painfully.

Suddenly, Ryder whips around, eyes widening as they take me in. Thank the Lordy, the beard’s still there. I just don’t know that I could handle anymore transformation in one day.

Instinctively, Ryder abandons the ball, then jogs up to me, yanking the massive bag effortlessly off my shoulder and transferring it to his. He cocks his head, fumbling for his phone from his pocket. What are you doing here?

I read his text and exhale a long, jagged breath. Sharp blades of confused emotion etch their marks in my throat as I try to swallow, then speak. “Just came to shoot a little bit.”

Ryder studies me, then his eyes drop to his phone. Why do you look upset?

I have two choices. I can tell him what this means to me. Pour out my guts. Confess my shocking hurt that he didn’t trust me to see past his surly lumberjack surface, that I can’t wrap my head around why he’s so good and why he doesn’t play. Demand his explanation for knowing what the game means to me and keeping his own deep connection to it such a closely held secret.

Or, I can do what I’ve always done. Repress the pain, bypass the uncomfortable truth, and move right along.

“I’m fine, Ryder.”

He squints and clenches his jaw. He’s about to get feisty with me and call bullshit. I don’t think I can handle any pushy demands or singeing banter this morning, so I stop him, holding his wrist.

“I’ll see you in a few hours, okay?”

Before he can answer, I rip the bag off his shoulder and carry it back toward the other end of the field. When I dump the balls and wave at Rooney, showing her the coast is clear, I feel Ryder’s eyes on me.

I tell myself I couldn’t care less what Ryder Bergman does, let alone that he’s watching me. I don’t want his trust, and I particularly don’t want to know him.

It’s a lie. Luckily, if you tell yourself a lie enough times, eventually it becomes a truth.





Following an awkward reunion two hours later, Ryder and I pass the forty-five-minute drive along 1-North onto the Pacific Coast Highway in silence. Silence was a given anyway since Ryder can’t text and drive. Since I sit on his right, he could have worn the hearing aid and I could have talked his ear off, I suppose, but I’m not supposed to know about that. Another facet of his obvious distrust in me.

So he doesn’t trust you, he doesn’t tell you much. You’re the same way. You hold your cards close, too. What do you care?

I don’t know. It’s an infuriating refrain in my head: I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. God, I’m so confused.

My forehead’s smooshed against the glass, taking in the views until we blur by a sea of parked-in cars. Ryder seems to know some secret place, because he confidently speeds by the masses and rolls down the road. All I’ve heard is Escondido Falls is a dreamy view but a nightmare when it comes to parking. When he brings the car to a stop under a shady nondescript grove, Ryder pulls out his phone.

You were quiet. Did my driving make you nervous?

I glance at the message, then force myself to meet his eyes. “No, Ryder. You drove fine. I was quiet because we can’t talk while you drive.”

He fusses with his keys, then he drops them in his lap and types, Some people aren’t comfortable with a deaf driver. I should have asked you.

My stomach sours, anger on his behalf surging through me as the words rush out. “Well, those people are assholes, Bergman. I know I can be a salty bitch, but I don’t see you as any less capable or safe because your ears don’t work the way they used to, okay?”

I can’t handle the look on his face or the way the car suddenly feels like a sauna. Throwing open my door, backpack in hand, I stare up at the trail before me.

I did my homework before I agreed to this hike, lest the mountain man decide on torturing me with some horrifyingly technical trail. Seems Ryder was looking out for me. The hike to Escondido Falls is only four miles, round trip, beginning just off the Pacific Coast Highway and reaching its apex at a dramatic waterfall. Our journey starts on asphalt, below a cluster of swanky Malibu homes. The online guide I read promised it soon transitions to coastal wilderness, and that the rugged, lush beauty of the falls is a well-worth-it reward for dealing with the oddly residential beginning.

My phone dings. Have your water?

I meet his eyes. “Yes. And my eighteen granola bars you insisted I bring.”

He smirks as he types. You are not a woman to be crossed while hangry. Consider it a personal insurance measure.

Rolling my eyes, I turn back toward the trail. I feel Ryder’s attention on me again but ignore it. Hiking my bag higher on both my shoulders, I begin walking.

After a few hundred feet of ascent, we pass the houses and leave the paved part of the trail. A sign reads Escondido Canyon Park, and a nearby dirt path bears another marker: Edward Albert Escondido Canyon Trail and Waterfall.

I turn over my shoulder for direction from Ryder. He nods toward the dirt path.

We walk in silence that starts off chilly, thanks to me and my bottled-up feelings. But, as we ascend and the sun moves higher in the sky, our frigidity thaws in the growing heat to companionable quiet. After trekking a field of fragrant mustard and fennel, we cross a creek that flows through an open thicket. Ryder takes my elbow, pointing left, so that we continue upstream into Escondido Canyon.