Thick Love (Thin Love, #2)(62)

I didn’t like it, but I hadn’t acted on a single impulse. If he could be my friend—despite how often I caught him staring at me while I listened to Leann’s instruction or watched Kona and Keira flirting—then I could swing it too.

This night would be our last Kizomba practice. With the approach of November, the football season was kicking into high gear and the coaches on his team were expecting more from their players. Since that day in his car, we hadn’t practiced much at all and though I’d seen him at his parents’ house, there had been very little time for us to be alone. Koa had taken to sitting between us during lunches and wouldn’t leave us in peace when we sat in front of the piano to practice my audition song.

Now Ransom was nearly twenty minutes late for our last rehearsal. I wanted to text him and find out what was going on, but I felt that would come across as too needy (and it probably was). When another ten minutes passed and Leann had given up on him to return to her office, I decided to head for my apartment, disappointed, but eager for a nap before my shift at the diner.

It was only when I left through the back entrance and headed for the stairs that I spotted Ransom in the parking lot, sitting alone in his Mustang with his head lowered onto the steering wheel.

We were friends, right? Friends gave you shit for standing them up and this was twice he’d flaked on me. Friends offered a hand when you looked like you were ready to hit something. Just like Ransom did then.

The engine was running and from the muted volume of the radio, I heard Breaking Benjamin’s “Ashes of Eden” pulsing from his speakers. A few taps on his window and Ransom pulled his head up in a jerk, fists still tight on the steering wheel.

“What are you doing?”

Ransom’s long blink was slow, like he was coming out of a stupor, and he stared at me for a few seconds as I tilted my head, waiting for an answer. “You’re late,” I finally said when he rolled the window down.

“I’m sorry. I just…”

I reached for the door handle, and he suddenly jerked up straight, seeming to fumble for the latch. “No don’t…” he managed to get out, but it was too late to stop.

I opened the door and dozens, hundreds of rose petals fell out of the car and fluttered onto the ground.

“What’s all this?”

He was on autopilot, I was sure of it, letting me pull him from the car, standing blankly as I brushed back the petals that covered his floor and seats. There were sharp, broken stems with sharp thorns around the car’s console and on the dash.

Ransom’s fingers had been pricked and were bleeding, with small cuts crisscrossed around his knuckles. I didn’t think, just grabbed his big hands to examine the marks more closely, not concerned that this was the first time I’d touched him without the pretense of a lesson since I’d danced for him at Summerland’s.

“It’s her birthday.”

My gaze sliced up and I tightened my grip on his hands so that it was no longer tender. He looked completely lost, worse than I’d ever seen him before, and any irritation about a missed lesson completely evaporated, replaced by something fierce, some consuming desire to take care of him, to make that washed out, pale flush on his face disappear.

What could I say? The roses, that defeated, weary expression could not be eased by something as simple as “I’m sorry” or “Do you want to talk about it?” Of course he didn’t. He never did, and though we were friends, or so I thought, it was clear that Ransom didn’t share his secrets with anyone.

Behind us, the back entrance swung open and Leann’s voice echoed across the parking lot as she yammered to someone on her phone. She couldn’t see us, not with the dumpster blocking Ransom’s car, but her appearance seemed to waken Ransom from his trance and he pulled his had from mine.

“I shouldn’t have come here. Leann sees the damn roses and she’ll bother my folks. Mom’s already worn out…”

His face was now a mass of worry, and his voice had taken on a slightly panicked tone. It was heartbreaking. “Come on,” I told him, pulling him away from his car by the hand.

Ransom didn’t ask where I was taking him. He followed me like a child, like he was so lost that he had no idea where to turn.

A brief dash up the stairs and Ransom was in my apartment, slipping his hands in his pockets as he looked around my place. No one but Leann and some of my friends from the studio had ever been in my tiny apartment. Ransom filled up the space so completely, I had to step back and let him pace around, his movements a little slow and listless, before he finally crashed onto my sofa.

My place was nice, small but comfortable, though it wasn’t really more than a couple of converted storage rooms. I had a small kitchenette with a mini fridge and stovetop and there was a tiny bathroom at the back.

My style was a little eccentric—vintage because I could only afford thrift store and garage sale finds, and hand-me-downs from Leann that I knew she’d bought for me and lied about using.

The sofa was really only a loveseat, and was plush but threadbare, covered in an olive cable knit throw Leann had given me for Christmas the year before. It matched the sporadic pops of green and turquoise around the living room and on my neatly made bed at the back of the loft. Ransom took up most of the seating area on the sofa and held his head in his hands as he looked down at the whitewashed hardwood floors.