Hopeless (Chestnut Springs, #5)(23)

Someone should tell him this is fake.

“No, Bailey. It’s perfect.” I gently stroke my thumb over the delicate bone in her wrist. We haven’t really touched yet, and I’m not entirely sure how or where to start. Especially after the virgin confession. It’s been a long time since I was one, and I’ve damn near forgotten what it was like.

When she meets my gaze, she’s back to looking alarmed. Worried. She’s the shy, awkward girl I remember, not the focused, funny woman she’s slowly blossoming into.

“You deserve this.”

“And shit, if it doesn’t work out, you could pawn that sucker for a pretty penny,” Gary adds drunkenly, which makes her laugh.

Then she turns her palm to my wrist and gives me a gentle squeeze to go with her sweet smile. She sucks in a startled breath when I lift her hand and kiss the top of it. Soft, but longer than is necessary. I keep my eyes on hers, giving her a look I shouldn’t.

A look that stills the air between us.

When I wink at her, she turns the prettiest shade of pink and yanks her hand back like she’s touched something scorching hot. Then she gets back to work. And I spend the entire night drinking chamomile tea and watching patrons gawk at the massive rock on Bailey’s finger. They’re too stunned to ask questions but too impolite to look away.

Every time she catches someone staring, I see the corners of her mouth twitch before she presses her lips together and averts her gaze.

And that right there makes the ring worth the ridiculous price tag. I’ve saved my money for years and was never sure what I wanted to spend it on.

This seemed like a worthy investment.

I shoot up in bed, ready to fight, but the sheets tangled around my waist stop me. For a moment, panic engulfs me. I need to run, need my legs to move, but they betray me, leaving me helpless. I’ve mussed my bedding in a way that makes no sense unless I was flat-out wrestling with it. My pillow is damp with sweat, and my skin is slick with it.

My feet burn like I’ve just walked over the flames.

Every fucking time, it’s 2:11 a.m.

“Fuck.” I flop down, pressing the heels of my palms into my sockets as I focus on stabilizing my breathing.

The dream is always the same.

I have the same urge to fight, to run, to spring into action, but my body fails me, and I end up crawling or dragging myself. I’m always in the desert. Micah is always there, on the brink of death.

And I always feel like I need to save him.

It’s irrelevant that I did save him. My brain takes me back to that feeling of pure helplessness, the eternal high alarm with no reprieve. While we were camped out in that cave for two weeks, I suppressed those emotions, but they haunt me now.

I kick the sheets off. Even with air conditioning, I’m sweltering. Since I found Bailey in the river that night, I fantasize about dipping into the cold water and cooling this phantom burning sensation that feels all too real. I fantasize about relaxing enough to feel safe while doing it.

I’m drawn to the river now. I keep finding myself down there, not exactly remembering the path I took or when I arrived.

Maybe it’s the water. Maybe it’s the dark.

Maybe it’s Bailey.

Regardless of what it is, I head there again tonight. I don’t even bother with socks. As I make my way down the path to the shore, my feet feel like they are on fire, the freshly grafted skin rubbing against the fabric inside my shoes.

When I get almost to the bottom, I’m not alone.

Across the creek, against the riverbank, sits Bailey, in the same frilly white cotton dress she wore at work tonight. Her cheek rests on a balled-up sweater that covers the crest of her bent knees. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her shins. Like she’s trying to be as small as possible.

In the moonlight, I can see her ring gleaming.

“Bailey?” I call her name, even though I already know it’s her.

Her head snaps up, body going rigid. Then her hand flies up, one finger to her lips, giving me the international symbol for shut the fuck up.

I’m instantly on high alert, my heart rate skyrocketing back to the level it was after my recurring nightmare. I prowl down the rest of the hill, making as little noise as possible on the rocky shore. When I get to the water and look over at her, her eyes are wide. Body still.

I’m about to say something, but she taps her finger against her lips again.

Her signal draws my eyes down to the water. My white sneakers toe the water line.

Logically, I know my feet have healed. I’ve been given the go-ahead to swim—to live my life—but I just haven’t been able to let go of the anxiety.

All at once, I’m faced with the question of what I want more. To get to Bailey? Or hang on tight to my anxiety?

It’s not a question I need to think about for long. I’m not sure I think at all before I’m wading into the cold waterway to get to her, not caring about myself at all in the process.

Very on brand for me. It’s why I am where I am.

Unlike Bailey, even at the deepest point, I can touch. So I walk, trudging through the water until I come out dripping on the other side. Bailey’s gaze latches onto my feet as I stride toward her.

I try to ignore the chafing from the terry-like material inside the Adidas shoes. But as soon as I drop down onto the silty ground next to her and lean my back against the embankment, I rip them off.