Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(61)

Frustrated tears sting my nose. I refocus on Fionn. I’ll be fucking damned if I’ll let him think I’m leaving because of any other reason than the one I created. Not for one goddamn minute. “You don’t understand, actually.”




“It’s okay—”

“I don’t want to cause you any ‘trouble whatsoever.’”

Fionn pauses his efforts to split the cast and really look at me. He takes in the subtle shake of my head. I squeeze his wrist. He blinks, clarity sinking in, his eyes widening only slightly before he clears his throat. “Oh … I see. It’s no trouble, but I do understand.” He lays a hand over mine. “We can chat about it later. I can get you some recommendations for exercises on the road.”

I nod. My smile is weak, but it’s there, and so is his. He took a risk. When it comes to me, he’s taken many, in his own quiet way. Maybe it’s my turn. “But maybe you can check in once in a while? Make sure I’m doing them right …?”

Fionn’s smile brightens.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”





HURDLES


Fionn

ONE MONTH LATER

The Uber pulls away, leaving me at the entrance of the fairgrounds. An unlit Silveria Circus sign hangs overhead. I make my way past rides and game booths and concession stands in various stages of construction. None of the workers look up, even though it’s closed for the day. Maybe some of them knew I was coming, or maybe they just don’t care. There’s a buzz that seems to linger in the autumn air, a charge of excitement. The relief of being at home, the first off-season show about to begin in just a few days. Magic and money to make. And as I near the small tarot reader tent and duck my head inside, scanning the table with its red cloth and the velvet drapes lining the walls, I wonder if the excitement is not so much in the air. Maybe it’s in me.

Of course it is, you bloody eejit. You’re about to fuck Rose. It’s a biological response, nothing more. Certainly nothing to be worried about.

I shake my head as though it might clear my thoughts, then leave the tarot booth. I head to the left of the big top, through the fairgrounds and the rides that are not yet ready for visitors, past the fun house and the Tilt-A-Whirl and the swing carousel. My steps quicken the closer I get to the area where the trailers and RVs are parked at the far end of the grounds. I pull my phone from my pocket and check it for the tenth time since landing at Midland airport just outside Odessa, opening my last message to Rose.

My flight was canceled but got the earlier option! I’ll be there by seven instead.



She still hasn’t responded.

I pocket my phone and hitch my backpack farther up my shoulder. I spot her RV at the far edge of the clearing, not far from a picket fence that skirts the grounds where other motor homes are parked. It seems like she’s one of the only full-time circus staff who doesn’t choose to spend the off-tour months living in the small, well-kept trailer park that’s part of the permanent circus grounds. Her home stands out from the beige and white and aluminum options that are parked in the clearing. The sides are custom painted with an ombre of pink and orange, a flock of sparrows in flight across the sunset colors. The lights are on. The blinds are drawn. And there’s a rhythmic sound coming from within.

I know that sound well.

It’s an Echelon Stride-6 folding treadmill. One I bought her as a goodbye present to help with her recovery. And she’s running. Hard.

She shouldn’t be going that fast. It’s only been a month since I took her cast off and she went on her way, meeting up with the troupe as they returned back to Texas. I frown as I approach the RV. A sudden burst of anxiety floods my veins as I tighten my hand into a fist and rap three times on the door.




The rhythm of the running footsteps doesn’t change.

I knock again.

I shift on my feet. Clear my throat. I wait, but there’s no change.

“Rose,” I yell on the third knock. “I knew you’d love that thing, but come open the door.”

No answer. She must be wearing headphones, so I grasp the door handle and start to pull it open. I only make it an inch or two when Rose is there, her hand braced against the edge of the door to keep it from opening and a wild, panicked look in her eyes.

But the sound of running doesn’t stop.

There’s someone else here.

“Doc,” she breathes, adjusting the belt of her robe, then pushing damp hair from her forehead. She’s cut it into a bob, the damp waves and curls skimming across the smooth column of her neck. Her eyes dart to the direction of the sound and back again. “What are you doing here? I didn’t expect you for another couple of hours.”

Dying, that’s what I’m doing. Clearly dying of total embarrassment.

“I, um. I’m sorry.” I run my hand through my hair and back away a step. My skin is burning. My heart thrashes against my ribs. My vision has narrowed as though nothing exists outside the things I wish I could unsee. Like the damp blotches on the purple silk from her wet hair. The blush in her cheeks. The distress in her mahogany eyes. “I texted, but … I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d have someone else here. I’ll leave.”

Fionn, you fucking fool. This isn’t a relationship. You said so yourself. What the hell did you expect? You have no right to be upset. Just go.