Chapter Twenty-One – Ezra
I sit on the edge of my bed, my leg bouncing like crazy.
I just recently stopped pacing, so that’s good, but it’s like my body doesn’t want to play ball, so to speak.
The small ring box sits beside me, so close, and yet so far.
Everything is… hard, so much harder than it should be, and even after all this time, I don’t know how to make things easier.
It’s too much. Too much emotion. I can’t deal with this, but I have to.
Not once did I ever think I’d move on. I was young, full of rage—and if I’m honest, I’m still furious over what happened and how I wasn’t there to keep her safe—but when I was found by the others, I hoped that would be the start of a new life for me, a new purpose.
And it was, for a while. For years we had a routine, we stuck to it, we killed who we needed to kill, and as we added people onto our list, as our list of kills grew, things were fine. Just… just fine. Not great, but not downright horrible, either.
Lately, though, it’s like I’ve been thrown into the past. Like the wound is once again fresh. At first I thought it was from the change of routine, the addition of a new person to this house, but lately I’ve caught myself wondering if it’s because of something I never thought would happen.
Maybe it’s guilt causing all this to resurface, guilt over liking Abby more than I should.
It’s almost like thinking her name causes her to pop into existence, because right then, there’s a soft knock on my door.
“One second,” I say, and I get up, grab the ring box, and hurriedly put it into the drawer on my nightstand. By the time I turn around, the door is already open, and Abby walks in. Her pink and blue hair is a bit messier today than it normally is, and I hate that my first thought is that it’s cute.
Not just her messy hair, though. No, she’s cute. Everything about her is cute. She’s cute, pretty, gorgeous; whatever adjective you prefer. She’s so outgoing, so unafraid to say or do anything. In a way, I’m envious of her. She has trauma just like me, but she wears it so much better.
“Hey,” she says, approaching me even though I’m sure I look like a deer in headlights, standing there beside my nightstand. “Got some time to talk?”
Did she see what I put away? Not that it matters. She already knows who I lost and how important she was to me. In the end, I say, “Sure. What’s up?” I think I sound normal, but it’s hard to tell. Things are different with her, and I don’t know why.
It isn’t like I haven’t thought other women are pretty, so it’s not about her looks. That fact doesn’t make me feel much better, though. No, because if it’s not about her looks, it’s about something more, something deeper. It’s about her as a person, and that possibility totally overwhelms me.
Those particular thoughts should’ve been pushed from my head the moment I heard her and Royal going at it during our last kill, but they weren’t. They’re still here, and having those beautiful silvery eyes on me right now definitely isn’t helping.
Abby approaches me, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “I just wanted to let you know that I talked to Hawthorne. I guess we’re going to get Connor Connair next, and I owe it to you and Royal. If you guys wouldn’t have made me talk, then it wouldn’t be on the horizon.”
I shrug. “It’s no big deal, but I’m glad we’re doing something about him.” She stands a few feet away, but again, it’s like she’s too close, so I meander to the window on the far side of the room and gaze out of it. If I stare at her for too long, my thoughts are liable to take over.
But, of course, it’s Abby, so she doesn’t get the hint. She follows me over to the window, standing next to me as she mirrors my position: solemnly gazing out at the small, fenced-in backyard.
A brick patio with some hardly-touched wicker furniture. A pellet grill that we never use. Some overgrown trees around the fences to give our backyard some privacy. You know, things that a normal family might have, if they were to live in this house.
“Do you guys ever grill?” she asks, spotting it.
“Not really. I think we tried last Fourth of July, but Royal overcooked the burgers. All you could taste was char.” There’s nothing worse than overcooked meat. All the flavor, all the juiciness, gone. “Or maybe that was a few years ago. It’s hard to remember sometimes.”
She leans on the wall just outside the window’s wooden trim, moving that stare back to me. “What were you doing here, by yourself?” It must be written on my face, that I don’t want to talk about it, for she adds quietly, “You just seem… tense. Or maybe sad. Maybe it’s time I force you to talk.”
I shake my head once. “There’s nothing to talk about. You already know everything.”
“Do I? What was that little box you hurriedly put away when I was coming in?”
Crap. She saw that. Of course she did. She’s perceptive, not dumb. If she was dumb, she wouldn’t be here today. None of us would be.
Biting my inner cheek, I look away. The last thing I want to do is talk about it more, but with how heavily it’s been weighing on my mind lately, maybe I should take up Abby’s offer and discuss it with her. Maybe it would make me feel better.
A foolish hope if ever there was one.
“It’d be easier to show you,” I mutter, and before I can second-guess myself, I head to the nightstand and pull the drawer open.
The ring box is in my hand in the next moment, and as I turn around, I find Abby followed me without making a sound.
Once I turn, she stands directly in front of me, spotting the box resting on my palm.
Though it’s obvious what the box is—there aren’t many other things it could be, given the size—I still open it and reveal the small diamond ring inside. Abby might’ve come from a well-off family, but I didn’t. This ring and its size were what I could afford at the time, all those years ago.
Every time I look at it lately, it seemingly grows smaller and smaller.
“It’s beautiful,” she says.
“It’s small.” I close the lid on the box and put it away. “She deserved bigger. She… she deserved better.” When I say that last part, my voice comes out heavier than I intend it to, but once the words are spoken I cannot take them back.
“I know I never met her, but knowing you, I don’t think she would’ve been disappointed in the size. I think she would’ve been happy with anything you gave her.” Abby lets out a long, hard breath.
I don’t say anything. Hell, I can’t even look at Abby right now.
Everything is such a mess. Going back to the ring, losing myself in my past and what I lost; it’s easier for me than facing things now.
Not a healthy coping mechanism, but I don’t think any of us in this house would win awards with the way we cope.
She studies me for a while, and then she asks, “Is it me?”
That gets me to look at her. “Is what you?”
“Oh, come on. You know exactly what I mean, but if you’re going to make me say it, fine.
Am I making you feel bad? Do I make you feel guilty?
” She lets those questions sink in before she continues, “Ezra, I don’t want to make you feel any of those things.
I’m sorry if my comments rub you the wrong way or if they’re inappropriate. ”
“Abby,” I try to squash her concern, “it’s not—”
But she won’t have it. “It is. Besides that intervention or whatever you want to call it, you’ve been avoiding me ever since the last kill.
At first I thought it was because you were upset with me and Royal, but now I’m starting to wonder if it’s not just us you were upset with.
” She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Why did you leave the room that night, after handing me your handsaw?”
This is so not a conversation I thought I would have today. Or ever.
“I just needed some air.”
“Please. There was plenty of air in that room and you know it. Did it smell a little coppery? Yes, it did, but still lots of air.” She’s not having it. “You didn’t leave because you needed air. You left because it was too much for you, because I’m too much for you.”
It shouldn’t bother me as much, but I hate the way she blames herself for how I’m feeling. It’s not her fault I can’t get over this. It’s mine. “You’re not too much. It’s not you. It’s me. Something is wrong with me.”
She steps closer to me and sets a gentle hand on my arm, whispering, “Nothing is wrong with you. Nothing. If I would’ve known who you lost, I never would’ve been so pushy.
I wouldn’t have made any of those comments to you.
I was just trying to make light of things, I guess, so it never occurred to me that you might be struggling, too. ”
Abby shakes her head. “So, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I make things worse for you.
I’m sorry I make you think of everything you lost. If anything, that’s the opposite of what I want to do.
I want to make things better for you, for Royal, and for Hawthorne, too.
Our situations might be different, but I know how that pain can feel like it fades, and then it comes storming back when you’re least paying attention.
Stuff like that never goes away, not fully. ”
“You don’t have to apologize,” I say. “None of this is your fault. It’s me—”
“Stop saying that. It’s not you. You’re not to blame for any of it.
Everyone deals with grief differently, and even though people say it gets better, it doesn’t.
As the days go on, as the years go by, we just get better at hiding it, at not thinking about it, but when we stop and have time to think, time to reminisce and be nostalgic, that pain hurts just as much as it did in the beginning. ”
She’s not wrong. I’ve never heard a more correct summarization of grief and loss.
“I never understood how we’re supposed to move on from it,” I mutter, my gaze falling to my own feet. “If it never goes away, what are we supposed to do? How are we supposed to get through it?”