Chapter 6
Six
Riley
I fell asleep in the tub last night. I open my eyes wider, rubbing at the crick in the back of my neck.
My legs cramp and I stretch them out in the cold, murky water.
I was so tired, I could barely hold my eyes open as I filled the tub and stripped out of my clothes.
I’d planned to set out Gareth’s favorite jeans and a band shirt for him to wear when he gets back, but I didn’t ever make it out of the tub to do any of that.
Rubbing at my eyes, I yawn and grip at the edges with my fingers to pull myself up. My legs shake a little, my balance a little off as I step onto the cold tile. Grabbing a towel from the rack, I flinch at my reflection. My eyes are red, face pale, and hair sticking up in every direction.
I can’t look like a mess when he sees me again.
He needs to see all the good sides of me.
The parts that led to him approaching me to begin with.
We met at a bookstore. He pretended to be lost and I played along, showing him where the self-help book section was.
That was the week he learned to crochet a granny square to prove to me he really went there looking for a pattern book.
It was very wonky with so many uneven holes.
I still have it. I keep it in the top drawer of my nightstand with all the other handmade stuff he’s made me over the years.
It turned out he’d seen me through the large window of the coffee shop across the way on several occasions and finally found the courage to talk to me. He was such a nervous mess, and I smile at the memory while flattening out my hair with my fingers.
I splash water on my face and squirt eye drops in my eyes. After brushing my teeth and shaving my five o’clock shadow, I pinch my cheeks to bring color into them before hanging up my towel.
Goosebumps cover my skin as I walk into my room completely naked, and my teeth chatter on the way to my closet.
I look at Gareth’s side and then mine, grabbing the jeans he used to say he loved me in.
I pair them with a yellow sweater and my white Converse.
A loud thud comes from the kitchen, and I quickly peek my head out my door. “Gareth?”
The book didn’t say when he’d come back.
It did however mention that if too many days passed without his return, to repeat it until it works.
Until he’s finally here. I don’t know how many times I can go back to that cemetery and sit above where his dead body rests.
It was so hard to get there the first time and have my hands touch the dirt that separated me from his casket.
My breaths shorten and they grow painful when I don’t hear anyone respond. Was I too hopeful? Is another day needed for him to be reacquainted with his body again?
I step all the way into the short hall, straightening the pictures of us on the wall as I head to the kitchen. “Anyone there?”
No response. I circle my gaze around the connected living room and stare back to where my open bedroom door is. He’s not here. No one is. The house is a little on the older side and comes with random creaks in the floorboards, so it was probably just the heat turning on.
Too bad it’s taking so long to take effect.
I wrap my arms around myself, my body shivering.
It’s freezing in here. It’s probably the broken window.
My heart beats harder in my chest. That cop is supposed to come by to fix it.
I didn’t want him to, but he kept insisting anyway.
He was only trying to help, but I don’t need him here on the day Gareth finally decides to rise from the dirt. Or after.
Will he look like himself? Will he . . . I suck in a sharp breath, not wanting to think about the alternative. It doesn’t matter how he comes back, as long as he’s here with me again.
Hours pass as I clean, rearrange furniture and bake random desserts from boxes I’ve had in the cabinets for a while. Gareth always pestered me about why I keep buying cake and cookie mix if I’m never going to make it.
I kept thinking I was going to. But I’d get off work exhausted, see the store on the way home, and decide buying dessert would be better.
I should have tried harder, maybe gotten more sleep rather than staying up late reading or watching movies once or twice a week.
It made me want to do less after getting home the next day.
I should have been a better husband, and then maybe . . . maybe I would’ve been enough.
I look at the cracks in some of the coffee cups taking up extra space in the cabinets.
I had trouble letting go of useless things.
I grew attachments to everything. I grew one for him too, but he might’ve felt trapped surrounded by all my junk.
Taking down one cup leads me to pulling three more flawed dishes off the shelf.
I toss them all in the trashcan and then walk around the house, getting rid of everything else like them—anything beyond fixing.
It takes way too long before night falls.
I make myself dinner while turning on some music to drown out all the house sounds that keep giving me false hope.
Chicken skilletini. Taking my bowl to my room, I sit in my bed and turn on my TV.
I flip through ten different movies before finally hitting play on something.
With my food only half gone, the plate grows heavy in my hands and nearly slips out of my fingers as I start to doze.
I shake myself awake, then I get up and walk to the kitchen and set the bowl in the sink.
Bushes shake outside the window, and I bring myself closer to the misted glass.
Damn stray cats. They’re big fans of jumping out at the right moment to scare the crap out of me.
I wash my dish and as I’m shutting off the water, a long groan comes from outside.
I stand up straight, skin prickling the longer I look out the window and don’t see anything.
What was that? I don’t bother calling out for Gareth this time.
I really don’t feel like being left unanswered again.
It struck me hard in the chest earlier. If he comes, I’ll just wait until he lets me know he’s here.
He can call for me or even sneak in beside me under the covers.
Or join me in the shower, stepping behind me while he offers to wash my back like he used to.
My breaths stick in the back of my throat when the bushes shake again and branches snap next.
Is someone out there? My heart gallops and I place my hand on the window.
It feels so heavy when I try to pull it away, so I keep it where it is and slowly lift up the window.
A gust of wind hits me in the face, along with the smell of burning wood.
“Hello?” I say.
The only thing greeting me back is the hooting owl in the tree behind the house. I sigh, and as I’m about to slide the window down, another groan cuts through the air.
Blood rushes into my face and the muscles in my chest tighten. “Anyone out there?” My voice cracks. “A lost little cat perhaps?” As if there are so many cats who walk around groaning.
Minutes pass and nothing. No more sounds come and I’m growing too cold standing in front of the half-open window.
I’m also struggling to stay upright and on my feet.
I want to wait for him. To see if he’ll only come if I’m awake.
Or maybe he forgot where the spare key was last night and his eyes haven’t readjusted to the sunlight yet.
So many insane ideas roll through my head as I keep myself busy around the house to fight sleep.
I give up at three a.m. My body is dragging and I can’t stop rubbing my eyes.
I’ll give it until tomorrow and then I’ll do the ritual again.
One more day before giving it another try.
I’ll offer more blood if I have to—even more of myself.
“Come back to me,” I say, looking back at the picture of us on the wall behind the kitchen table. “Bring him back to me. Take whatever you want. Take all of me if you must. Just bring him back.”