Chapter 11
Iwake to the sound of glass shattering. It takes a second to realize it came from me.
My hand. My glass. The one I must have left on the edge of the nightstand. Or maybe I knocked it over while dreaming. Or thrashing. Or clawing at the edge of something I don’t want to name.
I sit up too fast. My head pounds instantly. A low, punishing throb behind my eyes that makes me wince and clutch my temples. The sun is too bright through the blinds. It slices across the floor and touches everything like judgment.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and find my feet bare, the wood floor too cold for comfort.
I don’t remember taking my shoes off last night.
I don’t remember coming home. I remember walking.
That’s it. Just putting one foot in front of the other and hoping it would mean something.
Hoping it would burn enough time off the clock so I could sleep without dreaming.
That didn’t work.
It feels like I haven’t really slept in days. The only thing I feel is tired. Tired in my bones. Tired in the cracks between my thoughts.
I’m shaking again. My fingers tremble when I pick up the glass shards, and one of them slices my thumb. I curse softly, sucking the blood, tasting the sharp metallic edge of being alive. It doesn’t feel like enough.
I drag myself into the bathroom and turn on the faucet. Run my finger under cold water. Apply pressure and tend to the small wound. A splash to the face.
It helps. Not much, but it’s something. I look up at my reflection.
My skin is dull. My eyes are shadowed. I still don’t recognize the girl in the mirror, and I’m not sure I want to. She looks haunted. Like she’s been wandering through smoke for years.
I cover my face with my hands and try to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
It still hurts.
By the time I leave the apartment, the world has already moved on without me. People on sidewalks. Cars honking. Kids in school uniforms holding their parents’ hands. It’s all too loud. Too fast.
I head to work early. Not because I care. But because it’s the only place where my body knows what to do even if my brain doesn’t.
The Velvet Room is half-lit and empty when I arrive. The smell of cleaning solution clings to the counters. Jaz is behind the bar, restocking the shelf with practiced boredom.
“You look like hell,” she says without looking at me.
“Thanks. You always know how to make a girl feel welcome.”
She glances up. Her eyes scan my face. I see the worry behind her sarcasm, but she doesn’t press it. She hands me a rag. “Make yourself useful.”
I take it and start wiping down the back counter. My hands move on autopilot. It’s almost soothing, the repetition of it. The clink of bottles. The scrape of glass. The familiar smells.
Jazz turns the music on low, something ambient and instrumental. It doesn’t help much, but it drowns out the static in my head.
Around seven, the bar starts to fill.
It’s a slow night. A Tuesday. Mostly regulars and a few tourists who think they’ve found something cool. I smile when I need to. I pour when asked. I laugh when prompted.
It’s not real. But it’s enough to keep me upright.
Then Knox walks in. Guilt for breaking last night sets in.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just walks to the bar, takes the same seat he always takes, and waits. I avoid him for a while. I serve other people. I pretend I don’t feel his eyes on me. But eventually, I make my way over.
“What are you drinking?” I ask.
He studies me for a second. “How are you?”
“I didn’t ask for small talk.”
“I know.”
He nods at the shelf behind me. “Pour me whatever you had last night.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s a dangerous request.”
“I can handle it.”
I pour him a whiskey. Neat. No ice. No water. Just the burn. Like the empty bottle in the bottom of my trash can.
He takes it and holds it in both hands like it’s something sacred.
We don’t speak for a while.
Then he says, “You look tired.”
I shrug. “I’m used to it after the night I had.”
“Sleeping?”
“No.”
“Did you sleep alone?”
”Yes.”
“Eating?”
“Not really.”
He takes a sip of his drink. “You need to stop pretending that this is normal.”
I brace my hands against the bar and stare at the wood grain.
“What if this is all I have left?” I ask. “And why do you care if I slept alone?”
“It’s not and I do care.”
“You don’t know that and why should you care?”
“Yes, I do.”
I meet his eyes. They’re steady. Clear. Annoyingly calm. “I used to think I was strong,” I say. “I used to think I could carry anything.”
“You still can.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m made of glass?”
“Because you’ve been dropped too many times.”
I let out a breath. It’s almost a laugh. “You think you’re clever.”
“I’m not walking away. Not this time.”
His words are soft, but they land hard. And for a second, I don’t know what to do with the feeling that someone is still here. That he came for me.
Still seeing me.
Still staying.
Back in high school I should have fought harder when he said he wasn’t ready. I shouldn’t have settled when he was my first choice.
Later, after closing, I find myself walking again.
Not far. Just around the block. The air is cold and clean. The sky is bruised with clouds. I wrap my arms around myself and try to feel something.
Anything.
Knox is outside when I circle back. Leaning against his car, a small blunt between his fingers, coat open to the wind.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me.
“I thought you left,” I say.
“I thought you might need someone to take you home.”
“I’m not a child.”
“Didn’t say you were. Let’s walk.”
We walk in silence. Side by side. Our feet fall into the same rhythm without trying. It feels like something from before. Before the betrayal. Before the pills. Before the lies.
He walks me all the way to my door. I don’t invite him up because isn’t the type you sleep with and forget in the morning.
And I know he won’t ask.
He just looks at me and says, “Try to eat something tomorrow.”
I nod. He turns to leave. But before he gets far, I say, “Knox?”
He stops.
I don’t know what I’m trying to say. So I settle for the only thing that feels true. “Thank you.”
He nods once.
Then he disappears down the street like smoke in the wind.
When I get inside, I drop my keys, kick off my shoes, and collapse onto the couch. I stare at the ceiling and count my breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
The tears still hurt and as much as I try to not let them fall, they come anyway.