53. Chapter 53
A month is a long time to consider everything that’s fucked up about your life.
It also allows for habits to calcify and routines to settle back into place. And it’s certainly long enough for people to stop asking if you’re okay and start assuming you are.
If anyone didn’t believe my lie about where I have been, they haven’t questioned it.
Not that anyone particularly cares. The police have more shit to worry about than an adult woman who decides to go on vacation without telling anyone.
Sure, they weren’t happy resources were allocated, but no one really pressed.
Alex hasn’t called.
He hasn’t even showed up to haunt my door or inbox. He just disappeared on me. And I don’t know why that fucking hurts, but it kind of does. Some part of me thought he would show up and ask me to stay. Maybe beg just a little.
I clearly read that wrong, so I tell myself it’s a blessing. That this space and distance is exactly what I wanted. A return to the normal. I even lie to myself and think that if he were still here I’d be losing my mind.
So, I do what every sane adult does. I lose it quietly.
I go back to work and pick up extra shifts after kissing my boss’ ass to high heaven so that he continues to allow me to work. I even smile at customers and sing when they ask. Pretend that nothing inside of me fractured and rewired itself somewhere between the cabin in the woods and the cathedral.
And at night, I paint.
I paint until my hands ache and my eyes burn. I paint fire and shadow and movement and things that never quite take shape. I paint houses that aren’t mine and faces without eyes and forests that feel like they’re watching me back.
Nothing I do quiets my head.
Imogen watches me like she’s waiting for me to lose it and end up on an episode of Snapped. To be honest, I’m not sure she’s wrong in doing so.
She doesn’t say much anymore about Alex, but she does check in and bring me coffee. Comes to the edge of my bus steps some nights and talks about nothing in particular, like she’s afraid if she digs too deep I’ll break apart.
I don’t tell her that I haven’t slept worth a shit and that sometimes I wake up reaching for someone who isn’t there. I also make a point to not let her see that I still wear my stupid fucking bracelet.
It stays on my wrist like this awful brand I can’t get away from.
Tonight the bar is loud and packed in that sticky, late-summer way where bodies press too close and everyone smells like sweat and cheap liquor. I’m three hours into my shift, sliding drinks and taking orders when I’m supposed to. It’s easy muscle memory and survival.
And something about that aches in a way I can’t stand.
So, I do something entirely stupid when a man I’ve worked around for years closes in.
Evan works security sometimes and helps toss out drunks when things get ugly. He’s handsome with an easy smile, harmless in a way that used to feel comforting.
“You ever gonna let me buy you a drink?”
I snort. “I work here.”
“After then,” he amends. “When you’re done pretending you don’t notice me.”
I open my mouth to deflect and maybe make a joke, but then something in me—something tired and deeply fed up— just gives.
“Sure. Why not?” I hear myself say.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, but only one drink.” I repeat.
The word ‘one’ feels important.
We end up sitting at the end of the bar after closing, the place half-dark and echoing now that the crowd’s gone. Evan talks about work and about nothing much at all. He’s polite and attentive, and he doesn’t push.
And all the while I watch him, I feel nothing.
No pull that I can’t find a way out of and the heat isn’t there either.
Just this bone deep absence that I need to go away.
When he walks me to my bus, he hesitates at the step, hands awkwardly shoved down into his pockets.
“Want company?” He asks, bravely.
I should definitely say no to that.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Inside the bus, everything isn’t right with him here. My paintings line the walls, silent witnesses to things I haven’t processed. Evan looks around, seemingly impressed. I’m not real sure because I don’t know him well enough to read into him.
“Did you do this?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s intense,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t know whether to compliment it or not.
I shrug and grab two beers from the fridge, needing alcohol for whatever the fuck comes next. So we sit and talk more, laugh a little. He even reaches for my hand and the contact is gentle and warm.
But it’s fucking wrong.
My body reacts anyway, muscle memory kicking in as nerves fire out of habit rather than want. He leans closer, searching my face, giving me every opportunity to pull away.
Like the selfish bitch I am, I don’t. I let him kiss me and tell myself it is fine.
There’s no jolt or thrill. No sense of being seen as his mouth is careful and polite against my own. Nothing like the way Alex kisses me.
I stiffen and Evan notices immediately, pulling back. “Hey. We don’t have to—”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I just—give me a second.”
He nods, giving me my space, and my brain betrays me. I think of the cabin and of the voice that never asked for permission but always waited for truth. Of hands that knew exactly where to touch because they paid attention.
I think of love.
Panic bursts to the surface fast and hot.
“I can’t,” I blurt, stepping away. “I’m sorry. I thought I could, but I can’t.”
He gives me a sad smile. “That’s usually how it goes.”
He leaves without making it weird or pushing for explanations. The door closes behind him, and the silence rushes right back in. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, pulling my knees straight to my chest. Trying to hold myself together by sheer force.
“You idiot,” I whisper to myself and the dark that doesn’t bother caring.