25. Elle
Elle
It’s morning when I stir, waking to the subtle sound of Stan slipping out of bed. I’m drowsy and half-asleep, but I catch a blurred glimpse of him through heavy lashes as he shuffles silently toward the open bedroom door.
That doesn’t seem like something Stan would do so I’m about to call his name when he speaks first.
“I’m gonna go for a walk,” he says while tugging on his shoes. His voice is frayed, and he doesn’t look back at me. “Withdrawals are chewing through me like I pissed off karma herself. Figured I’d go be dramatic about it in the woods instead of here.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he throws me a crooked smile.
“Don’t wait up, Elle.” Stan’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be out of the woods and back here before you know it, babe.”
Then he’s gone. The front door clicks shut behind him. I stay still for a moment, unsure if I should follow. But then Sterling’s hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm, and in that instance, I feel the tension in my shoulders start to melt.
“He needs space,” Sterling says.
I nod, even though a part deep inside of me wants to chase Stan down and make him talk about it.
But Sterling is right here, so close, with his hands on me. I turn toward him. His eyes meet mine, and the morning light catches the silver-white strands in his hair. He’s so breathtaking, I can’t think of anything else but staying right here in his arms.
When I move closer to him, he welcomes me in an embrace without hesitation. I’m so relieved I could cry.
“You’re allowed to enjoy yourself,” he murmurs into my hair.
“Even with everything going on?”
“Especially with everything going on.”
We don’t need more words than that. We kiss slow, reclaiming time we never had. Sterling’s hands explore, cupping my jaw, and brushing my hip. He’s always careful with me and he never rushes. Every touch feels like a question and my answer is always yes.
The blanket he pulls over us isn’t for warmth. It’s to keep the rest of the world out. Time goes quiet. We drift to the urgent rhythm of our bodies. His hips roll into mine, deep and slow, drawing out a desperate sound from me I didn’t know I could make.
He gives me the same in return, sounds I’ve never heard from him before, raw and unguarded.
We kiss until my lips are swollen. We hold each other despite the sticky warmth between us. We laugh when our foreheads bump. The tension that usually lingers behind his eyes is no longer there.
Then when we go about the rest of our day—eating leftovers, drinking tea, stoking the fire together—we trade kisses often, and his hands become branded into my skin. But when the light drifts outside and the sun starts its descent, I sit up, alert to the absence in the cabin.
“Stan’s still not back,” I whisper.
Sterling’s foot taps while I’m on his lap. “I know.”
“He missed breakfast and lunch. He’s about to miss dinner.” I glance at the table. A third bowl sits untouched.
Sterling sighs, the sound deep and tired. “He wants space.”
“But I don’t want to give him too much.” I slide off, wrapping his flannel around me.
Sterling doesn’t move.
“I want to go check on him,” I say.
He rises, catching my wrist before I can turn away. “Let me.”
I shake my head. “I think he needs me right now.”
Sterling doesn’t argue, but I see the conflict in his eyes.
“He’s still going through withdrawals,” I say. “And he’s been on Kys for way longer than I was. You know how bad it gets.”
Sterling still doesn’t reply. But his knuckles go pale.
“He’s your brother. And he’s hurting, Sterling.”
A long silence stretches between us. I wait, letting it settle. Then finally, his voice cuts through, measured but worn. “It’s not just Kys. He’s punishing himself.”
“I figured.” I nod, my throat tightening. “But I want to go find him.”
Sterling’s head lifts, his gaze piercing. “No.”
“Sterling—”
“It’s almost dark.”
“I don’t mind.”
His mouth opens, then closes again. Fear or frustration—maybe both—flickers in his eyes. But when I hold his hand, he caresses the back of it.
“Please,” I whisper. “I need to know if he’s okay.”
He watches me for a long moment. I feel the weight of his hesitation. His gaze searches mine like he’s trying to read past what I’m saying, as if he’s trying to find something that will change my mind. But in the end, he sighs and gives a small nod.
I smile, squeezing his hand in mine, then pull away to grab a coat and a flashlight.
Before I reach the door, I hear his voice behind me. “Don’t go too far.”
“I won’t.” I lean in and kiss him. It’s a thank you, a promise, or a little bit of both.
Then I’m gone, stepping out into the cold. The air rushes around me, chilly and biting, as if the woods are warning me not to go too deep.
***
The woods are quieter than they should be. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking. My shoes crunch over leaves and twigs, the flashlight beam jittering every time I adjust my grip. The cold bites at my fingers, and I pull Sterling’s coat and flannel tighter around me.
I pause by a split tree, trying to catch my breath, trying not to imagine worst-case scenarios. He wouldn’t have gone far. He wouldn’t have left. Right…?
“Stan?” I call out.
My voice echoes and receives no answer.
I sigh, shining the flashlight’s beam through another patch of tangled brush. The chilly air stings my lungs as I walk forward, past a thorny branch that snags my sleeve. I almost trip on a sudden incline.
But then I hear a sound, sort of a sniffle some feet in front of me. So I slow my steps, moving more carefully, following the direction of the faint sound.
And then I see him. Sitting near the edge of a steep ravine, barely visible in the waning light. Stan sits hunched over, elbows on his knees, head down, arms dangling. He’s alone. Without a coat. Without light or warmth. It’s only him and the slope into the ravine right in front of him.
“Stan,” I say louder.
His head jerks up. The flashlight catches his face, and he flinches. When he sees it’s me, his eyes widen. And I see something in them I haven’t before. Regret, shame, maybe both.
“Elle?” His voice is rough. “Shit, what are you doing out here?”
I take a few cautious steps forward. His knuckles are scraped with cuts and dried blood. “I was looking for you.” I try to keep my voice even. “It’s late, Stan. You missed meals. You’re out here in the cold.”
“I didn’t mean to…” He trails off as if there’s something he wants to say but can’t get it past his throat. “Didn’t think I’d be gone this long.”
I sit beside him. “Are you okay?”
“Just needed air.” He breathes heavily through his nose.
“You scared us.”
“I scare myself, Elle.” He tries to smile, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes.
For a moment, we sit in silence. The ravine below yawns wide and dark. The quiet sinks into my bones but not in a good way. It’s an unsettling silence that I don’t associate with Stan. Something isn’t sitting right.
I glance his way, taking a better look at him. The circles under his eyes are darker than before. His lips are chapped from the cold. The older bruises and cuts are healing, but now he has new ones on his hands.
“You’re not okay,” I say softly.
“Didn’t think it’d hit me this hard,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t think I’d feel this off. Like my own skin doesn’t even fit me.”
“You’ve been strong for so long.”
“Yeah, well.” He gives a bitter laugh. “Turns out I’m only strong when I’m high.”
“No, you’re not,” I say fiercely, resting my hand on his arm. “You’re still you.”
He closes his eyes and leans into my touch. “Sterling’s gonna kill me.”
“Sterling’s worried,” I correct. “And so am I.”
He opens his eyes again, staring at me. He doesn’t cut the tension with a joke or his usual grin. And that worries me because it might mean he’s been hurting for longer than he let on.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be.” I squeeze his arm. “Just come back with me.”
He doesn’t answer right away. The flashlight beam shakes slightly in my hand, from this unsettling silence stretching long and taut between us.
Then Stan lifts his head slowly. His gray eyes catch the pale light, and for a second, I don’t recognize them.
They’re darker, glassier, almost hollow.
He looks the way I remember him when we were in that cold room.
All those mirrors. All those tears. All those thoughts that scare me.
I can’t face them, not when Sterling’s so far from me.
And it’s Stan giving me this haunted look, like he’s turning into that ghost again. I can’t let that happen.
“Elle,” he says as soon as my lips part. “I keep seeing you. Even when I close my eyes.”
My grip on the flashlight falters. “Stan…”
“You’re everywhere in my head,” he says. “The sunroom. The bed. The fucking creepy mirror room, where it smelled like bleach and blood and bitterness, but also you, like flowers blooming just for me.”
My heart stutters. My lips part again, but no words come.
“I see you there, and you’re looking at me like you don’t know me. And sometimes,” he hisses, “you look at me like you hate me.”
“Stan,” I whisper, even when the wind’s louder than my weary voice.
“I know it’s not real,” he mutters, almost to himself. “But it feels real. You’re there. You were there. I wake up, and I’m still sweating, hearing you cry, and I can’t remember if it’s a memory or a dream. If it was because I made you feel good or if it was because I hurt you.”
He slides closer, inches away from me now. I don’t move.
His voice drops to a whisper. “And I don’t know if I’m protecting you or ruining you.”
The flashlight trembles again. But I hold his gaze. “I don’t hate you,” I say, quiet but clear.
He freezes.
“I don’t,” I repeat. “Whatever we went through—whatever she made us do—I don’t hate you for it. How could I, Stan, when all we had during those moments were each other?”