Chapter 66
Ethan
I do not remember how long I sat on the bathroom floor after she was gone. Time had lost its shape. The light hummed overhead. My knuckles throbbed where skin had split, blood smearing faintly against the white porcelain of the sink.
I stared at my hands like they belonged to someone else.
They were the same hands that had held Claire that morning. The same hands that had promised her a future that I had just destroyed.
The shame was a living animal. It pressed down on me until even breathing felt painful.
I washed my face. The water was cold. It did nothing.
I looked at myself in the mirror and did not recognize the man staring back. His eyes were bloodshot. His mouth slack with disgust, shoulders sagging.
This was who everyone had warned her about.
This was who she had loved anyway.
I dressed slowly.
Ashley had already left by the time I came back into the living room. I did not know where she went. I did not want to know.
The food bag sat untouched on the counter. Grease had soaked through the bottom, leaving a dark stain like rot spreading outward.
I threw it away without opening it.
The apartment felt wrong now. Polluted. Every surface carried memory.
I could not stay there another second.
I grabbed a duffel bag and began to pack without thought. Clothes. Shoes. Anything my hands landed on. I was evacuating the crime scene.
My phone buzzed once on the counter.
Sophie’s name lit up the screen.
I did not answer.
I could not hear her voice, even in background. I could not risk it. If I did, I would crumble. I would beg her to stay. I would ask her to forgive something unforgivable.
I did not deserve the chance to explain myself.
I turned the phone off.
The drive out of town blurred. Streetlights smeared into streaks of yellow and white. Familiar roads felt hostile now, like they were pushing me away.
I thought about my parents. My brother. The wedding that wasn’t going to happen. And the one person I couldn’t call anymore.
I thought about the way Claire had looked at me when she realized what she was seeing.
That look stayed.
I pulled over at some point and sat with my forehead against the steering wheel, my breath fogging the glass. The silence roared in my ears.
I repeated to myself. I was doing the right thing.
That leaving would make it easier for her. That she would not have to make a decision. That she would not have to choose between loving me and protecting herself.
I told myself that distance was a kindness.
I did not want to face the other truth.
That I was running because I could not stand to be apart from her.
Because if I stayed, I would have to watch her rebuild herself without me. I would have to live with the consequences of my actions every day, in every shared space, under the eyes of a town that had always known exactly who I was.
I was not strong enough for that.
So, I did the only thing I could.
I drove until the sky began to lighten, until the night gave way to a pale, exhausted dawn. I stopped at a motel off the highway and slept for a few hours fully clothed, my dreams fractured and restless.
When I woke, the weight was still there.
It never lifted.
I sent messages to my family instead of calling. I kept my words brief. Apologetic. Vague.
I told them I had messed up. I did not tell them what I had done.
I could not bear to put it into words yet. Naming it would make it real in a way I was not ready to face.
I let them fill in the blanks.
I told myself Claire would heal faster without me. That she would find someone kinder. Better.
I told myself she would eventually be grateful that I had removed myself from her life.
The truth was simpler and uglier.
I hated myself too much to stay.
And so, I carried the story like a closed fist for years, refusing to open it
Until now.
Until I understood that running had not spared her anything.
It had only delayed the truth.