Chapter 41 – Alise
Chapter Forty-One
Alise
The kettle clicks off, but I don’t move.
The steam curls upward in slow, ghostly ribbons before fading into nothing, the same way the air’s been leaving my lungs these last three weeks since I walked out of Beau’s hospital room.
Three weeks since I left him sitting there, pale and hurting, pretending like I wasn’t breaking us both.
Turning my back on him and walking out of that room was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Every cell in my body screamed to stay, to crawl into that narrow hospital bed and hold on until the world made sense again.
But I knew if I stayed, he’d keep shutting me out and pretending he didn’t need me.
And I couldn’t keep drowning in the space he wouldn’t let me cross.
Now, without him, it’s like someone pulled the plug on my life.
Everything still moves, but it’s duller.
I go to the rink, get groceries, and smile when I’m supposed to, but it all feels wrong.
It’s like I’m wearing my skin wrong, and nothing fits the way it used to.
I sleep too much and not enough; my body is exhausted, but my mind refuses to quiet.
I eat just enough to keep Momma from worrying too much.
And God, I miss him. I miss the sound of his voice when it softens just for me, the low, gravel-edged warmth that feels like a secret he doesn’t give to anyone else.
I miss the way he leans into my space without thinking, close enough that I can feel his body heat even when he’s not touching me.
The way he smells like cedar, soap, and something sharper that’s just him.
I miss the little huff of breath he lets out before he says something he’s not sure I’ll like.
The weight of his gaze when he’s really listening to me.
The way his laugh curls under my ribs and lodges there.
I even miss the way he argues, stubborn and relentless, because it meant he was letting me see every jagged edge instead of keeping them locked away.
Even if his words stung, I knew where I stood.
Now there’s just this… silence. A hollow space where his presence used to be, and no matter what I do, I can’t fill it.
The knock at the door cracks through the stillness, sharp and impatient, demanding an answer.
I freeze, holding my breath as if I can will it away.
It doesn’t, and the second round is louder, harder, and I know whoever it is isn’t leaving.
I drag myself to the door, each step heavier than it should be.
When I open it, Ramona’s standing there in her deep green coat, dreads spilling over her shoulder, and eyes narrowed like she’s been saving this look just for me.
“About damn time,” she says, brushing past me without waiting for an invitation.
“Hi to you, too.”
“You’ve been screening my calls.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy avoiding me,” she corrects, her tone softening as she crosses the room to where Momma is folding laundry at the kitchen table. She leans in for a hug, her expression warming just enough to be real. “Hi, Auntie.”
“Ramona, baby!” Momma beams, squeezing her tight. “Are you here to rescue my daughter from herself?”
The word rescue lands in my chest with a thud. If only it were that simple for someone to just throw me a rope and pull me out of this.
“Trying,” Ramona says, her gaze flicking back to me, equal parts affection and challenge.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, already bracing.
They snort in unison, the sound so practiced it almost makes me smile.
“Fine, my foot. You’re pale, your hair’s a mess, and that sweater looks like it’s been through the Great Depression.”
She’s not wrong. I’ve showered… just not often.
I’ve done the bare minimum, just enough to keep from feeling grimy, but not enough to scrub away the heaviness that clings to me like a second skin.
The thing is, I always put on clean underwear, fresh leggings, maybe even a T-shirt from the drawer.
But this sweatshirt always goes back on.
It’s too big, the cuffs stretched, and the fabric is soft from years of wear.
But it smells like him. Every time I pull it over my head, I breathe in, pretending he’s behind me, arms wrapped around my waist. I know the scent will be gone soon, molecules drifting off into nothing, but I can’t risk washing it.
If it’s the last trace of him I get to keep, I’ll take it.
“Yeah, Alise.” Ramona’s smirk is sharp enough to cut, like she sees every unspoken thing I’m clinging to. “If you were any more of a hermit, I’d expect you to yell at squirrels from the porch.”
“You two done?” I try to laugh, but it comes out brittle, a sound that feels like it belongs to someone else.
“Not even close,” Ramona says, swinging her bag off her shoulder and letting it drop onto the chair beside her. She doesn’t take her eyes off me, like she’s afraid that if she blinks, I’ll vanish back into the shadows I’ve been living in.
The air between us feels tight, humming with all the things she’s not saying.
I hate that part of me wants her to push and force me out of this half-life in which I’ve been trapped, while another part wants to stay here, wrapped in this sweatshirt, replaying every second of the last time Beau looked at me like I mattered.
If I let myself move forward, I’m terrified it’ll be moving away from him.
“I was going to wait,” Ramona says, her voice softer but still laced with something that makes my stomach twist. “I wanted to find the perfect time to give you this.”
“Give me what?” I frown, already feeling the shift in the air between us.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out an envelope. The edges are worn and slightly bent, like it’s been thumbed over a hundred times. My breath catches before she even says it.
“It’s from Beau.”
The world tilts like my body knows what this means before my mind can catch up. My pulse slams against my ribs, and my throat tightens so hard it’s almost impossible to swallow.
“Ramona—”
“I’ve been holding on to it for days,” she says, stepping closer, eyes locked on mine. “I wanted to give it to you when I knew you’d read it. You’ve been… stuck, and so has he.”
The envelope in Ramona’s hand might as well be ticking.
I stare at it like it could go off at any second, like opening it might blow apart whatever fragile pieces of me are still holding together.
Beau’s name isn’t even on the outside, but I can feel him in it.
In the way the paper’s worn soft at the edges, like someone’s thumb has run over the same spot again and again.
In the faint bend in the corner, like he shoved it into a pocket and carried it around before deciding to let it go.
I want to grab it and tear it open so I can drink in every word.
I want to hear his voice in my head again, even if it’s just ink on paper.
God, I’ve missed him so much it’s turned into something physical, a constant ache low in my chest that makes it hard to breathe.
My fingers twitch like they’re ready to reach for it, but I curl them into my palms instead.
“You gonna take it, or should I read it to you out loud?”
Ramona’s words are gentle, but they still land heavy, pushing up against every defense I’ve been trying to keep in place.
I can’t look at her for long, so my gaze shifts to Momma.
She studies me for a beat—not just looking, but seeing right through me—before speaking in that voice she uses when she wants to cut straight to the truth.
“Baby, sometimes you’ve got to face the thing you’re scared of most if you ever want to feel better again.”
The envelope feels impossibly heavy when Ramona presses it into my hand.
The paper is still warm from her touch, but my skin tingles like I’m holding something alive.
For a second, I think I might drop it. If I open it and the words inside are an ending, then it’s over.
Not just the ache of missing him, but the fragile, stupid hope I’ve been nursing like a secret.
The what-ifs have been chewing me alive for weeks.
I’ve been clinging to the last sound of his voice, the last look in his eyes, because at least then I could pretend he still wanted me there and that he was still mine.
My fingers are already working at the flap before I can stop them. The sound of paper tearing feels too loud, too final. This is it. The moment I either get him back… or lose him for good.
The letter slides free, the paper soft and slightly creased, like it’s been folded and unfolded a dozen times. My hands tremble as I open it, the black slant of his handwriting spilling across the page like he couldn’t slow down once he started.
Alise,
I don’t know where to start.
The breath I didn’t realize I was holding punches out of me so hard I rock forward, my knees almost giving out.
My chest tightens so fast it’s almost a cramp, heat searing up my throat.
God, I can hear his voice—low, rough, and a little uncertain—like he’s saying the words out loud as he writes.
My fingers tremble against the paper, the edges cutting into my skin like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered.
I’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks, and everything sounds wrong. But here’s the only thing that matters: I didn’t tell you because I thought it would scare you away,
My vision blurs instantly, hot pressure building behind my eyes until I swear something’s going to crack.
But losing you hurt worse.
The raw, ugly sound that rips out of me is something between a sob and a gasp that makes both Ramona and Momma freeze. I clutch the paper tighter, knuckles aching, terrified that if I loosen my grip for even a second, it’ll dissolve into nothing, and I’ll lose him all over again.
I won’t dress it up or pretend I handled it well. I didn’t. I was a coward. I let my fear decide for me, and I hate myself for it.