Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I wake to the unmistakable reminder of yesterday lodged in every muscle in my body.
The aftermath of last night, a dull ache stretching from my shoulders all the way down to my calves.
I pry one eye open and instantly regret it, a groan leaving me as stiffness flares, my body protesting the movement.
Early morning light slips through the bedroom windows washing everything, including the rumpled sheets and tangled blankets around us, in a honey gold that feels far too cheerful for the state I am in.
I cry out as I roll onto my back.
Every inch of me feels like a truck used me as a speed bump more than once.
Which, considering all the events that took place on top of running through rain-soaked woods, wrestling Tyler in the mud, and staying awake until nearly sunrise, isn’t entirely inaccurate.
A smile pulls at my lips. Instead of giving into it, I turn my head.
Next to me, Tyler is still asleep.
That alone is enough to make me pause.
His arm is draped over my waist, his face buried into the pillow. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and he’s snoring peacefully. It’s a rare sight.
For a moment, I simply regard him. His face is unusually serene; stripped of the stress and worry he carries, not at all burdened.
Normally he’s awake before me. He can’t sit still so he’s always working and planning.
Last night replays behind my eyes in fractured pieces, rain soaking through my clothes, mud splashing up our legs, his laughter wrapping around me like a lifeline in the dark.
But more than anything, I remember the way he kept reaching for me with every touch, he needed the reassurance that I was still there just as much as I needed him.
The contrast hits me so hard it almost hurts.
Two years ago, I wouldn’t have believed a life like this was possible.
Back then, survival was all I knew. Every day was about making it to the next one no matter how many pieces of myself I had left behind from the day before.
Trust felt dangerous. Hope felt reckless.
The idea of letting someone close enough to see the worst parts of me, the scars, the nightmares, the rage I carry everywhere I go, felt impossible.
I couldn’t imagine the feeling of safety.
To be able to fall asleep without one eye open again didn’t seem fathomable.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think one day I would be waking up next to someone who knew exactly what I had survived and has never once looked away.
Someone who saw every imperfect piece of me and chose to love me anyway.
He knows there are parts of me that will never be the same. Parts that were stolen that he will never get to see. He knows I still carry ghosts. He knows some wounds don’t heal just because time passes.
And somehow, his devotion to me has never wavered.
He doesn’t love me despite those things. He loves me knowing they’re there. He loves me on the days when I’m strong and on the days when I’m barely holding myself together.
He loves all of me. Not the version I wish I was. The version standing here now.
Maybe that is what a home is supposed to be. Not a place you return to, but a person who makes you feel like you’ve finally arrived.
My home is Tyler.
I reach for him before I can talk myself out of it. The pads of my fingers graze his cheek, and he unconsciously tilts his head, chasing the touch.
I commit the moment to memory before removing my hand as the corner of my mouth lifts despite myself.
Careful not to wake Tyler, I ease out of bed and pad over to the door. Cool wood floors greet my feet as I move through the darkened house to the kitchen.
I turn the Nespresso machine on while I stand at the kitchen island and look outside. The sky is a brilliant shade of blue, so clear and bright, as if last night’s storm never happened at all.
I grab my cup and take a sip and glance toward the clock. My stomach sinks when I see the date. Wednesday.
For two years, without fail, the ritual has remained the same. No excuses. No missed days. Every Wednesday.
An hour later, I’m pulling into a parking lot I could probably find with my eyes closed. The building comes into view, forgettable. Small. Plain. Functional. Nothing about it stands out, yet I would know it anywhere.
Most people probably drive past it without giving it a second thought. To them, it’s just another building tucked between dozens of others.
I know every crack running through the pavement. Every tree planted along the sidewalk. Every security camera mounted above the entrances. I’ve memorized the layout of the parking lot and the way the morning light reflects off the windows.
I’ve been here too many times not to.
The engine of the car is still on as I stare at the building through the windshield. My coffee has long since cooled in the cup holder.
Every Wednesday.
I force myself to turn off the car and get out and start toward the entrance. My stomach churns a little more with every step. The automatic doors slide open, and the sterile scent of disinfectant hits me right away.
The morgue hasn’t changed.
Neither has the reason I keep coming back.
The moment I step inside, frigid air washes over me.
The receptionist glances up from her reading glasses from behind her desk.
Her face lights up when she sees me, full of recognition.
“Good morning, Cassidy.”
“Good morning, Helen. Is he in the cold room?”
Her smile softens, “Yes dear, I’m not sure if he knows there are other rooms in the building.”
Her smile is gentle, tinged with pity. It’s the same expression everyone here wears when they look at me. They remember who I was two years ago, grief-stricken, desperate and falling apart at the seams.
I peer down the hallway and shake my head.
“Some habits are harder to break than others.”
I understand better than most. If you give something enough years of your life, it stops becoming a routine. It becomes an obsession.
I head to the back of the building, past administrative offices, storage rooms, and doors I’ve pushed through more times than I can count. The hallway feels strangely familiar now. Safe. A place suspended outside of time. Nothing ever changes here, waiting for me each Wednesday when I return.
The sound of footsteps echoes ahead, and a voice I’ve come to know calls out.
“You’re seven minutes late.”
The sight of him coaxes a genuine smile from me.
“Good morning to you too.”
Mr. Higgs appears around the corner carrying a clipboard in one hand and a coffee mug in the other.
His silver hair is somewhat disheveled.
Reading glasses rest on the end of his nose.
Time seems to leave him untouched. He looks exactly as he did the first Wednesday I met him two years ago.
“Seven minutes,” he repeats.
“I know.”
“You’ve become unreliable.”
I laugh.
“You saw me six days ago.”
“Ancient history.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“Occupational hazard.”
The corners of his mouth twitch.
Mr. Higgs rarely smiles openly.
When he does, it feels earned.
“Coffee?” he asks.
“Please.”
“Already made one.”
“Of course you did.”
He leads me in the direction of his office.
The office looks frozen in time. Towers of textbooks lean precariously across his desk, anatomy charts decorate the walls, and medical journals are layered in neat disarray.
The same battered coffee mugs sit precisely where they’ve always been, looking like they’ve survived several decades longer than they should have.
I claim my usual seat. Not that I ever intended to, but Mr. Higgs insists it’s my chair.
He sets a steaming mug in front of me.
“How’s the shoulder?”
I blink.
“Excuse me?”
“The left one.”
I study him for a moment, another constant in a place full of them.
He raises an eyebrow.
“You’re favoring it.”
I roll my shoulder experimentally and wince. Apparently, I’m not hiding it as well as I thought.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Observation skills.”
“Still creepy.”
Mr. Higgs chuckles.
Then sits across from me.
For a moment neither of us speaks. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable and never has been.
We’ve spent hundreds of hours together at this point.
What started as awkward conversations evolved into friendship somewhere along the way.
A friendship neither of us really talks about, it just exists.
Like the Wednesday visits, the coffee he always has ready, and the anatomy books that somehow keep finding their way into my hands, it’s become another constant.
“You finish the one on musculoskeletal injuries?” he asks.
I nod as I drink my coffee.
“Last week.”
“And?”
“The human body is disturbingly fragile.”
“Yet remarkably resilient.”
“That depends on who’s trying to break it.”
That draws another small smile.
I take another sip of coffee as I cross my legs.
“Actually, I had a question.”
“Only one?”
“I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
“How considerate.”
I reach for one of the anatomy books stacked nearby. The pages are crowded with notes and highlighted passages, many of the scribbled annotations in my own handwriting. Flipping to a diagram, I tap the page and hold the book up for him to see.
“What exactly makes tendons different from ligaments?”
Mr. Higgs perks up at the sight of the diagram. I swear the man enjoys teaching more than anything else.
For the next twenty minutes, the conversation falls into an easy rhythm. He explains. I ask questions. He answers them. Then I ask more.
Every answer seems to lead to another question, and Mr. Higgs never appears to mind. If anything, he looks pleased by it, launching into explanations with the same enthusiasm he had the first time he handed me one of his anatomy textbooks.
Somewhere along the way, the morgue stopped being the only reason I came here.
Because understanding the human body fascinates me.
Maybe because I spent so much time feeling trapped in my own body.
Maybe because knowledge feels powerful in a world where so much is beyond my control.
Or maybe because two years ago, while I sat in this building waiting for news about my missing friends, anatomy gave me something else to focus on besides the possibility that I would never see them again.