Chapter 6 Hands #3
But all I can picture is sitting on the couch, her head on my shoulder, and how it wouldn’t feel right, not even a little.
I lie. “I’m wiped. I should get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a double.”
She nods, not angry, just tired. “Okay. But maybe next week, yeah?”
“Yeah. Next week.”
We pay the bill. She doesn’t try to hug me, just gives my arm a squeeze and heads for the door.
I watch her go, the click of her heels a Morse code of everything we didn’t say.
I step outside, breathe in the city air, wet concrete, ozone, the sour tang of spilled beer from a bar down the block, and for a minute I just stand there, letting the night press against my skin.
I dig my phone from my pocket and type a message to Ash, “You up?”
It’s 9:30, and he replies before I can even lock the screen, “Always. You need something?”
I stare at the message for a long time, thumbs hovering.
Finally, I type, “Meet you at the track tomorrow?”
His reply comes in a heartbeat. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
I walk to the train, hands shoved deep in my pockets, and tell myself that tomorrow I’ll be better, that tomorrow I’ll make sense of this mess.
But right now, all I want is to see him, to see if the dream is better than the memory.
I stand on the platform, watch the lights blur past, and wonder if anyone else in this city is as broken as me.
But I don’t really care.
I just want to run until I can’t remember why I started.
———
At night, the city sounds different.
Less about traffic and construction, more about the weird, feral shit that happens when people think nobody is listening, dogs barking into the void, glass breaking a few blocks over, some lost tourist singing too loud in the alley.
My apartment is on the fourth floor, but I hear all of it, the walls thin enough that I can track every footstep, every elevator whine, every neighbor’s Netflix binge through the Sheetrock.
I’m flat on my back in bed, sheets twisted up around my knees, heart punching in my chest like I just finished a sprint.
Next to me, Nia is a soft rise and fall under the blanket, face half-buried in the pillow, one arm thrown over her head in a way that makes her look childlike and angry at the same time.
She’s out cold, mouth open just enough to catch a snore if the angle is right. I watch her, wait for the rhythm to change, but it never does. She’s a pro at this, the sleeping, the surrender.
I, on the other hand, have not slept in three days.
It’s not the nightmares, not really. I can handle those.
It’s the new thing, the hunger. It’s the way my skin lights up at the stupidest, smallest things, a glimpse of collarbone at the gym, a flexed tendon in Ash’s forearm, the way his voice drops half an octave when he’s tired.
Today, at the end of our workout, he dropped into a bent-over row, back tight and shirt riding up, and for one split second his shoulder blades grazed my chest.
It was nothing, an accident, but the shock of it was so strong I thought I’d been punched.
I spent the rest of the session with my hoodie zipped to my chin, waiting for the blood to go back where it belonged.
Now, alone in the dark, I replay it on a loop, over and over, until the edges start to blur and the memory gets sticky and hot.
I tell myself I’m just wound up, that it’s normal to get a little keyed when you’re stuck in a feedback loop of violence and endorphins, but it’s a lie. I know it’s a lie.
I slide a hand under the waistband of my boxers and hate myself for it.
The sheets are damp from sweat, my own and Nia’s, and every time I move, her leg shifts, her ankle brushes mine, and the guilt spikes so hard I almost choke.
But I keep going, slow, careful, like I’m afraid to get caught even though I know she won’t wake.
The digital clock on the nightstand says 2:17. The colon blinks on and off, a little metronome of shame.
I press my fist to my mouth and try to breathe through my nose, slow and quiet.
I think about Ash’s hands, the way they tremble after a hard set, the crescent moons of grime under his nails, the little constellation of scars that climb up his wrist.
I think about the last time he smiled, really smiled, and how it made me want to grab him by the face and just…
I bite down on the knuckles, hard. The taste of skin and salt fills my mouth.
Next to me, Nia shifts, rolls over, tucks her knees up.
Her hair spills across my chest, and for a second I want to reach out, run my fingers through it, pretend I can be the man she needs.
But her perfume, lavender and ambition, makes my head swim, and all I can think about is the way Ash always smells like chlorine and dollar-store body wash, a chemical purity that’s almost obscene.
I finish with a sharp, silent gasp, biting back a noise I didn’t know I was capable of.
The release leaves me hollow, embarrassed, but also lighter, like I just shed a layer of skin I didn’t need.
I stare at the ceiling, trace the crack that runs from the light fixture to the wall, the way it splits near the end like the blade of a hockey stick. I wonder how long it’s been there.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to look at anything without finding Ash in the negative space.
I wipe my hand on the sheet, shift onto my side, and close my eyes.
I try to slow my heart, to count backwards from a hundred, but the numbers just dissolve into a soup of static. I hear Nia’s breathing, steady and even, and it makes me want to scream.
At exactly 3:04, my phone buzzes. It’s on silent, but I feel the vibration in my teeth. I check the screen. It’s Ash.
He’s sent a single emoji, the thumbs up.
No words, no context, just the world’s dumbest fucking symbol, but it makes me laugh, sharp and real.
I open the message, stare at it for a full minute, and then, without thinking, I screenshot it.
The act feels dangerous, illicit, like stealing a page from someone else’s diary.
I should delete it. I know I should. But instead, I pull up the photo, zoom in on the blue thumb, and let myself smile.
Next to me, Nia sighs, stretches, pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. I touch her arm, soft, and for a second she grunts, but doesn’t wake.
I watch her sleep, feel the guilt snake back up my spine, and wonder if this is how it always starts—one bad thought, one mistake, and suddenly you’re someone else entirely.
I roll onto my back, phone balanced on my chest, and stare into the dark.
“What is happening to me?” I whisper.
The room doesn’t answer.
I wait for the sun.