Chapter 25 #2
The angry buzz near my ear jolted me upright, my hand slashing through empty air as I fought an imaginary insect.
Harsh morning light assaulted my eyes through blinds I'd forgotten to close.
My mouth tasted like stale beer and regret, tongue stuck to the roof like sandpaper.
Empty bottles stood sentinel on the coffee table, casualties of last night's breakdown.
The buzzing continued—not a bee, but my phone vibrating against the hardwood floor where it must have fallen.
I fumbled for it, squinting at the screen through sleep-crusted eyes: six missed calls from John, his concerned face flashing on my screen for the seventh time now.
My phone vibrated again. A text this time—John.
You alive? Since your ass didn’t answer my calls, I’m expecting a text back. Send proof of life or I’m showing up with a boom box and standing outside to serenade your ass.
Me: Fuck. Fell asleep. Don’t do that. You don’t want to give me evidence to send around the department.
John: Well fuck. Look who’s alive. How you doing today, asshole?
I thought about the night last night. The feeling of missing Lucas’s birthday. Of missing all three of the most important people who’d come into my life in a long time. The constriction in my chest that was quickly taking over again.
I typed back: Not good.
John: You want company?
I almost said no. Almost kept it all to myself—drown in sorrow alone. But I had to start somewhere.
Me: Yeah—but tomorrow. I’m covering for Macky today and need to get ready—pulling a double.
John: Okay. I’m off today. I’ll come over tomorrow for the game.
Monday night John showed up with a six-pack and a pizza I didn't ask for. He took one look at my face and didn't say a word. Just walked past me, set the food on the coffee table, and dropped onto the couch.
We sat in silence for a while. The basketball game droned on. I picked at the label on my beer bottle, shredding it into tiny pieces.
Finally, John spoke. "It was his birthday the other day."
"I know."
"You didn't go."
"No. That would make his party about me. Wouldn’t be fair to him or Maliyah."
He nodded slowly, like he was working something out. "You going to keep doing this? Torturing yourself?"
"No. I don’t want to keep doing this. But—I don't know where to start."
"Look, man." John leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I'm not going to sit here and tell you it's going to be easy. You fucked up. You hurt people who didn't deserve it. That's on you."
"I know."
"But you're not dead. And neither is what you had with them." He grabbed a slice of pizza, took a bite, talked around it. "But, you’ve got me. You’ve got people. So, let’s fucking figure this shit out."
I stared at the TV without seeing it. "What if I can't? What if it's already too late?"
"The answer will always be no if you don’t ask the question. Every. Single. Time. And at least if you do something, you’ll have tried—even if you fail." He shrugged.
The words settled over me like a weight. He was right. He'd been right at the diner, and he was right now. Doing nothing was still a choice—and it was the coward's choice.
"I don't even know where to start," I admitted.
"I know you don’t." John finished his slice, wiped his hands on his jeans. "But, like I said, we’ll figure it out. Not tonight. Tonight, you eat some pizza, drink some beer, and stop being such a miserable bastard. Tomorrow is soon enough to start figuring shit out."
I almost smiled. Almost. "That your professional advice?"
"That's my 'I'm smarter than you' advice." He shoved the pizza box toward me. "Eat. You look like hell."
I grabbed a slice. It tasted like cardboard, but I forced myself to chew. To swallow. To do something other than fall apart.
John stayed until ten. We didn't talk much—just watched the game, drank beer, existed in the same space.
After he left, I sat with my phone in my hand.
Maliyah's contact open on the screen—again. It’s become a ritual, just staring at our conversation history.
What would I even say?
I typed: I was wrong.
Deleted it. Tried: I miss you.
Deleted that too. Tried: Can we talk?
I’ve done this before—when I broke it off with her. My thumb hovered over the send button, feeling the memory settle in and the punch to my gut right along with it.
She’d have every right to say no. She’d probably already moved on, realized she was better off without me. What if I'd burned that bridge so thoroughly there was nothing left but ash?
I set the phone on the coffee table. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. I picked up the phone again.
I know I don't deserve another chance. But I need you to know I was wrong. About everything.
Deleted it. I've been miserable without you. Without Lucas and Zoe. I know I did this to myself, but—
Deleted that too.
Nothing I wrote sounded right. Everything felt either too much or not enough. Too desperate or too casual. An excuse or an apology that would never be sufficient for what I'd done.
I opened a new message.
I’m sorry. Can we talk? I know I don’t deserve it, but I’ve been working through some things and I really hope you see this and say yes.
Simple. Direct. Left the ball in her court. My thumb hovered over send.
Tomorrow. I'd send it tomorrow. Give myself tonight to be sure, to prepare for whatever her response might be. One more night to work up the courage I should have had weeks ago. Tomorrow I'd stop being a coward. Tomorrow I'd fight for what I'd thrown away. Even though I know I don't deserve them.
I set the phone on the nightstand, Maliyah's contact still open, that long fucking message sitting unsent in the text field. I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. Just her face. The kids' laughter. The joy I felt when I was with them—with her.
I reached for the phone again. Stared at the words. Tomorrow was a coward's answer. Tomorrow was what I'd been doing for weeks—waiting for the perfect moment that would never come.
My thumb hovered over send. Then pressed down. The message disappeared from the text field. Delivered. I set the phone face-down on the nightstand and closed my eyes, my heart hammering against my ribs. No taking it back now.