Chapter 15 Lies That Live Here #2
He even had Taylor run a license check on her; a desperate, last-ditch effort he’d once thought beneath him.
His heart had hammered against his ribs when they retrieved her address, a surge of elation so potent it almost brought him to his knees.
Hope, sharp and exhilarating, had pierced through the numbness.
He immediately dispatched a trusted colleague to her apartment building.
The call back had been swift, crushing. Vacant.
She had moved. His hope evaporated, leaving behind a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth.
How hard could it be to find a registered nurse in Florida?
He roared at the empty office walls, the question mocking him with its impossible simplicity.
Kim was around a lot these days as well.
A pervasive scent of expensive perfume and false concern.
She was "helping his mother settle her affairs for retirement," her presence a constant, veiled threat that made Kayden’s skin crawl. He didn’t trust her.
Not an inch, and he never would. Some things you leave behind for good, some toxic residue you cleanse from your life, and Kim, with her history and her calculating eyes, was one of them.
He felt her subtle probes, her attempts to insert herself into the void Lana had left, and he bristled, his every instinct screaming caution.
On the other hand, the contracting crew had finally broken through the icy ground at Aunt Mae’s diner, the harsh sounds of machinery a jarring but welcome disruption.
The work had officially begun, a tangible start amidst his personal turmoil.
It would take a few weeks for the complete takeover to be legal, but he was starting off strong, making progress, and it was the only bright area of his life at the moment, a small, cold comfort in the surrounding darkness.
But even with the distractions, Kayden couldn’t escape Lana’s face.
Her perfect, beautiful, smiling face. It was burned behind his eyelids, haunting his waking hours and invading his dreams. He was truly more worried about her than anything now, a searing, visceral fear that eclipsed even his own heartbreak.
Did she make it home OK? How was she? Why did she leave me?
The questions were a relentless drumbeat in his skull, chasing away sleep and silencing reason.
He sat hunched over his drawing table, surrounded by the blueprints for their house on the hill; the house they were supposed to build, the home they would share.
His fingers traced the lines of the master bedroom, the spacious kitchen where he imagined her laughing, the garden where they would sit.
Each detail was a fresh stab of pain, a reminder of their future snatched away.
He daydreamed, not just about her face, but about her hands in his, her head on his shoulder, the easy rhythm of their life.
He wouldn't give up on her, not now. Probably not ever.
The blueprints, now stained with a single, traitorous tear, were no longer just plans; they were a promise. His promise to find her.
ONE WEEK. SEVEN days. A hundred and sixty-eight hours since she’d ripped herself away, and Lana lay curled in the suffocating darkness of her new bedroom, where she had spent the majority of that time.
The townhouse, a bland, unfamiliar space meant to signify a fresh start, mocked her with its emptiness.
Unpacked boxes, silent sarcophagi of her old life, stood stacked in corners, mute witnesses to her self-inflicted exile.
The duffel bag from Hamby, a relic of the aborted vacation that had started this entire, devastating chapter, still lay discarded on the floor where she’d dropped it, its zipper a stark line across its crumpled canvas.
Her old apartment lease had conveniently run up, a cruel twist of fate that had allowed her to escape without further questions.
It had been a fast transition, a dizzying blur of phone calls and signed papers.
The townhouse was only a few miles from her former building, making the move "easy-peasy" when you hired the help.
She had clung to the hope that the physical change, the blank slate of new walls, would help her.
But it didn't. Not an inch. Each morning she woke, a leaden weight settled in her chest, the same dread, the same aching void she felt every morning she woke away from Kayden.
The air in the new place was sterile, lacking the lingering scent of his skin, the faint echo of his laughter, the very things that now felt like a missing piece of her own soul.
Her cellphone had long since died, a dark, inert rectangle on her nightstand, and she purposefully hadn’t charged it.
It was a self-imposed amputation, a necessary barrier against the relentless assault of his love, his confusion, his pain.
She couldn’t ignore his calls for fear of picking up, of hearing his voice, of letting the raw emotion in his desperate pleas unravel her already frayed composure.
And she certainly couldn’t listen to his recorded messages; she knew they would be filled with agony, with questions she couldn't answer, with a love she couldn't accept.
Each imagined voicemail was a bullet, and she couldn't endure the inevitable falling to pieces. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, and didn't want to see anyone, anyway.
The thought of engaging with the world, of pretending to be okay, was an unbearable weight.
It was easier to sleep away the pain, to dive into the numbing oblivion of unconsciousness, than to accept the crushing reality that he was truly gone from her life for good.
Easier than facing the images of his heartbroken face, than feeling the phantom touch of his hand.
Easier than admitting the devastating truth of her own sacrifice.
Lana squeezed her eyes shut for the third time that day, pressing her palms against her temples, willing herself to stop the fresh wave of tears, to silence the agonizing echoes of his name in her mind, and to fall back into the blessed darkness of sleep again.
Just for a little while longer. Just until the pain dulled.