Chapter 4 Lucas #2
Grief isn’t a debt you can pay, though. Love isn’t either. Not the real kind anyway. Back then, he loved me just because I existed. Not because I did anything special. Not because I made people feel a certain way. He just loved me.
Somewhere along the way, I forgot that’s how it's supposed to work.
I inhale sharply and get to work building the sandwich he never managed to master.
Fresh sourdough, two slices of cheddar, two of Gouda.
Slight browning on each side, giving you that satisfying crunch.
When it’s toasted to perfection, I hop onto the island, feet swinging as I take a bite.
The tanginess of the bread mixed with melted cheese pulls a soft, involuntary groan from me.
Heaven.
For a minute, it fills the hollow spaces inside me.
The ones that ache after seeing my mom. The one that was amplified after seeing Lettie’s expressionless face.
After realizing how much of my life revolves around trying to earn love from people who won’t, or choose not to give it. At least, not the way I need.
The water slides off my plate, sending sudsy rivulets swirling down the sink, when a light knock sounds at my back door.
I run my hands down the back of my sweats, quickly closing the distance because there’s only one person who would be here at this hour.
The speed at which I swing the door open sends the loose tendrils of hair hanging on the sides of her face flying.
They settle just in time for her to tuck one behind her ear and tilt her head back so she can meet my gaze.
“Hi,” she squeaks out, before clearing her throat and trying again. “Hi.”
Adorable. Freaking adorable. The sound of her raspy voice shouldn’t threaten to undo me, but it does.
I haven’t heard it since she’s been back.
The one that comes out when she’s unsure of herself, or she’s too tired to talk in her practiced, polished tone.
No, since she’s been back, it’s been professional, always in control, Scarlett.
And damn, one word, one slip of her armor, has never sounded so good.
“Hey,” I smile, “happy birthday.”
Brown eyes that I saw my whole future in at one point search my face for something, but only for a second. I pull the door open for her, hoping she takes the invitation. She doesn’t. She simply glances at the space, arms crossed tight over her chest.
“Thank you,” she says flatly, like she’s reading a script she didn’t write, but the way her nails dig into the muscle of her bicep gives away her nerves. “I just wanted to let you know it means a lot that you thought of me.”
I shift forward before I can think better of it, the instinct to pull her close is as strong as it’s always been. She stiffens, as if being this close to me threatens something inside her. “There hasn’t been a day in six thousand, five hundred and forty-seven days that I haven’t thought of you.”
The words spill out before I can stop them.
Too honest, too raw. But I don’t regret them.
Almost eighteen years of knowing her, and not a single day has passed that I haven’t thought of her more than once.
Her breath catches, and for half a second her face softens.
Then she smoothes it, like she’s shoving the girl I once knew down and away from the surface.
She turns without a word, and I step around the door after her. “I’m gone for the next five days,” I call, trying to do anything to stop her from leaving. “Away games. Do you want my number, that way if you need anything, I can help?”
She stills, brow furrowing, lip pulled between her teeth in a way that’s got me wondering how she feels about biting, as she says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Can you feel a heart breaking? Because I’m almost positive that’s what's happening right now. Like her rejection is a tool custom-made to perfectly carve out a piece of my heart that has always belonged to her. “I have Miller if I need anything.”
My throat tightens almost painfully, Miller, right. “Yeah, okay.” I croak.
I watch her turn, hating how stupidly hopeful I am for something she’s not going to give me.
“Have a good night,” she says. She doesn’t look back, doesn’t hesitate, just follows the path that leads back to her house without a second thought.
The door clicks shut, her absence spilling into the room as my palm comes to rest against the back of it.
Sighing, my forehead falls against the cold wood with a thunk that parallels the ache in my chest. I’ve spent almost twelve years trying to be someone worth staying for.
Someone who she’d be proud to come home to.
How did I end up here? On the side of cold indifference of the only two women I’ve ever loved. Is it me? Has it been me this whole time? My balled fist hits against the door. The responding thud echoes briefly before falling flat in my empty house.
I grab a beer from the fridge, pop the cap, and turn off all the lights on the way to my room.
The loneliness that’s coated these walls for years now feels heavier knowing the woman I dream of sharing them with is less than a mile from me, yet has never felt farther away.
Then again, nothing ever turns out as I picture it.
I tip the bottle back, letting the fizz tingle against my lips, tickling my throat on the way down. My phone buzzes on my nightstand, our team group chat no doubt. Probably some meme, someone expecting me to crack a joke like everything’s A-okay.
I don’t touch it, though. I’m not in the mood to fake happy right now.
They won’t need me if I’m not the one they can count on to make jokes, to pull pranks.
I let them believe in that version of me, because I’m terrified that if they saw the cracks, they’d realize there’s nothing especially lovable left underneath. And then what? I lose them too.
I push a hand through my hair, leaning against my headboard as I chug the rest of my beer. I guess I shouldn’t ask questions I don’t want answers to.
Lucas: Hey Doc, we travel tomorrow, but I could really use an hour of your time.
Dr. Williams: Of course, Lucas. Does 9 AM work?
Lucas: Yeah, thanks, Doc.
Dr. Williams: Of course. Talk then.
Tossing my phone, I roll over, burrowing myself in the pile of blankets I have on my bed.
You’re strong enough to get through the night, Lucas.
You don’t have to earn love. It’s not tied to performance.
I tell myself as I flex and relax my toes, the constant brush of the blanket against them grounds me enough to lull me to sleep.