Chapter 25
CAROLINE
When I answer the phone, there’s only jagged breathing on the other end of the line. Anxiety tingles in a cascade from my scalp to my toes.
Something’s wrong.
“Miles?” I ask softly, slowly pushing up from my bed. “Miles? Are you there?”
“Hey,” he finally bites out, his voice thick and rough. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Are you alright? Where are you?”
“At home.” He sniffs, letting my first question hang, though I already know the answer. “I know I wasn’t supposed to call you.”
“It’s okay,” I say, my throat already knotted with worry.
It’s not okay. He’s not okay.
“I’m sorry.” There’s a rustling sound, then a whoosh of air. “Just needed to hear your voice.”
I pad over to my bedroom door and close it gently, knowing Grandpa might still be up. “Need me to come over?”
“No,” he says quickly, then swallows. “Just… just stay on the phone with me, okay?”
My brow pinches. “Of course.”
“I just need you. To hear you.” A long silence follows before he speaks again. “Tell me something true.”
I love you. I miss you. I’ve been in pieces for weeks. I can’t sleep without your arms wrapped around me.
“Like what?”
“Anything. Something small. Something boring. Just talk to me, so I don’t… just talk.”
So he doesn’t what?
The vulnerability in his voice stops me from asking what he was about to say. He sounds too fragile. Too fraught. And, even though I’m sure I know the answer, I can’t accept it. Icy fear slips up my spine as I scramble for denial.
“Alright, let’s see…” I search my brain, wanting to tell him everything and nothing all at once.
I decide against sharing about how my parents booked a last-minute cruise and ditched me and Grandpa, leaving us to navigate Thanksgiving on our own for the first time ever.
Whatever our differences, we’ve always put them aside to spend the holidays together—although I must admit, I’m relieved to have a bit of space from Dad after what happened on election night.
I also decide against telling Miles about Fletcher trying to worm his way back into my life.
When he’d pulled me aside in Dad’s office, he’d proposed the ludicrous idea of us as some kind of political power couple—getting back together for the optics alone.
He even had the gall to suggest we could be non-monogamous if I still wanted to keep Miles on the side.
I’m still reeling from the way my soul recoiled.
No. Anything to do with my parents, my dumpster fire of an ex, or the election feels too loaded to share with Miles right now.
Stick to neutral territory.
“I’m working on planning an art show fundraiser just before Christmas.”
“Oh, that’s great,” he says quietly. “From your proposal thing?”
“Yeah. And Julian agreed to let me organize an exhibition in the spring. Young local artists.” I wander back to my bed and sink down, tucking my feet under me. “Sunny finally wore him down, I guess.”
“I’m happy for you.” I know he means it but, somehow, it doesn’t sound like he can muster up happy.
Not that I’ve managed to lately, either.
I’ve tried to bury myself in work over the last two weeks, but I end up numbly staring at my laptop most nights, trying to wish away the ache in my bones, the silence in my bedroom, the urge to call or text Miles every time it hurts too much not to.
I’ve sobbed through multiple therapy sessions, never feeling any relief or release.
Working across the street from Miles’ work site all day has been a torturous exercise in trying to keep my gaze from wandering outside the gallery walls.
A thousand times a day, I find myself wondering if he’s over there, hating himself for trying to catch a glimpse of me too.
“Ada’s working on a few paintings for it.” I switch my phone to my other ear, sweeping my hair out of the way. “She’s pretty stoked.”
“Awesome.”
More silence.
“Miles?” My voice feels small, and I bunch the loose fabric of my sweater sleeve in my fist.
“Yeah?”
“Tell me something true?”
Static whooshes through the phone.
My heart sticks in my throat, but I manage to squeeze out, “Please?”
Tell me you’re okay. Please be okay.
“I’m so tired, Caroline.” His voice catches when he says my name. “I’ve been working so hard. Fighting so hard.”
Guilt grips my stomach. I put him in this position—being with me, loving me, being apart from me, is what led him to this wretched, exhausted moment.
I’ve stayed away, knowing it was the right thing to do, knowing he needed to protect his job and focus on himself again.
But that doesn’t mean it’s been easy for him to cope.
“I’m so proud of you.” I barely get the words out. “You know that?”
“You shouldn’t be. I’m so fucked up.”
“No.” There’s an edge to my voice I can’t hide. “You’re brilliant and kind and fun and funny, and you work harder on yourself than anyone I know. And you’re my favorite fucking person in the world.”
There’s a long pause before he speaks. “You swore.”
I swipe the tears from my cheeks. “Someone once told me it was cathartic.”
“Smart someone.” He sniffs.
“He’s handsome too.”
He huffs out a breath—almost a chuckle. “The whole package.”
“Exactly.”
“I miss you.” His strained words catch me off guard, and the air rushes from my lungs. “So fucking much.”
I try to steady my voice, sensing he needs steady right now. “I miss you too.”
“I know I’m an asshole for saying that—”
“No, you’re not an asshole.” I shake my head, looking up at my ceiling as I roll the hem of my sweater between my fingers. “You’re honest.”
“I’m scared, Caroline.”
“Yeah?” The pain in his voice is almost more than I can bear.
“Scared I’ll never be right in the head. Scared my heart will never feel whole. Scared I’ll always be too broken for…”
My eyes close.
“Fuck, just listen to the shit coming out of my mouth.” His voice is tight. “This is why. This is exactly fucking why.”
“It’s okay to be scared. Or feel like everything’s awful. But it doesn’t mean you’re irreparably broken.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I fell in love with everything good in you.” My voice breaks as I wind the fabric of my sweater into my fist. “And there’s so much good in you, Miles.”
“I dunno if I can do this.” He pauses. “Without you. Fuck, it hurts.”
I want to run to him. Wrap him inside my heart and keep him there.
But I know I can’t.
“You have to. Promise me you’ll keep going.
Keep trying. Keep getting better. Because I need you—” I cut myself off before I sob, then try to collect myself.
I could stop there: I need you. That’s it.
That’s the truth. But I push more words past my lips.
“I need you to exist in this world. I need you to be okay.”
“Baby, I’m not okay.”
The way he calls me baby has me squeezing my eyes shut, letting loose a cascade of fresh tears. He sounds so tired—so done—that my anxiety spikes again. “Then… I need to know you will be okay. Someday. Even if I can’t be there to see it. Even if I have to stay away from you to let you get there.”
“What if I never am?”
“It’ll get easier,” I say quietly, unable to entertain his question. I tuck myself under my blanket and pull it up under my chin, wishing I could hold him instead. The solidity of him. The muscle and bone and weight and warmth of him. “With time, I mean.”
“Will it?”
I close my eyes again; the last two weeks apart haven’t eased the grief crushing my chest. But I have to believe it’ll get better—have to convince him it will, at least.
“It has to. So promise me,” I say once more. “Actually, no. Scratch that. You owe it to yourself to keep going. Promise yourself.”
A memory drifts back to me and I quickly switch the call to speaker so I can take a selfie. The lighting’s bad, my hair’s a mess, and my eyes are bloodshot, but I don’t care. I hit send.
“Did you just send me…” A pause. “Oh, fuck.” He lets out a sad sound and inhales hard. “Hey, gorgeous.”
“Pinkie promise.” My voice breaks. “Send me one back. Please.”
“I look like shit.”
“Hey,” I almost laugh through my tears. “I went first.”
“Shut up. You’re beautiful.”
A few moments later, the text comes in. In the photo, like in mine, Miles is holding out his pinkie.
My chest threatens to crack open at the sight of his tear-stained cheeks and his tired, crooked grin. His hair is shaggy and he’s let his beard grow in. I touch the screen, wishing I could touch his face. Wishing I could kiss him and take this pain away.
“Did you get it?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I sniff, trying to find my voice. “Sorry, just… distracted by your beauty.”
“So fucking cheeky.”
I smile to myself. “You look like Jude, though.”
Jude.
My eyes land on my laptop as Miles makes a wounded sound. “Well, if that isn’t motivation to shave, I don’t know what is.”
“But seriously.” I flip open my computer and quickly search for Jude’s contact info online. “Pinkie promise?” I’m not letting him dodge this. “That you’ll do it for you?”
“What, shave my sad-boy beard?”
“Miles!” I laugh, wiping at my tears.
“Okay, I promise, I promise.”
“Say it properly.”
“Oh my God. I already sent you my ugly mug.”
“What, you too good for pinkie promises?” I ask, echoing his own words from the night of the fundraiser. “Just say it!”
A long exhale. There’s rustling, then a clink of glass on his end of the line—and something that sounds like running water. When he speaks, his voice breaks a little. “Pinkie promise.”