16. Sawyer #2
Knox realizes too and backs up so fast he almost trips over his own feet. I press my palms to my flushed cheeks, trying to cool the heat I know is written all over my face.
“I should go,” he mutters, turning to leave.
“Yeah.”
Mom appears in the doorway to the kitchen just as Knox disappears into the darkening driveway. She looks between us, and this time I can read her expression perfectly.
She knows something happened. Maybe not what, but something.
“Thank you for stopping by, Knox,” she calls to his retreating frame. “Please let us know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Helen.” He glances at me one more time, something desperate and dark flashing in his eyes, before he pulls his car door open.
Mom shuts the front door just as a fuzzy moth flies inside, pinging into the overhead light fixture. She crosses her arms, looking at me with narrowed eyes. “What was all that?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
“Sawyer—”
“I’m going back to bed.” I’m already moving toward my bedroom, needing to escape before she can see the guilt written all over my face. Before she can ask the questions I can’t answer.
Locking the door behind me, I take in the space…
Owen’s phone plugged in, his luggage still in the corner, clothes scattered around it, the ring box on the bed.
I can’t let Mom know about that, or she’ll lose it.
Did Victoria and Richard know? I’m assuming they did if he was going to do it at a family dinner.
But maybe not? Owen did always love a good surprise.
I sink onto the bed and pull my knees up to my chest, staring at the moving images on the TV but not absorbing any of it.
After a few minutes, I hear a car pull up again, and my stomach flutters, hope and dread tangling together.
But then I remember it’s just the pizza delivery person. It’s not him.
Mom opens the front door and murmurs something before locking up. I can smell the pizza drifting into my room. My stomach growls but the thought of putting food into my mouth, chewing, and swallowing seems too exhausting to muster.
I flop down on my back and throw Owen’s pillow over my face to inhale his lingering scent.
I wish it calmed me, but if anything, I’m only more restless.
Huffing, I get up and sit next to his luggage, taking each piece of clothing out, picturing the last moments I saw him wearing them, before folding them neatly and putting them away.
Somehow I’m able to complete the task without breaking down.
Maybe I’ve cried all the moisture out of my body?
Mom must be out there quietly eating her pizza. She doesn’t knock again. I’m sure she’s had enough of me for the day. Soon, there’s a glow under the crack of the door, letting me know she’s settled on the couch watching TV.
Hours pass. Law and Order episodes end and begin again. I stay curled on my side, staring at the TV without really seeing it, my mind replaying the same moments on loop. Knox’s hand reaching for my face. The heat in his eyes. How my body leaned toward him like it had a will of its own.
Around midnight, my stomach finally growls loud enough that I can’t ignore it anymore. When was the last time I actually ate? Yesterday morning? The morning of the accident?
I can’t remember.
Moving quietly, I slip out of my room and head into the dark kitchen.
Crossing it, I peek at the couch where Mom’s asleep on her side, the TV still playing one of those dating reality shows.
Tomorrow, I’ll be better to her, more appreciative for how well she’s looking after me. Tomorrow, I’ll try harder.
Remembering what I came out here for, I open the fridge and stare at the contents until the cold makes me shiver. Nothing appeals to me. It all looks like a jumbled mess of items, mostly leftovers from our few days here.
My easiest choice is the pizza shoved on the bottom shelf, so I pull it out and flip it open, finding half a pepperoni pizza, cold and congealed.
I grab a slice and eat it standing over the counter, not bothering with a plate.
It tastes like nothing but I keep chewing, keep swallowing.
I eat two more slices that way, barely tasting, as each bite slides down my throat.
Pushing the box aside, I riffle through the pantry, finding the package of Oreos that Owen bought at the gas station on the ride here. Then the bag of salt and vinegar chips beside it.
I’m not even hungry anymore. Some dark place inside keeps telling me if I just keep eating, keep filling the emptiness, something will feel different. I’ll feel better. Whole again.
But I don’t.
I’m halfway through the Oreos, my jaw tired from chewing, when I realize I brought Owen’s phone in here with me. I don’t even remember grabbing it, but there it is on the counter beside the pizza box, screen glowing with a new notification.
Instagram: ella_moretti liked your photo
My hand freezes halfway to my mouth, an Oreo suspended in mid-air. I set the cookie down and pick up the phone, swiping it open.
More notifications cascade down. Ones I ignored earlier.
It looks like most are from the last few days judging by the preview banners—condolence comments on his Instagram posts, messages from friends and teammates who I’m guessing haven’t heard the news yet, missed calls from numbers I don’t recognize.
I don’t open them. There’s no reason to.