Chapter Twenty-Eight
Routine
Crew
I wake at five, stare at the ceiling, and listen for sounds from her room. The creak of her bed. The soft padding of her feet to the bathroom. The muffled sound of her voice when she talks to Murphy in that sweet, ridiculous way she thinks no one can hear.
Then I run. Four miles now, not three. Five if the thoughts won’t stop. Six if I can still see her face when I close my eyes.
This morning it’s six.
The streets are empty at this hour. Just me and the pavement and the brutal rhythm of my feet hitting concrete. I push harder, faster, until my lungs burn and my legs scream and there’s no room left in my head for anything except the next step.
It doesn’t work.
It never works.
Home by six-fifteen. Shower. Four eggs, protein shake.
She’s still asleep when I leave for work. Good. I time it that way now—arriving early, staying late, making sure our paths cross as little as possible. The Post-it notes on the fridge are our only communication.
Bought more coffee.
Your mail is on the counter.
Polite. Impersonal. Like we’re strangers who happen to share a kitchen.
We are strangers. That’s what I wanted.
I don’t know why it feels like dying.
* * *
Work is a blur.
I throw myself into case files, tactical assessments, anything that requires focus. Daniels comments that I’m putting in more hours than anyone on the team. Foster watches me with that worried expression I’ve started avoiding.
“You look like shit,” he says on Tuesday.
“Thanks.”
“When’s the last time you slept more than four hours?”
“I sleep fine.”
“I know you sleep at the cabin on the weekends. On the floor. That’s not sleeping; that’s punishing yourself.”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing to say.
Gym after work. Ninety minutes. Two hours if I can manage it. I lift until my muscles shake, until I physically cannot lift anymore, until I’m so exhausted that maybe, maybe I’ll be able to close my eyes tonight without seeing her.
Rodriguez asks if I’m training for something.
“Just staying sharp,” I tell him.
He doesn’t look convinced. He looks worried. They all do.
* * *
Friday afternoon after work, I drive to Oklahoma.
The cabin is dark when I arrive. Cold.
I don’t care.
I grab my tools and start working on the kitchen cabinets I’ve been building. Measure, cut, sand. Measure, cut, sand. The same motions over and over until my hands are raw and my back aches and it’s three in the morning and I still can’t stop thinking about her.
I drive a nail in wrong. Split the wood. Have to start the whole piece over.
I don’t care about that either.
The weekend passes in a blur of sawdust and sleepless nights.
I fix the porch railing. Replace two more windows. Patch the hole in the floor where the raccoons got in. By Sunday evening, my body is wrecked, and my hands are covered in blisters, and the cabin looks marginally less like a condemned building.
None of it makes me feel any better.
I drive back to Dallas as the sun sets, timing it so I’ll arrive after she’s likely asleep. The apartment is dark when I walk in. Quiet.
But there’s a new Post-it on the fridge.
Made too much pasta. Leftovers in the blue container if you want them.
I stare at the note for a long time.
Her handwriting. Loopy and cheerful, even now. Even after everything.
I should throw the pasta away. I should maintain the distance I’ve created, the walls I’ve rebuilt. I should not eat food she made with her hands, food that will remind me of her, and her care and everything I gave up.
I eat the pasta standing at the counter in the dark, and it’s the best thing I’ve tasted in weeks, and I hate myself a little more with every bite.
* * *
Monday, the cycle starts again.
Wake at five. Run six miles. Eggs, protein shake. Work. Gym. Home late. Avoid her. Repeat.
Tuesday, I hear her on the phone with Sadie.
“He asked me out again. Dinner on Saturday.”
I close my bedroom door and turn on the shower so I can’t hear anything else.
Wednesday, I find one of her hair ties on the bathroom counter. I should put it away. Instead, I put it in my nightstand drawer like some pathetic souvenir.
Thursday, Foster corners me after a briefing.
“This can’t go on, Crew.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a ghost. You’re barely functioning. You’re running yourself into the ground because you’re too stubborn to admit you made a mistake.”
“I didn’t make a mistake. I made a choice.”
“A stupid choice.”
“Maybe.” I gather my files, not looking at him. “But it’s done.”
“It doesn’t have to be—”
“She’s seeing someone else, Foster. She’s moving on. That’s what she should do.”
“And what about what you should do?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
* * *
Friday night, I’m loading my truck for another weekend at the cabin when I hear her door open.
I freeze, keys in hand.
She’s dressed up. A green dress I’ve never seen before, her hair loose around her shoulders, makeup done in a way that makes her eyes look even bigger and brighter than usual.
She’s beautiful.
She’s going to see him.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
“Hey.”
We stand there in the hallway, three feet apart, a canyon between us.
“Going to Oklahoma?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“More work on the cabin?”
“Yeah.”
She nods slowly. “I’m, um. I’m going out.”
“I figured.”
Something flickers across her face. Pain, maybe. Or maybe just awkwardness. I can’t read her the way I used to—or maybe I can, and I just can’t let myself acknowledge what I see.
“Crew—”
“Have a good night, Emmie.”
I turn and walk out before she can say anything else. Before I can do something stupid like tell her she looks beautiful. Before I can ask her not to go. Before I can drop to my knees and beg her to give me another chance I don’t deserve.
I load up my truck and pull out of the parking garage without looking back.
But I see her in the rearview mirror, standing in the lobby doorway, watching me leave.
I drive to Oklahoma with her face burned into my retinas and her name lodged like a splinter in my chest.
Work. Gym. Run. Cabin. Repeat.
This is my life now.
This is what I chose.
I wonder how long it takes to stop loving someone.
I wonder if I’ll ever find out.