23. It Would Kill Me
IT WOULD KILL ME
PARKER
My head is pounding harder than it ever has before. I considered drinking myself to sleep, but that just sounded deeply pathetic, and I have a rule about not getting plastered alone.
I can’t wrap my mind around the same three fucking words.
I’m moving out. I’m moving out. I’m moving out.
They’re haunting me. His face is haunting me.
I don’t think I’ll ever experience another day of peace until I’m able to make things right. That’s the only thing that matters to me right now. Making things right with him. I know I can’t give him what he wants. I can’t do that to Luca. Or Emelie. Or honestly to Anders even.
But I won’t let him move out. The thought of walking through my front door knowing Anders isn’t on the other side makes my chest hurt. I can’t live with that. I can’t.
Fuck.
I’m on all fours on the bathroom floor, clutching my phone against my chest because I can’t fucking breathe.
The cold tile beneath my palm isn’t cold anymore.
My head hurts from squeezing my eyes shut and my jaw aches from clenching it so fucking hard.
My fucking spy won’t answer me, so I have no idea where Anders could be.
He stopped sharing his location with me weeks ago.
It takes everything in me to pick myself up.
I lean over the sink and splash water over my face.
I have no idea how long I was on that floor, but by the time I’ve showered and brushed my teeth, exhaustion hits me like a brick.
I stumble downstairs and move with zombie-like precision toward the coffee maker, grabbing one mug and setting it beside the machine.
My hand reaches for a second before I even think about it.
Anders’ favorite. The blue one with the chipped handle he got from a flea market. Every time I see it, I consider getting him a new one. I stare at it for a second before setting it down too, like he’s still here. Like he isn’t currently ignoring every attempt I’ve made to contact him.
Fucking hell.
Watching highlights of Luca’s game from last night doesn’t help.
Calling my mom somehow makes me feel worse.
I seriously debate day-drinking. Then, divine intervention.
I hear the front door open. For a second, I genuinely think I imagined it.
But then I hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, probably assuming I’m passed out somewhere.
I let out a thin breath when I hear the fridge door open. Things shift around. Cabinet doors. A spoon. Coffee.
My shoulders nearly sag with relief, knowing it’s time to face the music. Clearing my throat, I rise from the couch and allow myself five uninterrupted seconds to appreciate the fact that he came home.
He’s in the kitchen. No suitcase. No duffel bag. No bindle.
Just my Anders.
His eyes lock with mine as he leans against the counter and takes a sip of coffee. He looks tired. Like, seriously drained. The sight of it twists something ugly inside me. “Hey,” I say, my voice rough.
Anders doesn’t answer. He just stares at me. I try again. “Are you okay?” His mouth pulls into a grin. The kind that immediately tells me I’m being stupid. He laughs quietly and shakes his head. “Anders,” I plead, keeping my voice as level as I can. “Talk to me. C’mon.”
He pushes off the counter and walks toward the front door. My heart immediately drops, but then I realize he’s stopping at the mat. He kicks off his sneakers, his stance straightening as he gives me an expectant look. He crosses his arms and flicks his eyes down toward the shoes.
Right. The shoes. The amount of times I’ve bitched at him about leaving them there all the time…
My body figures it out before my brain does. I stand and slowly approach. When I stop in front of him, it’s almost impossible to fight the electric air and resist reaching out. I’m positive he feels it too, because his shoulders tense and his jaw sets. Anders glances down at the shoes again.
I nod once, then lower myself to my knees. I straighten the sneakers and tuck them neatly onto the rack beside a pair of my own. When I look back up, he’s still watching me. Still waiting. “Anders…” I start. “I’m sorry.”
Nothing. No reaction. No change in expression.
He’s waiting for more, like he’s waiting for me to crack, which would probably happen if he kept looking at me like that much longer.
Fortunately, I’ve already given this a lot of thought.
Too much probably. I’ve imagined this exact scenario so many times in the past few hours.
Rehearsed exactly how I would start my apology.
But now that he’s actually here, my mind is drawing blanks.
“Don’t leave me,” I say, my words slipping out before I can even seem to notice.
I hate myself for even saying it. Not only because it’s selfish, but because it makes me feel miserable and weak and less of a man for letting things get this far.
“Please,” I murmur. My voice cracks. “It would kill me.”
Anders purses his lips, just nodding like he’s given this some thought, but the timing makes me think he’s been rehearsing this exact moment in his head all morning.
He laughs coldly, then shakes his head. “You’ve gotta get over this,” he mutters clearly.
It feels like I’ve been punched in the gut.
“It’s not gonna happen, Petchka,” he continues.
“So I suggest you get up off that floor before you get too comfortable down there.” And then he walks off, leaving me on my knees like a pathetic fucking idiot.
I can’t move. I don’t move. Not even when I hear him walk upstairs. Not when I hear his bedroom door click shut.
It feels like I don’t deserve it anymore—his forgiveness—so I stay there on my knees long after he’s gone and force myself to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to fix this and get my boy back.