Chapter 13
Calla
I’ve tried not to count the days until Christmas, but the two since I was last at Driftwood have slipped by in a haze.
Now, with just two days left, I’m not even sure where the time has gone.
The hours blur together, most of them spent sprawled on the couch with the TV flashing in the background, though I don’t recall a single thing I’ve watched.
My book sits untouched on the coffee table.
The plan to finish it now feels like a distant memory.
At the end of the couch, a small pile of laundry has gathered—an odd mix of sweatpants and sweatshirts for when I’m cold, swapped out for an oversized t-shirt and underwear when the fabric feels too rough.
Exhaustion sits heavy in my bones, despite barely moving for days. Meals have been reduced to dry cereal straight from the box and half-stale protein bars I found buried at the back of the cabinet. Just enough to stave off hunger, but nothing that feels like care.
I used to love cooking. Trying new recipes, messing up and starting over, always in the same stained apron I never bothered to wash. My parents used to gag at my flavor combinations—lemon and thyme on toast, balsamic on popcorn, cayenne in brownies. They swore I had broken taste buds.
Now? I haven’t cooked in… God, I don’t even know how long.
I take a slow sweep of my apartment, searching for even an ounce of joy in the space. But there’s nothing. No decorations. No tree. No hint of the season at all. Jules and I had planned to do it together. Without her, it just felt pointless.
If she were here, everything would be different.
I can picture her now—laughing as she strung garland across my window or picked out mismatched lights, insisting they had more charm than the perfect ones.
She had a way of making even the smallest moments feel special, of breathing life into everything around her.
This is different from the blues.
This is an ache.
Chase was kind to invite me for Christmas. I know he’s trying to make me feel included. But as the hours pass, my fingers hover over my phone, debating whether to cancel. And every time, I hesitate, staring at the message with his address.
This matters to him.
And I don’t want to take that away.
Even if facing the holiday without Jules feels impossible.
After hours on the couch, my back turned to the TV with the volume barely a whisper, I finally force myself to move. I need to clean the apartment. I need to clean myself.
It’s been at least a week since I’ve taken a proper shower—washed my hair, shaved, done more than just swipe on some lotion from the bottle on the bathroom counter.
With a deep breath, I push myself upright and reach for the remote to turn off the TV. But before I can, something on the screen stops me cold.
True crime.
Unsolved true crime.
A man sits in an interrogation room, shoulders hunched beneath the stress of the detective’s questions. My heart pounds. I fumble with the remote, scrambling to turn up the volume.
The case unfolds in fragments—an argument, a disappearance, a wife who never came home. The detectives press him, their voices careful but insistent. He denies everything. His face gives nothing away, but I swear I can feel the guilt bleeding through the screen.
Then comes the final blow.
The narrator’s voice returns, calm and detached: the man was cleared.
Released.
The case remains unsolved.
Tears spill over before I even realize they’ve formed, hot against my cheeks. The credits roll, but I stay rooted to the couch, the silence pressing in as I finally reach for the remote and shut off the TV.
Jules.
Her name hits me like a blow, unearthing all the pain I’ve tried to bury. I stare at the blank screen, the last twenty minutes looping through my head on repeat.
Finally, I force myself to move, dragging my aching limbs to the bathroom. I sink to the floor of the shower, knees to my chest as the water pounds against my back. The heat is cranked as high as it will go, droplets landing like sharp pin pricks, each one demanding I feel something. Anything .
I clench my jaw, anger simmering beneath my skin, mirroring the scalding water beating down on me.
I won’t let it happen. Not to Jules. Not to me.
I need to talk to Tyler again.
With a burst of energy, fueled by a fire I haven’t felt in weeks, I reach up and twist the knob. The shower groans in protest, the stream slowing to a trickle. I step out and wrap myself in a towel, skin flushed and stinging, my breaths coming in uneven gasps.
But by the time I reach the bedroom, the energy is gone—drained, like it was never mine to begin with.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, water still dripping from my hair, soaking through the towel.
I don’t move. Just slowly lie back, the dampness seeping into my sheets as I stare at the ceiling, unfocused.
The fire from moments ago is already gone, reduced to quiet embers.
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until I wake to the dim glow of the clock on my nightstand, red numbers glaring back at me: 8:00 p.m.
A numbness creeps in, wrapping itself around me.
What’s the point in fighting it anymore? I’ve already lost.
I peel off the towel and toss it to the floor, not bothering to aim. Sliding under the covers, I feel the dampness cling to my skin, but I don’t care.
Sleep pulls at me, and I let it in.