Page 83 of Shattered Melodies

I almost laughed. Almost let the bitter, brittle sound tear itself from my throat. Because how the fuck did he think I was feeling? Like shit, that’s how. Like my entire world had been turned upside down and inside out, leaving me reeling and raw and so goddamn lost I didn’t know which way was up anymore.

But I didn’t say that. Didn’t let the acerbic words spill from my lips like I wanted to. Because as much as I hated to admit it, as much as it galled me to be so fucking vulnerable in front of him a part of me was glad he was here. Glad that I didn’t have to wake up alone, with nothing but the throbbing pain in my head and the sour taste of regret in my mouth.

So I just shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled at my sore muscles. “Like shit,” I said, my voice a rough, gravelly rasp. “But I guess that’s what happens when you try to take on three guys at once, huh?”

Caleb chuckled, the sound warm and rich and so achingly familiar it made my chest hurt. “Yeah, well. You always were a stubborn son of a bitch. Never could back down from a fight, even when you were outmatched.”

I felt my lips twitch, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. Because he was right. I had always been the type to throw myself into the fray, consequences be damned. It was a trait that had gotten me into plenty of trouble over the years, but it was also one of the things that made me who I was.

Impulsive. Reckless. Passionate to a fault.

And look where it had gotten me. Lying on my couch with a face that felt like it had been used as a punching bag, my head pounding and my heart aching in a way that had nothing to do with the physical pain.

I sighed, the sound heavy and weary. “What are you doing in my house, Caleb?” I asked, my voice quiet but direct.

Caleb’s smile faded, his expression turning serious. “I stayed the night,” he said, his voice low and measured, like he was choosing his words carefully. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

I flinched, the words hitting a little too close to home. Because he was right. If he hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t stopped me from going off the rails completely who knows what I might have done? Who knows how much worse things could have gotten?

“I just got back from the bar,” Caleb continued, his eyes never leaving mine. “I took your car home and brought some food because…well, because there’s nothing here.”

He gestured around the room, taking in the bare walls and the empty shelves, the boxes still stacked in the corner from my recent move.

I felt a flush of embarrassment, a hot prickle of shame that crept up the back of my neck. Because he was right. There was nothing here, nothing but dust and cobwebs and the lingering ghosts of a past I couldn’t seem to escape.

I was still living out of boxes, still existing in a state of limbo that felt more like a prison than a home. And the sad truth was, I didn’t know if I would ever feel truly settled, truly at peace in this place that held so many memories, so many scars.

I couldn’t let him see just how fucked up I really was, how deep the cracks in my facade really ran. It was also too much, too soon. Too raw and honest and real, in a way that I wasn’t ready for. In a way that I might never be ready for, after everything that had happened between us. So I did what I always did when things got too heavy, too intense. I deflected, I ran, I pushed him away with a sharp word and a brittle smile.

“I need a shower,” I said abruptly, struggling to sit up and swing my legs over the side of the couch. “I feel like I’ve been rolling around in a dumpster.”

Caleb frowned, his hand tightening on my shoulder. “Liam, wait. I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re still hurt, you need to rest.”

I shrugged off his touch, ignoring the way my body screamed in protest at the sudden movement. “I’m fine,” I snapped, my voice harsher than I intended. “I can take care of myself.”

Caleb’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. I could see the frustration in his eyes, the hurt and the concern and the stubborn, unyielding love that had always been there, even when I was too blind to see it. But he didn’t push, didn’t try to stop me as I hauled myself to my feet and staggered towards the bathroom. He just watched me go, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light of the living room.

And as I stumbled through the door and slammed it shut behind me, as I leaned against the cool tile and let the tears finally fall, I knew that I was making a mistake. Knew that I was pushing away the one person who had always been there for me, the one person who had never given up on me no matter how hard I tried to make him.

But I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop the walls from slamming up, the defenses from locking into place. It was a reflex, a survival instinct honed by years of pain and disappointment and heartbreak.

As much as I wanted to let him in, as much as I ached for the comfort and the solace that I knew he could provide I wasn’t ready. Wasn’t strong enough to face the truth of what I felt for him, of what he meant to me.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And so I turned on the shower, letting the scalding water wash over me and drown out the sound of my own sobs. Letting it scour away the blood and the sweat and the shame, even if it couldn’t touch the deeper wounds that festered beneath the surface.

I don’t know how long I stood there, letting the heat and the steam envelop me like a cocoon. Long enough for my skin to turn pink and raw, for the pounding in my head to fade to a dull, distant ache.

But eventually, I had to face reality. Had to turn off the water and step out into the cold, unforgiving light of day.

I toweled off quickly, not bothering to look in the mirror. I didn’t want to see the bruises, the split lip, the haunted look in my eyes that I knew would be staring back at me.

Instead, I focused on getting dressed, on pulling on a clean pair of sweatpants and a soft, worn t-shirt. Clothes that were comfortable, that didn’t make me feel like I was suffocating under the weight of my own facade.

As I stepped out of the bathroom, I caught a whiff of something delicious wafting in from the kitchen. Bacon, maybe, or pancakes. Something warm and comforting and homey, the kind of food that wrapped around you like a hug and made everything seem a little bit brighter.

My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything since, god, I couldn’t even remember. The night before? The day before that?

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