Page 42 of Pumped

“I can teach you. You might not want to use it right now, but in a few years you’ll be able to do fancy hairdos with it.”

A strangled noise escapes my throat and they both turn to look at me, innocently, like this is the most normal thing in the world. It’s not. It’s absolutely fucking not.

“What are you doing?” I ask, the words barely understandable as my throat closes up.

Owen’s expression grows wary and concerned. When he speaks, his voice is level, like he senses danger and is trying to keep everyone calm. “We’re sorting through their things.”

Yeah, I fucking got that part. Butwhy? He’s tearing apart their bedroom, rifling through all their things. They don’t belong to him. He has no right. He shouldn’t even be up here. All the thoughts race through my head, but all that comes out is another strangled sound.

Owen slowly rises to his feet, keeping his eyes trained on me as he speaks to Ivy. “Hey Ivy, why don’t we take a break? How about you go watch something on the iPad?”

Ivy glances from him to me and back to him, her curious six-year-old mind picking up on the tension rippling through the air between us. Does she get it? Does she understand? Owen is erasing her parents right now. He is literally tossing them out and scrubbing them from their own house, their home.

Ivy stands, leaving Jeremy’s dress shirt on the floor. For a moment, it looks like she might insist on staying, but then she steps over all the shit scattered everywhere, heading for the door. When she gets to me, she gives my legs a quick hug, then she disappears down the stairs.

I grip the doorframe, practically trembling with rage. “How dare you?”

“Everest.” Owen’s tone is gentle with a hint of resignation.

“How fucking dare you?” I launch myself forward, snatching the blow-dryer he’s still holding and tossing it onto the bed.

I grab the front of his shirt and his hands come up to latch onto my wrists. My momentum sends us careening across the room.

“We have to do this sooner or later.” His voice cracks with emotion. “They’re not coming back, Everest. We can’t keep this place as a mausoleum.”

“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.” I try to push him toward the door, but Owen’s a slippery motherfucker and stronger than he looks. He pushes right back.

“Stop it. Everest. Stop,” he implores.

I don’t. I push and shove, trying to use my bigger body to my advantage. We stumble over the stuff on the floor—clothes, shoes, toiletries, books. Owen’s got one hand wrapped around my wrist when my foot lands on the corner of something hard. I lose my balance and Owen tries to keep me upright. He hauls me to him, throwing his arm around me, but it’s not enough.

We go down, landing in a pile of tangled limbs. My face is pressed to Owen’s chest and he’s holding me tight. I struggle against him for a moment, but he doesn’t budge.

“It’s okay, Ev. Shh, it’s going to be okay,” he murmurs in the same tone he uses when he’s trying to comfort Ivy.

A sob rips through the room and it takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from me. My cheeks are wet and my throat is raw. My lungs burn and it feels like I’m being physically torn apart.

I don’t know when I started crying, but now that I’m in the midst of it, it all comes pouring out. Again. I’ve already cried so much in the weeks since the accident. I’ve sobbed while lying in bed, hugging a pillow. Stray tears have slipped down my cheeks while I’m working out my shit on the punching bag at the gym. I’ve stood in the shower, letting the water wash the grief away.

Why am I still crying? How do I still have tears left to shed? When does it stop?

I cling to Owen as my emotions sweep me up and carry me away. He doesn’t let me go. He doesn’t try to distance himself. If anything, his arms squeeze me tighter, his body curls protectively around me.

I take the comfort he offers, ignoring all the messy history between us, ignoring how out of character this is for him. I soakin the warmth of his body, the solid muscles under my palms, the grounding weight of him.

He smells so good. I want to breathe in that rich leather scent and hold it in my lungs. It makes me feel safe and protected and small.

His lips touch the shell of my ear and his breath tickles whenever he exhales. His stubble catches on my hair. He hasn’t shaved in a while and it’s really messing with the clean-cut look I’m used to.

Gradually, these little things filter in through the debilitating grief that’s consumed me. My tears dry up, my pulse settles, and my breathing slows. Still, Owen doesn’t let me go.

We lie there. Holding each other. On the floor. Neither of us speaks. Neither of us moves. It’s like we’re in a little bubble where time stands still. Nothing from our past can make it into the bubble and neither can anything from our future. Our beef with each other is irrelevant. All that matters is the comfort of being with someone who understands.

At some point, Owen’s hand starts rubbing up and down my back. Nothing huge, just a slide back and forth. It feels almost absent-minded and I don’t even know if he knows he’s doing it. It’s nice, though. Soothing. I don’t stop him.

I drift, floating in that place between awake and asleep, between dreams and reality. I want to stay here and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I want to forget about all the responsibilities weighing me down and all the work that’s waiting for me. I want to be in this bubble forever.

Owen shifts suddenly and I think he’s trying to pull away. But he’s just adjusting his hips so he’s not pressed quite so tightly against me. Under my ear, his heart rate seems to increase and his breathing grows more rapid.

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