Page 129 of Bloom

“The day she showed up was the first time I’ve seen her since I left. That phone call I told you about was the first time we spoke.”

“Really?”

I glance up to see him nod.

I think that makes me feel better. It makes it feel… realer. The separation. And more serious; like he actually meanseverything he’s been telling me. But… God,but. “I don’t know how to believe you.”

He nods again, accepting and un-affronted, no frustration to be found—only sad desperation when he asks, “What can I do?”

I don’t know, I really don’t. I know… I know I want him. I know all I want is to forget this happened. But then I remember how I felt when Cheryl showed up and I remember her face when she wasn’t being horrible—which she does, actually, have every right to be because I’m the villain in this particular scenario, from her point of view, even though she did what she did andI don’t know.

Letting loose a frustrated breath, I turn away, striving for out of sight, out of mind, but God knows that doesn’t work. I stillfeelhis presence. I’d sense it getting closer even if I didn’t hear his footsteps nearing.

Tentatively, something rests on my shoulder—a forehead, I think. Soft hair tickles my neck. A muffled voice murmurs, “I’m so, so sorry Caroline.”

I know. I do. I believe that, at least.

What can only be lips brush my skin, barely there but as warm as the words that leave them. “I miss you.”

My chest rattles with a sharp, shaky inhale as my eyes drift shut. Working on instinct or muscle memory or who knows what, I slowly turn around. Hot breath scorches my collarbone, and I imagine how he must look hunched over me, engulfing me, shielding me.

A huffed exhale makes me shiver when I hook my fingers around the belt loops of his jeans, my knuckles grazing his stomach, and another when I bury my face in the crook of his neck. “I miss you too.”

The big man curled around metrembles. He makes a noise I can only describe as unsteady, and I make a similar one when he slowly, warily, wraps his arms around my waist. He apologizesagain, his mouth pinned to my temple as he keeps whispering sorrowful words like he hopes they’ll sink beneath my skin and take root andwork.

They do, for a while. With each apology, I find myself slumping a little more,wiltingunder the weight of his regret. When they turn into featherlight kisses that skitter along my forehead, down the bridge of my nose, across the apples of my cheeks, I seek them out. I cup his cheek with a shaky hand. I turn my head.

I let him kiss me. Cautiously, then urgently. Determinedly, like he can fix things this way. Like if he kisses me enough, I’ll forget—if he kisses me enough, I might.

I can’t, though.

Using every ounce of my strength, I pull away. “I can’t.”

Through his panted breaths, I hear him say, “Okay.”

I hear him sigh, and I feel it too, a heavy exhale against my cheek that precedes the lightest brush of his lips. I hear him walk to the door and I wrap my arms around myself, I squeeze my eyes shut, I curl my toes in my shoes like that might keep me in place. I hear the door open, the creak of the top step, a hesitant breath and then the sharp inhale of a sentence cut off. If he says goodbye before leaving, I don’t hear it.

As soon as the telltale chime of the front door sounds, I sink to the ground, knees pulled up to my chest, my head hitting the counter behind me with a thud. The breath I blow out hurts my lungs with its ferocity, my scalp tingling with how hard I rake my fingers through my hair.

“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper to myself, and I’m actually disappointed when I don't have an answer.

How long I sit there, staring at nothing, I’m not sure. When my phone rings, it takes a whole minute for the noise to even penetrate the numb abyss that is my mind—and another minute more for me to frown at the unusually enthusiastic attempt tocontact me. Without getting up, I blindly reach for where I left the device on the counter.

A handful of missed calls light up my lockscreen from the same unknown number as earlier—a voicemail, too.

I shouldn't listen to it. I know I shouldn’t. I should delete it, block the number, turn off my phone and sleep the rest of this awful day away.

I should know better than now; I should’ve learned.

Clearly, I haven’t.

My mind, body, soul, every single part of me is in full agreement; I should not be here. I shouldn’t even entertain the notion of clasping that familiar rusted handle and easing open a door in desperate need of painting.

Yet here I am. Pausing halfway when the door creaks like it always does. Creeping down a dark hallway. Ignoring the ominous pit in my stomach.

Where ya been, Linny?he said.Linny. No one’s called me Linny in years. Not since I was a scared child cowering beside a hospital bed, holding a frail hand attached to a frail woman, and feeling pretty frail myself. It sucker-punched me in the gut, that one single word rasped in a voice thick with cigarette smoke and beer-fuelled tears and… somethingdifferent.

There were no drunken ravings, no belligerent snarls, no venom. JustLinnyandI miss youand a non-apology, anI don’t know what happened,anI didn’t mean to, that’s a month too late, that I know he doesn’t mean; that I know wouldn’t make up for everything, even if he did mean it.

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