Page 67 of One Room Vacancy
I let out a surprised laugh, wet and shaky. “You wouldn’t.”
He lifts a brow. “You know I’ve got his number; we’re friends, after all. I’ll threaten him with a PowerPoint presentation on why he’s an idiot if he walks away from you.”
That gets a real smile out of me—small, but real. “You’re a menace.”
He shrugs. “Menace or not, I’m here. Always have been, even if I didn’t always show it the right way.”
I stand and wrap my arms around him before I can talk myself out of it. “You’re a great brother, Wes.”
He squeezes me back, tighter than I expect. “Took me long enough to earn that, but…thanks.”
Neither of us says anything else for a moment. But I think he knows. I think we both do.
SIXTEEN
GABE
I hadn’t planned on coming back.
Not after the way she looked at me when she told me to leave. Like I’d already let her down, like she was bracing for it, like part of her had been waiting for this ending the whole time.
But I couldn’t stay away.
Not because I thought she’d change her mind—but because my toothbrush was still in the cup by the sink and my hoodie was draped over the living room chair. All my belongings were still here and I hadn’t figured out how to live in a world where none of that meant anything anymore.
So I came back. Quietly, key barely turning in the lock, breath held in my chest, like if I made a sound it might shatter what little remained.
I told myself I’d just grab my stuff and be gone before she got home. Leave a note—pathetic, but better than nothing. Something honest, for once. Something she could read without me hovering, without me hoping.
But then the door opens.
And everything in me stills.
She steps into the apartment like she always has, but I can tell—she knows I’m here. Her energy changes, stretches taut across the silence like a held breath.
Before I know it, she’s standing in my bedroom doorway.
Then: “You came back.”
I stay facing the duffel bag. I don’t trust myself to look at her, not yet. “Just to grab my stuff.”
It’s not bitter, it’s not a jab. It’s the closest I can get to the truth without bleeding out on the floor.
A pause.
Then: “You weren’t even going to say goodbye?”
Her voice is quieter than I expect. Not angry. Just tired. Wounded in that way she never lets anyone see.
I swallow hard. “Didn’t think I had a reason to.”
It sounds crueler than I mean it to. What I meant was: I didn’t think she’d want me to.
“You left a letter.”
I glance at her hand, and sure enough, the envelope’s there, creased in the middle, a smudge of flour or maybe dust still lingering on the edge. I don’t know why I notice that—maybe because I’d set it down thinking it would sit there unread. Or maybe because the way she holds it, tight, careful, like it matters, makes it feel heavier than I’d meant it to be.
“I thought…” My voice is rough, and I clear it. “I thought it would be easier.”
