Page 115 of Faking All the Way
I stare after her, sitting at the table alone. Her coffee is still sitting across from me, half finished. Steam rises from the surface, curling in the air. I watch through the window as she gets into her car, as she sits there for a second with her hands on the wheel. I can’t see her face from here, can’t tell what she’s thinking.
Then she pulls away, her car disappearing around the corner.
I swallow, my throat is so tight it actually hurts. There’s an empty feeling in my chest, as if a hole just got opened up and some vital piece of me was ripped out.
How did a day that started so perfectly, with her in my arms and pancakes burning because I couldn’t stop kissing her, turn into… this?
Chapter Forty-One
Kat
Three days have crawled by since I walked away from Asher, and every morning, I still catch myself peeking out my bedroom window toward the guest house like some sort of stalker. Subtle glances as I watch for movement, looking for signs of life.
I haven’t seen him in person since he came by that first evening to get his clothes and toiletries—all the stuff that had slowly migrated over to the main cabin as we spent more time together. His toothbrush from the bathroom, his shirts from my closet, the book he’d been reading that ended up on my nightstand.
But I’ve caught glimpses of him through the window since then. I’ve seen him moving around inside the guest house, the lights turning on and off at odd hours as if maybe he can’t sleep either.
His rental car is still parked outside, a constant reminder that he’s still close by, still here on the property. I meant it when I said he could stay in the guest house. I would never have gone back on that part of our deal, would never have kicked him outwith nowhere to go during the holidays. But some part of me regrets offering now. Being this near but so completely out of reach feels worse than if he’d just left entirely.
I’ve started to live like a ninja, moving carefully and quietly through the main cabin, timing my meals and coffee runs to the kitchen so I won’t risk bumping into him if he comes over to cook, and peeking out windows before I leave to make sure he’s not outside. It’s exhausting, this constant vigilance.
Yesterday, I went alone to the doctor to get the stitches in my hand taken out. I sat in the sterile room by myself, the antiseptic smell making me queasy as I tried not to watch as the doctor work, snipping the threads and pulling them free. I got a little woozy from it, my head going light and fuzzy, and I couldn’t help missing Asher’s steadying presence.
The house feels…hollowwithout him. As if something vital has been sucked out of it, leaving just an empty shell behind. The rooms are too quiet. The bed is too big. Everything reminds me of him, of us.
This morning, after brushing my teeth, I nearly sprint to the kitchen. I make coffee with shaky hands, spilling a few grounds on the counter, then splash creamer in it and retreat back upstairs as quickly as I came, clutching the mug like it’s some kind of shield.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I glance down to see multiple texts from Samantha, who’s been checking in from Antarctica whenever the Wi-Fi at her research base actually cooperates. She’s reached out almost every day since the night it all fell apart, when I called her crying so hard I could barely get the words out.
There are a bunch of pictures attached to the texts, mostly of penguins doing silly things.
SAMANTHA: For you, bestie. Because we could all use more adorable penguins in our life, right?
SAMANTHA: I love you and miss you.
SAMANTHA: You’re going to get through this.
The messages make me smile despite the heaviness in my chest. I text her back, wiping an errant tear away with the back of my hand.
ME: Thanks. I DO need more penguins in my life. I love you too. Miss you so much.
I haven’t told anyone else that Asher and I have split up. I haven’t seen my family since I ended things, making excuses about being busy with work whenever Mom calls to invite us over. But I know I’ll have to face them eventually. I’ll have to endure all their questions, their sympathy, their well-meaning but unhelpful advice about fish in the sea and everything happening for a reason.
Staring at my reflection in the dark phone screen, I remind myself that I would’ve had to break that news to them at some point anyway. The plan from the beginning was that this wouldn’t last long. That it would end when the holidays ended and he moved to Denver, and we’d go back to being strangers who happened to share a few weeks together.
But deep down, if I’m being really honest with myself, I’d started to hope for more. Started to imagine what it might be like if this didn’t end. If maybe, just maybe, what we had was real enough to last.
That thought makes a flash of pain burst through my chest, sharp and hot, stealing my breath for a second.
I take a moment to try to get my emotions under control, breathing in slowly through my nose, counting to five, and then breathing out through my mouth for another count of five. I haven’t been able to draw for the past several days. Every time I sit down at my art station and pick up a pencil, my hand just hovers over the paper.
Nothing comes. No ideas, no inspiration, no desire to create. Like I’m numb to everything that usually brings me joy.
The pencils sit untouched on my desk, the colors mocking me. The illustration I started for Asher is still there, almost finished, but I can’t look at it without wanting to throw up.
Unable to take the idea of being trapped in the suffocating loneliness of the cabin all day, I grab my keys from the hook by the door, pull on my coat and boots, and drive to my grandmother’s house.
The big Victorian is a familiar, welcome sight as I pull up… but it also stirs up memories that make the pain worse. Last time I came here, Asher was with me, charming my family and friends at the Christmas party, fitting in so easily it seemed effortless. This was the place where he made me come with just his voice in that upstairs bedroom, whispering filthy things as he gazed into my eyes. Where we talked in the dark afterward, sharing vulnerable parts of ourselves.
