Page 159 of Fault Lines
I curled up on my side, watching the snow outside pile higher, hiding everything ugly under a blanket of white.
For the first time, I wondered if maybe that’s all any of us ever did: cover up the bad parts, hope nobody noticed, and keep going.
Tomorrow, I decided, I’d call Richard. I’d check on Nate. I’d decide about the restraining order.
But for tonight, I let myself be protected, just for a little while.
∞∞∞
The next morning, Cam woke me with coffee and a sleek new phone, still encased in the plastic like it was evidence at a crime scene. “Set it up,” he said, sliding it across the table. “Use your old number or change it, whatever you want.”
I almost said “new number,” but the words jammed up behind my teeth. Part of me wanted to cut off every string that connected me to the last few months, to start over as someone else, but the rest of me couldn’t let go of the old ghosts. It was the kind of self-destruction I excelled at: knowing what was healthy, and doing the opposite.
“I’ll keep it for now,” I said. Cam didn’t comment, but his eyes flickered.
Activating the phone was mechanical. The familiar startup sequence, the soft buzz as it synced to the cloud, every app restoring itself like nothing had changed. It was only when the barrage of texts hit—one after another, each notification slicing the silence—that I realized just how much I’d missed, and how much I wished I hadn’t.
At first, I ignored them. Cam watched from the other side of the table, not saying a word, but I could feel the disapproval radiating off him in waves.
By noon, the notifications had clogged the phone so badly I had to silence it just to think. I read the first three messages, then the next ten, and before I knew it, I’d scrolled through the entire morning.
It started with apologies.
Livi I’m so sorry.
I don’t remember everything, but I know I fucked up.
I’m not myself anymore.
Then it veered into blame.
You didn’t have to leave.
If you’d just given me a chance, none of this would have happened.
You always run.
Then came the threats, alternating between declarations of love and something much darker.
I can’t live without you.
I’ll come find you if I have to.
If you don’t answer, I’ll make you pay.
The texts were relentless, a flood of language so raw and desperate I almost felt sick. The worst part was, I recognized every word. I’d written my own versions of them, once, years ago, when I thought heartbreak was supposed to look like obsession.
At three, Nate called. I let it go to voicemail.
At four, he called again.
At five, I picked up, just to hear what it sounded like.
He was sobbing, his voice warped by cheap liquor and regret. “Please, Livi,” he begged. “Just talk to me. Tell me you’re okay. Tell me you’re not with him.”
I hung up, hands shaking.
Cam saw the state of me when he came home from work, but didn’t ask. He set the groceries down, poured two glasses of wine, and joined me on the couch. We watched a documentary about dogs saving lives in the Arctic, neither of us saying a word. When the episode ended, Cam muted the TV and turned to me.
