Page 66 of Lighting the Lamp
He takes a slow step back and then another. Pain flickers across his face as he moves—real, unhidden—but he straightens as best he can.
“You don’t have to fall apart for me,” he says, voice like a secret between us. “But if you ever do, I’ll still be the one who wants to put you back together.”
Then he turns and walks down the steps. There’s no screaming or slammed doors, just his quiet footsteps fading into dusk. I open my mouth to ask him if he is okay. To apologize or at least say something else so I can see his easy smile again, but I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I close the door softly and slide down the inside like every bone in my body gave up all at once. My back hits the wood, and I curl forward, pressing my hands to my face to muffle the sob that rips out of me.
I’m not okay, but for the first time in days, the silence doesn’t feel like punishment.
It feels like a promise. It feels like he is still choosing me, even when I can’t choose myself.
Chapter Twenty-One
Beau
My hand balls into a fist as I turn to head down the stairs, back toward my truck. I don’t look back or say another word because I know it won’t matter. Alise told me what she needed to, and I have to respect that, even if it’s killing me inside.
I hear the soft click of the door shutting behind me as I reach the bottom step, and then a thump. I whirl around, panic sparking in my chest, half-afraid that she’s fallen, tripped, or maybe even changed her mind, but all I see is the closed door between us.
The surrounding air is still and silent, but then I hear a much softer thump. I take the stairs two at a time, my heart in my throat. I press my palm flat against the door, imagining the warmth from where her body must still be on the other side.
Thump.
My hand jerks forward like it’s got a mind of its own, ready to knock just once to make sure she’s okay, but I stop myself. I curl my fingers into a fist and press it to the center of my chest, right over the place that aches the worst. I know if I knock, I’ll break my promise to Alise. If I break this promise, I could lose her for good.
So, I lower myself onto the porch instead, back pressed against the door, and my head leaning against it. The wood is solid beneath me, but I swear I can feel her sadness seeping through and soaking into my spine. A few seconds pass, maybe a minute, and thenthump. It lands right between my shoulder blades. A soft little heartbeat of pain, of her presence, and it wrecks me.
“Hopefully, she is trying to knock some sense into herself.” I chuckle softly as the sound of her head lightly tapping against the door fills the air.
I close my eyes, picturing her sitting just on the other side, knees to her chest, back of her head pressed against the door like she’s trying to be close without being seen. I wonder if that was her plan from the beginning, to take up camp behind the door. The moment the door closed, she slid down it like the weight of everything we didn’t say just knocked the air out of her, to breathe in the silence and feel me through the wood and hope I still haven’t left.
Maybe when she slid down the door, it was instinct. She was finally surrendering to whatever this is between us and waiting for me to show her how much she means to me, that she is more than just a soft place for me to land when I need it. I told her, but I don’t think she believes me. Now she is waiting for me to put my words into action, to show up day in and day out, for the good and the bad. To prove to her I’m worthy of her heart.
I close my eyes, wanting to take root right here on this porch until she opens that door, but a part of me knows I can’t. I stay a few more minutes, hoping Alise feels me on the other side of the door so she knows she’s not alone in this, no matter how much she tries to be.
If I stay any longer, I’ll want to open that door. Then I’ll want to come in and tell her everything swirling around in my head, but she isn’t ready. Instead, I push to my feet, moving carefullyso as not to make a sound and let her know I’ve been sitting here the whole time because I know Alise. She’ll open the door, she might even let me in, but she isn’t ready for that.
I let my fingers rest on the door one more time, long enough to pretend it’s her hand on the other side, and then I walk away. The stairs creak under my weight, and the gravel of the driveway crunches under my boots, but I don’t look back. If I do, even for a second, I won’t leave that spot. I climb into the truck and close the door behind me, slow and soft, pretending like everything in me is not unraveling.
The cab is freezing, the flooded with mid-morning light slipping through the windows. The silence presses in again, thick and suffocating. It’s the kind of half-light that makes your thoughts feel louder in your mind. Instead of the usual quiet whisper that I can ignore, it’s screaming at me to run back to that door, drop to my knees, and beg Alise to open the door.
I don’t start the engine, allowing all the voices to swirl around me. My hands grip the wheel like maybe I can hold myself together through sheer will. I know I should go home, get some sleep, maybe even shower and eat something. But I don’t because I can’t while knowing she is on the other side of the door, struggling. Struggling with what, I have no freaking idea, but she is struggling. Why else would she be thumping her head against the door? She could be crying, curled in a tight ball on the floor, trying to breathe through the storm I helped stir up.
I lean my head back and stare at the porch light, still burning stubbornly against the morning, and it feels like a signal. Or maybe it’s just for me, a silent challenge to stay right where I am, even though it feels like I’m being torn in two.
Then something inside me warms. It’s not a memory but a picture of Alise’s brilliant heart, still learning how to let someone hold it without breaking it. She’s afraid of being left behind, of not being enough, or of being someone’s everything, and I get it.Fuck, do I get it because I’m scared, too. I’m scared that because of my stupidity over the last decade and then some, she will never understand how much she means to me. I’m terrified that this thing we’ve built—the friendship, the laughter, the way my whole body lights up when she’s near—will never be enough for her to stay. Her quirks are a part of her, and I love her so madly despite them, but because of that, I could’ve already lost her.
I reach for my phone and open our thread, her nickname from our childhood staring back at me. It’s been over a week since she last texted. A silence that feels sharp and deliberate, like a punishment I earned but don’t know how to fix. My fingers fly across the screen before I can stop myself.
Tiny Terror
I’m still outside. You don’t have to open the door. Just turn off the porch light if you want me to leave.
I stare at the words until they blur. I feel like I’m begging her to reject me all over again instead of asking for a sign to let me know she is okay. I press my finger against the screen and copy the entire line before hitting the delete button and starting again.
You don’t have to be okay. I just want you to know I’m here. Forever.
Nope, that’s too much. This time, it’s too heavy and raw. Not the thing I want to be sending her when she just asked for some space. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. I inhale deeply and try again.
Tiny Terror
