Page 55 of Entangled By You
My feet move of their own accord, drawing me through the house, straight toward her bedroom, but it’s the wide open door to the spare that catches my attention. It’s empty, completely cleared out. Cans of paint and all the supplies are huddled in the middle.
A tightness pools beneath my collarbone, the heavy weight of sorrow spreading like a rampant disease.
We were supposed to do this together. She’d pick the color, and I’d do all the heavy lifting, while she inevitably bossed me around from the corner.
She might not have changed the code, but she’s moving on without me, and it snaps something into place.
A week isn’t a lot of time in the big scheme of things, but it’s apparently enough that she’s started projects by herself.
Fuck it, what more do I have to lose at this point?
When I step back and eye the space, I know it’s possible.
Every muscle in my body aches, as if someone replaced my bones with rebar overnight. My shoulders feel welded stiff, my back’s one long knot, and my hands are raw from hours of gripping a paint roller.
Who knew painting four measly walls could wreck a person like this?
Not that the mattress helped. Spending another night on this worn-out clubhouse bed—the one I swore I’d never touch again—was like wrestling a pile of rocks. Springs dug into my ribs with every shift; the whole thing sagged to a pit, constantly rolling me to the middle. It’s nothing like Lexi’s mattress. Hers always felt like it cocooned us, especially when she curled in close, her hair brushing my chin. That memory alone makes the ache sharper.
I groan into the hollow room. It doesn’t feel like anything anymore, let alone home. Just four walls that smell faintly of stale smoke and loneliness.
Reaching for my phone on the nightstand, my chest tightens with that stupid flicker of hope. Maybe this time. Maybe she gave in and called. I swipe the screen open.
No calls. No missed texts.
The silence cuts deeper than I want to admit. My thumb hovers over her name like it always does, itching to type something—anything—but I already know how that’ll go.
Instead, I fire off a quick text to Harlow, confirming Lexi’s schedule for the day, then shove myself upright, peeling out of the death trap I used to call a bed.
The day’s already waiting for me. The sooner I pick up the order from her registry and haul it into the nursery, the better. Maybe if she walks into that room and sees it ready, it’ll count for something.
The drive across town feels longer than it should. The boxes of furniture are packed like a jumbo game of Tetris in the bed of the truck I borrowed. By the time I drag everything inside Lexi’s place, sweat’s rolling down my back.
Unboxing the crib is its own special kind of hell. Cardboard guts spill across the floor, and tiny pieces of Styrofoam squeal under my boots. The instructions unfold into some cursed treasure map that you need a specialized degree to decipher. A hundred and eighty-seven pieces scatter across the hardwood floor. I stare at them until the lines begin to blur.
I need backup.
“Then we just have to screw in the two end pieces and it’ll be good to go,” Vik confirms, crouched over the frame like he could do this in his sleep.
“Thanks again, man, for coming out to help. I’m sure you had better things to do today.”
“Don’t sweat it.” He sets the screwdriver down and smirks. “When I told Josie what I was up to, she got all sappy about it. Said Lexi’s been a sad mess at work this week, too. Y’all really need to work your shit out before this baby comes.”
I gesture helplessly to the half-built crib and the chaos around us. “What do you think I’m trying to do here?”
Vik snorts, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Looks more like you’re keeping your head in the sand, doing everything around your girl without actually having a conversation to move forward.”
“She won’t call me back. Just ignores my texts.” The words leave me weak. I rub a hand over my face. “And man, there’s been a lot of texts.”
Vik leans back on his heels, gives me that look only a friend can get away with. “And you think sneaking into her place instead of showing up when you know she’ll be here is the answer? Fucking buck up, man.”
ACTS OF SERVICE X 100
LEXI
Working full-time this far along,with her weight pushing against my bladder and a heavier ache pressing against my heart, is catching up to me. I’m yawning for what feels like the tenth time in half an hour, stretching my mouth so wide my jaw pops, and still I try to disguise it behind my water bottle. Of course, Josie catches me. Her eyes flick over from her station, a brow arched like she’s my older sister instead of my boss.
This job at the salon isn’t demanding in the least—answering phones, restocking shelves, smiling at guests, and offering sparkling water with lemon slices while they wait—but lately, every task feels magnified. The constant hum of the blow dryers sets my nerves on edge. My ankles swell when I sit for too long or stand, for that matter. My lower back aches as if I’ve been restocking full boxes to the top shelves, not tiny bottles of product at eye level. Even breathing feels like a chore. I’m not sure what’s heavier, the baby or the silence I crawl home to at the end of the day.
