Page 25 of If He Hadn't Cheated
He chuckles. “Liar.”
I laugh bitterly. “That obvious?”
He shrugs. “Only to someone who’s needed it before.”
I sit on a crate. My knees shake. “I almost went looking for it,” I say.
“The stash?” He says like he knows where I keep it.
I nod. “I didn’t.”
He nods too. “That matters.”
“I hate that this is hard.”
“Everything worth doing is.”
I swallow. “I don’t think I’m strong enough.”
He leans on the crate. His leg inches from mine. “I think you’re wrong.”
We sit there in silence. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t pressure me.
Just sits.
That’s what I need. Someone who doesn’t expect me to be okay. Someone who’s willing to sit in the dark with me until I’m ready to face the noise.
“I got to go back inside.”
He sighs. “I have to out of town. I’ll be back in the morning.”
I nod.
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret later.”
That’s easy for him to say. He’s got everything figured out. He finished school, runs his father’s company and more money than he knows what to do with.
It’s only a matter of time until he gets bored and goes back to his normal successful life.
11
Iwake to the sound of glass shattering. It takes a second to realize it came from me.
My hand. My glass. The one I must have left on the edge of the nightstand. Or maybe I knocked it over while dreaming. Or thrashing. Or clawing at the edge of something I don’t want to name.
I sit up too fast. My head pounds instantly. A low, punishing throb behind my eyes that makes me wince and clutch my temples. The sun is too bright through the blinds. It slices across the floor and touches everything like judgment.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and find my feet bare, the wood floor too cold for comfort. I don’t remember taking my shoes off last night. I don’t remember coming home. I remember walking. That’s it. Just putting one foot in front of the other and hoping it would mean something. Hoping it would burn enough time off the clock so I could sleep without dreaming.
That didn’t work.
It feels like I haven’t really slept in days. The only thing I feel is tired. Tired in my bones. Tired in the cracks between my thoughts.
I’m shaking again. My fingers tremble when I pick up the glass shards, and one of them slices my thumb. I curse softly, sucking the blood, tasting the sharp metallic edge of being alive. It doesn’t feel like enough.
I drag myself into the bathroom and turn on the faucet. Run my finger under cold water. Apply pressure and tend to the small wound. A splash to the face.
It helps. Not much, but it’s something. I look up at my reflection.
