Page 68 of Holiday Interference
I haven’t opened the bottle since.
I told myself I needed to stop. To cut it off. Tomove on.
But God, I miss him.
I miss the weight of his hand on my hip. The gravel in his voice when he said my name. The way he looked at me like I was more than a passing distraction.
I miss the space he carved into my life so quickly and without warning.
I haven’t been able to fill it back in.
Exhaling hard through my nose, I try to shake off the burn behind my eyes.
The silence in my apartment is loud—no music, no TV, no calls coming in. Just the low hum of the heater and the buzz of my laptop fan.
I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders, the knit catching on the dry skin at my elbow, and mutter, “Stupid heart,” like that’ll be enough to quiet it.
It isn’t.
I reach for my coffee, take a sip out of habit, and grimace. It’s cold and bitter, just like I’m beginning to feel like.
Maybe he’s already forgotten me.
Maybe he never thought about calling. Neverwantedto.
I didn’t give him a way to reach me, and I didn’t ask for his. That was the deal I made with myself. No expectations. No vulnerability.
No risking the version of me I’ve worked so damn hard to protect.
Because wanting more means admitting Idon’thave it all together.
And I don’t know how to want someone like him without breaking open the walls I’ve spent a decade building.
I close the laptop without saving. Curl into the corner of the couch and stare at the blank TV screen like it might give me an answer.
It doesn’t.
It just reflects my tired face back at me.
And still—still—I can’t stop wondering if he felt it, too.
The tug in his chest when I got in that car.
The ache I can’t shake now, no matter how many times I tell myself it wasn’t a breakup.
Because even if it wasn’t?
Ithurtslike one.
I must doze, because I’m jolted awake by my phone buzzing against the blanket draped across my lap.
It’s an unknown number with an Atlanta area code.
My heart pounds. Could it be Cal? Did he find a way to get my number?
I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
There’s a short pause. A flicker of breath on the other end. Just enough space for the tension to wind tighter around my ribs.
