Page 156 of Broken Pieces

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Chapter Twenty-Seven

Skylar

Thepastagoescold.

I cooked for him. I don’t know why.

Maybe I thought it would matter.

Perhaps I just wanted to do one soft thing in a world that doesn’t let me be soft.

So I stirred the sauce until it clung to the wooden spoon, boiled the spaghetti until the steam filled the apartment, checked it twice to make sure it didn’t turn to mush.

I even plated it. Two servings. Forks crossed on chipped plates.

I even lit the tea light candle I found under the sink last week. Dust still on the bottom. Set it in the middle of the table.

Stupid. I know.

But I did it anyway.

Then I waited.

And waited.

The clock ticked loud in the quiet.

Six.

Then seven.

By nine, the candle had burned out. The pasta was stiff, the sauce congealed, and my throat was too tight to swallow any of it down.

No messages. No calls.

Not that I expected one. Zane doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t check in with me.

But tonight… nothing.

Finally, I scrape the plates into the bin, sauce sliding off in thick, cold clumps.

I wash everything as if it were personally offending me. Too much soap, scrubbing so hard I nearly strip the non-stick off the damn pan. The sponge tears. Doesn’t matter. My skin turns red. The kitchen smells of garlic and regret, and still I scrub, chasing some fucked-up sense of control in suds and steel.

I don’t cry.

Fuck him.

I won’t give it that power. I’ve cried for people who let me down, and Zane won’t be one of them.

I turn off the tap.

My palms sting, the heat from the water still trapped in my skin. I glance down at what I’m wearing—a short skirt, a tank top, lip gloss I applied for no goddamn reason other than I thought he’d be here.

The apartment’s quiet, but not in a good way. It’s that heavy silence that wraps around your chest and squeezes until you can’t tell if it’s hurt or shame.

Every shadow appears darker. Every creak of the floor is a sound I want to be him.

My heart jumps at the slightest noise.

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