Page 157 of Broken Pieces
A car passing.
The wind at the window.
The fridge humming to life.
But the door never opens.
I go to bed.
The sheets are cold when I crawl under them. The mattress feels too big without him. My legs tangle in the mess of blankets that still smell of him. I detest loving that scent so much.
I roll onto my side, fists tucked under my ribs, arms tight around myself as if the pressure can fix the ache. But it doesn’t. It never has.
I stare at the wall and try to focus on anything but the emptiness beside me. But my mind drifts before I can stop it.
I try not to think about where he is.
But I do.
My head spins through the worst-case scenarios, every one darker than the last.
All the versions of Zane I’ve met.
The one with blood on his knuckles and no explanation.
The one who kisses me as if I’m the only thing keeping him alive.
The one built from scars and ash and all the shit he carries from a life that taught him not to trust softness.
The one I love.
I think about the promises I never asked him to make. The ones I wanted but never said out loud. The ones I know better than to hope for.
He could be out there right now doing something reckless. Something that ends with him curled up on the cold pavement, bleeding under a streetlight while I lie here, alone, in a bed where he’s supposed to be.
I close my eyes, and pray for sleep to take me. But all I can feel is the space where he should be and the ache in my chest that won’t shut the fuck up.
Finally, I hear the front door open.
It’s so fucking late the numbers on the clock don’t matter anymore.
I don’t move.
Not because I’m asleep. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking I waited up, or that I sat at the chipped table like an idiot, hoping he’d walk through the door in time for dinner.
He moves through the dark without turning on a light.
Then the bathroom door clicks shut.
Water sputters from the pipes, the wheezing stream that always takes a minute to heat. The shower rattles through the wall behind my head.
I stare at the ceiling. Even so, my mind wanders.
Shower.
The thought creeps in before I can stop it. Something bitter and bruised and ugly.
Maybe he fucked someone else tonight.
