“You know they both died, right?”
“Holden? Fucking go.”
I do.
Cool air envelops me as I step into the lobby of the building, duffel bag strung over my shoulder. No one seems to notice me—the few people I pass, anyway. The elevator hums, an almost peaceful sound, as it rises. The doors squeak quietly as they open before me. I swallow and exit on shaking knees.
Before long, I near the door I never thought I would see again. I thought when Dealla moved out, it would be permanent. This apartment was supposed to be far in our past. It was supposed to be nothing more than a stepping stone to our forever.
So many memories were made here. Our friendship, sleeping together for the first time, falling in love with her… All wonderful events that transformed my entire world. She and Ashton burst into my life, brought so much color to my existence, and I can’t go back to black-and-white monochrome. If this ends up going to Hell, I will forever be scarred with the memories of how deeply I love them. How I will always love them.
I want to keep them. I want to keep the love I’ve built with her. I want my fucking family back.
Drawing in a steadying breath, I rap my knuckles against the door. My gaze hones in on the plaque screwed to the wall.14-07B. My skin has grown clammy, and I shiver as the air conditioner pushes more cold air through the corridor. I feel five sizes too small. Bile creeps up my throat the longer I have to wait. Black spots dance along the edge of my vision. That traitorous voice tells me, again, that this shouldn’t be on just me to fix.
The door slowly opens, the chain straightening with a metallicclick, and I get my first glimpse of Dealla in the last week. Her breath comes out in a shuddering gust, unsteady as if she can hardly dare to exist with me in front of her. The knife in my chest twists viciously, ugly and violent, at the sight of tear-clumped lashes around eyes rimmed in red. Her chapped lips part, but she doesn’t speak.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp out. My throat tightens, and tears burn in my eyes. “Dealla, I’m so fucking sorry. I—I don’t know what went wrong, but can we talk about this? Please? I’m not ready for goodbye.”
Dealla stares at me through the gap between door and frame for a long minute. It scares me how I can’t read her expression. I used to be able to look at her and know what she was feeling, thinking, but now, I might as well be trying to understand a brick. We might as well be strangers.
The floor falls from beneath my feet when she shuts the door. My lungs collapse. I can’t breathe. She’s not even giving me the courtesy of goodbye. She’s breaking me further. She...
I stumble back, blink once, then Dealla is there again. She doesn’t say a word. She just turns on her heel and walks farther into the apartment. My body moves of its own accord, fear that this is a trick spurring me quicker. My feet take the steps forward. My hand shuts and locks the door. My heart thunders against my ribs.
Everything screams for me to run to her and hold her as tight as I possibly can, to never let her go again.
I don’t. I fight the urge. She left without goodbye for a reason, so I’m not going to force myself into her personal space. As much as I ache to, I can’t do that to her. I’ve already hurt her enough. I want—need—her affection and love freely given.
Ashton stops squishing mashed potatoes between his fingers as soon as I step into view. “’Den! An’ Dee, ’Den!”
“Yeah, baby, Holden is here.”
“Up!” Ashton shouts and reaches for me.
“Do you mind?” I ask Dealla in an undertone.
The look she gives me is indecipherable, but she dips her chin in response. I ignore the mess Ashton has made and hold him close. I don’t care about the potatoes now clinging to my shirt or the carrots against my cheek. I bury my face in the toddler’s hair and breathe in slowly to steady my heartbeat.
As I wipe Ashton’s face and hands moments later, I glance at Dealla where she stands at the end of the bar. She shields herself, arms hugging her torso tightly, and her face is closed off. The last thread holding my heart together snaps, and I close my eyes for a second.
“Can we talk?”
She doesn’t reply. Instead, Dealla disappears into her bedroom, and the door closes with a click that sounds far too final. I carry Ashton to the couch, dropping onto the cushions, and run my fingers lightly over the child’s back.
I wonder if this is it.
I thought I was prepared, but how does one prepare for losing the greatest love they’ve ever known?
Words Hurt
Holden
Thebedroomdoorcreaksopen, and Dealla clears her throat softly. I hesitate then look away from Ashton, up at the woman who has the potential to destroy me. She beckons me closer, and I hates that I don’t know what her eyes are saying. Exhaling sharply, I set the toddler on the floor and promise to be right back. Steeling my spine against all that can go wrong, I approach Dealla with waning hope.
Her hand stretches out, and I stare blankly at the leather-bound book she holds. Her journal. The book I swore never to open, to read, to even touch. Is this a trick? My gaze darts to her face. There’s no amusement, no sign this is a test, so I slowly grab the journal from her hand. Her mouth opens as if she’s going to speak, but she shakes her head and brushes past me.
I hesitate then enter her bedroom at her gesture. Closing the door behind me, I move to the bed and sit. My heart hammers, agonizing and rapid-fire, beneath my ribs as I peel open the journal to the first page she’s marked with a strip of paper. It’s dated to a month after we began living together, when she’d uprooted herself and Ashton for me.
