They should still be here.
It hurts my straining chest, but I continue reading.
Ambrose is still in the hospital, still fighting a fever and waiting on tests to prove what I know in my gut. He’s HIV positive. I can’t stop crying—it’s been three days. Seeing him in that hospital bed, skinnier than he should be, scarred and unable to be touched—it is our fault. Our fucking fault.
Ronan can’t face any of it. He clings to Dollie because she still looks at us without judging eyes, but I don’t think he’d touch our boy, even if he could. The sexual abuse shouldn’t have happened. None of this should have happened. Ambrose shouldn’t have to feel like we failed him. I see it in his eyes. He knows we did.
I wish we could go back in time, be better parents, and be what he deserves. I would do it. I’d do anything to take away the lost and distant look in his eyes every time I try to reach out to him.
And waiting here to be told his life will never be the same as everyone else’s, that he’ll be on medication that will hopefully control this awful disease and allow him to live a semi-normal life, it’s torture.
The first test was inconclusive.
But that tells us everything because it wasn’t negative.
Our poor boy is going to be diagnosed tomorrow, and I can’t take it.
Flipping to the next page, I hunt for more information but come to a dead end. Three or four pages have been ripped out, leaving only a few letters from each page that are cut off near the spine.
The pages that follow talk about something else—a half-assed distraction project Mom was working on.
I close the book, my eyes shutting at the exact same time.
Mom felt guilty… so damn guilty. Like I do.
Needing something to distract myself with, I let my eyes wander the room, over all the dated furniture that I can’t bring myself to throw away. That Mom would have brought new life to if she were here.
So many accessories and toys from my past are missing, and missed by me, due to Shane’s last cleaning spree.
Setting the diary back on the nightstand, I pick up Shane’s phone to return it to the book when it lightly vibrates in my hand.
Taking one last look at the door, I flip it over and unlock it. I find it open on the only app he decided to keep after deleting all the ones that got him in trouble last time.
A skinny woman triggers anxiety in my stomach, and I feel it swell that little bit more. The anxiety isn’t over my relationship or knowing that it’s definitely over. It’s over being stupid enough to trust a word that he said and giving him another chance to make me unhappy, when I could be away from him already.
Seeing her, a girl who resembles one of the girls from last time, dancing on the screen, wiggling her ass at the camera as she plays golf, I roll my eyes and place his phone down, not caring about her or him in this moment. I’m sure to put it back at the odd angle he had it, because he probably did that to see if I would look at it while he was gone.
If he paid more attention to me, he’d know I make mental notes of my surroundings constantly.
He steps back into the room, his eyes on his phone before they land on me.
“Got us snacks, and I brought this up for you.” He smiles, thinking all his dirty secrets are still hidden as he gets in bed, layering the sheets with my phone, and some chocolate and sodas that I don’t remember either of us buying.
It’s a good thing my appetite hasn’t returned yet, because I can’t eat any of the things he brought, as none of them are my safe colors.
My eyes leave the snacks to my phone below, and I bat away Baby Ruths to tap the screen.
“Expecting a call?”
“No, just checking.”
There are no text messages under Lucky’s name, nothing from Annabelle, either. A few emails, mostly shopping spam, remain unread, the tiny icon alerting me to them. I click it, noticing a single one from Ambrose.
Clutching my phone, I angle it away and read it quickly.
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
If you need anything, I can be home within 10 minutes. If not, I finish at eleven. Shall I bring you a pizza? Some places will be open until midnight. I’ll even share a soggy one with you, that you’re probably still not meant to eat, but I’ll turn a blind eye if it means you’ll have food tonight.
