Trying to convince him not to do that, I use my bag as an excuse, and I slip out the door, letting darkness guide me through the halls.
CHAPTER 71
Ambrose—present day
Fuck.
The last few days have been rough.
Grief can hit like a wave and drag you under, and it’s so hard to stay afloat when you’re trying to hold someone else up.
The shower ceases to drip, taking thoughts of Mom and Dad down the drain.
The bright bathroom light finally feels less like an enemy as I step out of the shower and wipe myself off. Fuzz from the black towel sticks to my body, and I toss it to the floor without drying completely.
Stepping into my sweats, water drips down my body as I apply a thick white moisturizer to my scars. It’s probably the cold snap in the weather, but my skin is drier tonight than usual.
I arrived home ten minutes ago. Dollie’s door, already closed, no sound behind it. Maybe she’s finally been able to sleep… with him.
Cold pizza waits on my bed, the box open to reveal an unappetizing margherita. The smell had tempted me when I stepped inside here and set it down, but the appearance did the opposite, putting me off food for the night. The greasesoaks through the box onto my sheets, and my muscles tense in response.
It’s nothing to do with the fact that Shane is still here. I can’t convince myself. Maybe it was stupid of me to expect otherwise, because I knew before entering this house that he hadn’t left it. For some reason, he’s stolen the space I like to park in. Heaven forbid, he gets mud on those alloys. Better than the word clown scratched into them, I suppose.
Oh, well.
Blinking away thoughts of the man I hate most, I lock eyes with myself in the broken mirror. Cracks in the mirror interfere with the sharp angles of my face because replacing the mirror hasn’t been a priority.
My stomach rolls over my image, and the urge to cut pesters me from my reflection. All those jagged edges on the mirror offering me a weapon to do it.
A low click of sound comes from my room, distracting me from the sharpest edge and the need to make myself bleed.
I return the cap to the moisturizer and set it down, looking into my dark room, where a small, pink-tinted shadow lingers at the door.
“Dollie?” I croak, my throat sore after all the talking I’ve been doing these last few days. I still haven’t spoken at work, nor to Annabelle or Nyx, with whom I’ve been communicating through text messages, regarding Dollie or the house.
I’ll admit, the house looks great for a pink house. I hope Dollie likes it.
“Hey,” her small voice travels through my dimly lit bedroom to the brightly lit bathroom where I stand in the doorway.
“You can turn the lights on.”
“It’s fine.” She steps toward me, and my feet move to meet her. “I’m not staying. I just wanted to see you before bed.”
My right cheek lifts, unable to deny how her words affect me.
I wonder if she sees it.
She gives nothing away as she asks, “What are those?” A glittering nail points to all the sacks of her stuff in the corner of my room.
“They’d be easier to see with the light on.” I wink, knowing for sure that it gets lost in the dark.
“Probably, but I think I’m due a migraine.”
“From crying? Or something else?” If he’s hurt her?—
“Probably stress factors in, too.” I can vaguely make out a sad smile on her face.
Wanting to see a genuine one, I place my hands on her arms and tell her, “It’s all your stuff.”
