A soft laugh leaves him, and it nearly wrecks me. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I did.”
For a second, the world shrinks to just us and the ache between every heartbeat. He takes a step closer, and I swear gravity shifts with him. It hits me all at once—the memories. His mouth on my skin, the taste of cigarettes and rain, the sound of his voice when he used to whisper my name. The sounds he used to make while he was on me. Inside of me.
His gaze drops to my lips before he blinks it away, clenching his jaw. “You deserve better than this,” he says. “Better than me. After all this time...I don’t understand what’s left for you.”
My throat tightens. “Everything is.”
That makes him flinch. He exhales, and he closes his eyes, just for a moment, like the words wound him. Then he steps back. “I can’t promise I’ll be okay,” he admits, voice breaking around the truth.
I nod, unable to breathe. And before I can even think about what I’m doing, the words leave my lips. “I’ll always be here.”
His expression twists into pain, and I immediately regret reciting the lyrics from our song. But just when I thought he wouldn’t respond, he clears his throat. “I’ll wait right here.”
I swallow hard, tears burning my eyes. I bite my lip to keep them at bay.
He hesitates a moment longer, then turns and walks toward the door. I watch him get into the driver’s seat and start up the car. He doesn’t look back.
When they drive off, I stay there in silence, my heart pounding, my body aching with everything I didn’t say. Heather stands beside me, quiet, watching the taillights disappear into the night.
“Are you okay?” she asks softly.
I nod, even though I’m not. “I just saw a ghost.” And as I attempt to hold myself together, the following lyric rips through my mind.
Escaping...
~ A memory ~
The dock creaks beneath our weight as the sun sinks low, bleeding orange and gold across the ocean. The water is like glass tonight. I spread my paints out between us, even as my chest feels tight.
Jude sits beside me, knees drawn up, forearms resting loosely on them. He hasn’t said much since he picked me up. He hasn’t said much all week. His eyes are red-rimmed and tired in a devastating way sleep can’t fix.
It’s been a week since his brother’s funeral.
He stood so straight that day. Shoulder to shoulder with his father. He held his mother when her legs gave out and whispered something in her ear that made her cling to him like he was the only thing keeping her upright. I watched him be strong for everyone else, and I knew that it was costing him.
That’s why I brought the paints.
“You should try,” I say softly, nudging a brush toward him.
He shrugs, barely there. “Sure.”
When he starts painting, it’s uncertain at first. Broad strokes. Dark blues and grays. His hand shakes enough that I notice, though he pretends it doesn’t. I keep my eyes on my own canvas,giving him space, pretending not to see the way his shoulders tense.
Then his breathing changes. It’s subtle, but I catch it. So I glance over. Tears slip down his face silently, tracking through the faint smudges of paint on his fingers when he wipes at them without thinking. They drip off his jaw and onto the dock. He doesn’t stop painting. If anything, his movements get more frantic, like if he keeps his hand moving, he won’t fall apart.
I don’t say anything.
I just sit there and let him break.
The brush slips from his fingers eventually, clattering softlyagainst the wood. He stares at the canvas, at what his soul is expressing.
And then his chest caves.
A raw sound tears out of him, and suddenly, he’s turning, tugging me into his body. His arms wrap around me hard, almost painfully, and I don’t hesitate. I fold into him, my knees sliding against his, my face pressed to his neck.
He sobs.
They’re not quiet or controlled tears. This is ugly and deep and desperate, like something ripped straight from his soul. His fingers clutch the back of my shirt, and his whole body shakes against mine.