The closer I get to the apartment, the faster my fingers drum against the steering wheel.
I should have picked up flowers. She loves it when I bring them, and I can’t get enough of the way her eyes soften when she buries her nose in the petals.
Shit. Maybe I should turn around.
I sit up straighter as I drive up to our spare parking space and notice her car is not in her spot.
She probably just left, and someone was in her spot when she came home, so she’s parked somewhere else. It happens all the time.
Lifting my shoulder, I bring it up to meet my face to wipe away the sweat that’s rolled down my face.
David needs to fix his air conditioner. There’s something that’s obviously not working with it.
I throw the truck into park, kill the engine, and snatch the keys out. David’s keys go in one pocket, mine in the other. I glance at the shit in the truck bed, worry for a split second someone might mess with it, but honestly, my need to see Hayvin drowns out any care for Jerica’s things. I jog across the apartment lot, heart pounding.
I reach out to open the door, but it doesn’t budge because it’s locked.
Hayvin never locks the door when she’s home. Only if she’s sleeping. That must be it. She’s just napping, recharging after a string of long days. Nothing more than that.
I ignore the frantic clatter of my keys as my trembling hand fumbles with the lock. The sound jars me, the key slipping and snagging until I force myself to breathe and try again.
This time, the key slots in, the knob turns, and the door swings open. Stale, foreign air greets me, prickling my skin and sending a shiver up my arms.
“Vin,” I call out, tossing my keys on the table in the hall.
With each step deeper into the apartment, tension coils tighter in my gut. I pause, scanning the room. Something is wrong, but I can’t place it.
Maybe Hayvin decided to do something different with it.
I drift down the hall, fists clenching and unclenching, ribs tightening with each step toward our bedroom. My feet drag, heavy as if my shoes are filled with cement.
The silence is jarring. Usually, music floats through the rooms, mingling with the swirl of scents from the kitchen. I’d find Hayvin twirling, singing into a spatula, laughter bubbling up as she cooked. I’d lean in the doorway, watching until she caught my gaze with those eyes that said everything I was afraid to admit, and that soft, devastating smile that unraveled me every time, and I’d be lost in her until work pulled me away again.
Or until David wanted to hang out.
I lay a hand against my chest as I take the last few steps to our bedroom door.
My brows knit when I find the bed made and her gone, not where I thought she’d be.
Okay. So, maybe she just went to the store or something.
I reach for my phone to call her, cursing softly when I remember I smashed it after learning she’d blocked me.
My gaze snaps to the closed closet doors, a chill sweeping through me so quickly my teeth begin to chatter.
No. There’s no way.
My eyes scan the dressers, widening at the empty space on top. Disbelief swells into dread. Then I see the photo on the nightstand, and relief and longing mingle as a faint smile tugs at my lips.
There. See. The picture of us that Charlie took on a weekend we spent with her and Keaton still sits on it. It's a candid photo of us, taken when we weren't paying attention. Hayvin was being goofy, and I was staring down at her in wonder. Anyone could look at the smile on my face and tell I was fucking smitten. It had only been about a year after we started dating.
I move closer to the photo, hungry for another glimpse of her playful grin. I pick it up, tracing her bright smile with my fingertip, trying to memorize the joy in her expression.
That smile. I remember thinking I could wake up to it every day for the rest of my life and be happy. The thought terrified me, and I started to pull away soon after.
The plastic frame bites into my fingers as I clutch it, turning away to scan the room once more.
"Hayvin," I call out again, wincing at the way my voice wavers and cracks on her name.
