I clear it louder.
Nothing.
So I slam my crutch into the wall. Making another dent. Most dents are from parties, but lately they’ve been from me and these fucking crutches. Black scuff on the paint, proving it. Ryan went home hours ago after making me work out like a fucking monster. My injured leg is all shriveled up, looking like a damn pirate. That’s not gonna cut it. Ryan knows it. I know it. Mas knows it. But he doesn’t care. Hasn’t worked out since she dropped that nasty word on us.
Space.
He blinks. Slow and fuzzy. Like waking from a coma. Maybe he is. He’s been in a haze all week. Barely able to cook my food and forget about leaving the house again. The ride with the boys is a distant memory.
He was even too sad and lazy to take the McDonald’s bike back to the dude. Paid extra to have them pick it up. Talk about being broken up over my angel. I haven’t even heard him jerk off. Not once all week. When I ask him about it, he says, “fuck off.”
“You good?” he asks without looking up from the floor. More reflex than caring.
“No,” I say, offended that he even asked. “I’m DE-CEASED, brother. Emotionally. Spiritually. My soul is on life support.”
I’ve asked him if she called or texted him back. She hasn’t. I would have known by his sad sack of shit finally talking to me or actually caring if I lived or died. I’m being dramatic, but whatever, he knows, I know it’s been silent on her side.
He rubs his face, not having showered today. I don’t think he showered yesterday, and his leg isn’t even broken. He doesn’t even have to deal with wrapping a cast every damn time like I did. He’s just unmotivated, undisciplined. Un-everything.
“Em, she asked for space.”
“SPACE IS STUPID. SPACE IS FOR ASTRONAUTS AND ELON MUSK!” I yell down the hall, wanting to walk faster than I can.
This accident was dumb as hell.
Glad the dog is okay though.
He sighs again. That one hurts my chest. It’s been days of seeing that look in Mas’s eyes. The one where he pretends he’s fine, but he’s dying inside, thinking he ruined everything.
“Bro,” I say, because somebody has to talk or we’re both going to sink through the hardwood and die in the crawl space. He doesn’t look up. “You wanna . . . I don’t know, go get ink or something?”
Nothing.
Not even a twitch.
“You always go get tattooed when you’re falling apart,” I add, leaning the crutch against the wall long enough to make an overly dramatic gesture. “Remember after Cecelia?”
That gets him. A tiny flicker. A flash of pain, old enough to vote. His jaw locks tight, but he still doesn’t look at me.
“We could go right now.” I try to keep the mood stupid and casual and very much not about whatever emotional black hole he’s spiraling into. “I’ll pick the design. I have excellent taste. Maybe a dragon across your whole back. Or a wolf on your hip. Or a baby angel with?—”
“Em.”
That one word shuts me up, but only for a second.
“You sure? Because you’re giving very ‘sad divorced dad energy,’ and ink could?—”
“Emilio.”
This time, he finally lifts his gaze, and holy hell, he wrecked. Eyes rimmed red with tears dripping out. Grief as dark as the Sox’s losing streak right now.
“I fucked it up. I got in too deep. I guess I told myself a story that wasn’t real. Wanted her more than she ever wanted me. I see that now. I’m such a fucking fool.”
I shake my head immediately, because no, he didn’t, and yes, he thinks he did, and both of those things are killing us slowly.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did.”
