She has no idea that she’s actually just answered two.
“Okay,” I say with a smile, pushing her hair out of her face as it falls. Pulling the bedding up to her shoulders as it was before I came into the room, I drop a kiss on her forehead. “G’night, Jules.”
As I climb off of our bed, I feel like crawling out of my fucking skin.
My mind sings its old mantra on the way down the stairs, but tonight, it’s different.
I’ve lost her.
I’ve lost her.
I’ve lost her.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
My pen digs into the paper in front of me, finally tearing a hole in the page as I scratch at what was supposed to be a tattoo design. It’s the fifth one I’ve ripped today.
I can’t focus. I can’t shake the sick feeling burning in my gut.
I don’t want to go home.
“T-Mo,” someone calls out, but I don’t think that I really hear them.
My eyes flick to the window in front of me, watching the sky transition from the evening dark to blackness as I flip through to another sheet in my sketchbook. This time, I reach for a sharpie. Can’t do much damage with a marker, right?
I’d kill for a smoke, but I’ve already had three in the past hour. My brother is right, I need to cut back on them, and I can at least convince myself to space it out a little bit more if I’m still inside the studio.
Even if my foot is tapping against the floor so quickly that it feels like my body is set to vibrate and the only thing that I’ve been able to hear all day is the sound of my own heart slamming around inside of my head.
“Tripp.”
My marker glides across the paper in front of me, taking the shape of a spider— no, a praying mantis— no…
“Fuck,” I grumble to myself as I scrap yet another piece, tearing it from its metal rings and crumpling it in my hand before tossing it into the garbage with the rest of its friends.
“Tripp.” Connor’s hand comes down on my shoulder with a hard squeeze. “We’ve been closed for three hours. Are you going home?”
A humorless laugh claws its way out of my throat as I finally give myself permission to reach for the pack of smokes next to me.
Tapping the bottom of the pack against the heel of my palm, I tell him, “She’s fucking someone.”
His mouth drops open, his eyes flaring.
I could almost swear that he takes a step away from me.
“She told you that?”
“I’ve been with that girl half my life,” I say, slipping the filtered end of a cigarette between my lips. “I know when she’s keeping secrets that’ll get her in trouble. I was one of them.”
As I move to walk past him, he steps backward again, his eyes moving from my desk to the pony wall that separates my station from the next one over. There’s a vein at the side of his neck that only ever sticks out when he’s stressed, and right now, its pulse is pounding.
A chill hits my skin, bringing with it clammy hands and a cold sweat that breaks out across the back of my neck. His eyes dart between mine in a silent plea.
Pulling the unlit cigarette from my lips, I let my arms fall slack at my sides.
“Tell me right now that you’re not fucking my wife,” I demand.
“T-Mo,” he says with his hands held up in mock surrender.
