Not like I love Ben—with wildfire that eats through marrow or the urgency to breathe in his skin.
I love Richard for the boy hidden beneath the armor who was never held and always keeps trying, even when it's easier to give up.
I drift toward the kettle to make a chamomile tea. Two white mugs and too little time to figure out what I'm going to do next.
When I slide the tea in front of him, he gives me a broken smile. "Thank you. I'm sorry I'm weak."
"Don't say that," I say softly. "Sharing your feelings isn't weakness. It's the strongest I've ever seen you."
"Just don't leave me." He pulls me closer to him and exhales into my hair. "I need you, now more than ever. I need to fix this. You have to stand by my side, otherwise... I don't know what I'd do."
I freeze under his touch. Wish I had something to say that wasn't a lie, but everything in my mouth would be cruel, so I keep it trapped.
Because once upon a time, Richard was the one who caught me, and the least I can do is stay when he's finally asking for help.
25
It’s 2:22 a.m. I sit alone in the dark office, my phone glowing in my hand, finger suspended above Ben’s name—years of messages staring back at me like evidence.
I should delete them. I know that.
A sly little voice whispers delete and forget him.
But I can't stop circling the question of how I got here...
The weeks after Richard's breakdown felt like an emotional pendulum.
Ben's been swallowed by his work, but in those few stolen pockets, the noise around us dulls.
Until it doesn't, and it feels like something's about to snap.
A question here, another there. Always about Richard:how much time do we spend together? What do we usually do? Do we sleep together?
I haven't told him about Richard's business because Richard's asked me not to say a thing and heck, we're talking about prison and I don't want to drag Ben into anything.
And on top of everything—yeah, Ben has changed, but some traits remain. Being predictably unpredictable is one of them.
Sometimes he disappears for hours, sometimes for a whole day. Once, he straight-up forgot we had a date.
Sure, his mobile ER project kept him busy and he apologized like a hundred times, but the past rushed back and Ireminded myself to sober up because I don't want to hold onto promises when they could turn into goodbyes.
I've written this scene in my book recently: Tessa left in stilettos on cracked concrete, wondering why she let Damien back into her story as she cries her eyes out.
Only difference? On page, I get a rewrite. In real life I don't want that noir romance starring me.
At least our rooftop turned into somewhat of a shrine. Up there, I can breathe, feel, write.
I even bought a snake plant, because apparently, a snake plant makes an affair nest feel like a second home.
My book's almost done, we're just going through the edits, and that's the one thing I'm genuinely proud of right now.
The situation is very different down here where Richard requires me to be his friend, but doesn't treat me like one. The more I try, the meaner he gets.
The other day I mentioned that the new anchor seemed nice. Apparently, I am painfully naive and have no insight into people, which is the reason why my best friend is a witch, and I chase misfits.
So I apologized, because in my head I was apologizing for something else.
And then there's that eerie Halloween gala story.
