She stops, and her eyebrows arch.
“S-sorry, sorry. Um, yeah, so, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I repeat, and before she has a chance to say anything or to look more confused or annoyed or whatever, I train my eyes to the ground, shove my hands into my pockets, and start moving. My car is thankfully parked on the opposite side of the parking lot from hers, all the way off in the corner by itself, and I can’t get away fast enough.
Halfway there, my legs start to feel like Jell-O, though the farther I get from the building, the less the ache in my chest hurts. I pull my car keys out of my pocket as I get closer to my car, and a minute later, I’m collapsing into the driver’s seat, taking long, slow, deep breaths to steady myself.
Dammit, I need this job. It’s probably the only job I could find that I can actually sort of handle. The library is quiet, not busy, and most people who come in are families with young children. I don’t fucking panic and flinch away from young children.
But, hell. Pretending to be okay all day has been awful, and I’m done, barely holding myself together now that I no longer have to.
I let out something that resembles a laugh, or maybe it’s a sob, and it resonates oddly in the interior of my small car. I’m shaking, too, and I’m so ready to go home, I can’t even—
A stabbing pain shoots through my chest, fast and hot, and I close my eyes and hold my breath.
Home.
Right.
Ican’tgo home. I don’t even fuckinghavea home anymore, do I?
My hand finds my pocket again, and I wrap my fingers tightly around my cell phone as I try to block out all the terrible memories of that morning—the memories I’ve been desperately pushing away all day. But they surround me, suffocating me, pressing down on me.
I can’t go home. I’m not welcome anymore. Mom doesn’t want me there anymore. It’s all so sudden that it’s making me dizzy.
She texted earlier, just after my shift started. Said she’ll pack up the rest of my stuff today and leave it in a box at the end of the driveway. She wants my room empty so she can, I dunno, use it for that asshole’s extra shit or something. And when the month is over, my car insurance is canceled. And my cell phone plan.
Keep the car and the phone, her text said.But you can pay your own bills now. You’re an adult. Time you act like one.
So fucking generous of her.
Patrick texted, too. He shouldn’t even have my number, the fucking jackass, but he got it anyway, probably from Mom. Hesent three messages, each of them short but threatening—a clear warning that I should stay away. His last message had some awful implication in it that what happened years ago wasmyfault. That him hitting me and my mom kicking him out weremyfault.
I’m fucking lucky I didn’t just lose it right then. I screenshotted the messages and then deleted them and blocked his number. Maybe that wasn’t the smartest thing to do, I don’t really know, but I didn’t feel like I had any other choice.
As it is, I’m not sure how Iactuallymade it through the day.
Well, maybe that’s not entirely true. Maybe I do know how.
You’ve got this today!
God, Alex has no idea how much I needed that message earlier. He has no idea that I had to steal a few minutes every couple of hours today at work, go hide in the back office, take my phone out and open up my message app and read it over and over. He has no idea how much those few simple words helped remind me that even though I feel more alone than ever, he’s still here. For me.
If not for him . . .
I let out a long, shuddering breath, and my stomach’s in knots as I pull my phone out of my pocket, my eyes still screwed shut. The phone vibrates with a notification, sending an unwelcome chill down my spine.
Please. Please be Alex. Please.
The thought repeats in my head as I force my eyes open and glance down at the screen. A warmth floods through my chest and all the way down into my toes when I see his name pop up. I have two texts, and both are from him. Nothing else.
No angry, vitriolic messages from my mom and no unannounced, threatening texts from her asshole ex-husband.
Just two simple messages from my best friend.
With fingers that are much too stiff and shaky, I enter in my passcode to unlock my phone, and then I tap on his name. Andfor the first time probably all day, I smile.
Alex (5:11 p.m.):dinner! when will u be home?
His eyes smile back at me—gorgeous blue eyes that somehow dance in the sunlight. He sent a picture, a selfie. He’s standing outside his mom’s truck, that wide, carefree grin on his face as he holds up a take-out bag from the local steakhouse.
