I let out a light laugh, wishing I could. “I left,” I remind him quietly, looking away. “All he knows is that I went to the bathroom and never came back. I can’t just…” I shake my head. “I need to tell him I’m okay, at least.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch his dark scowl. “It’s more than he deserves.”
I swipe my tongue over my top teeth. “And if he calls the cops?”
Barrett scoffs. “You have twenty-fours hours before they’d give a shit,” he argues. “And considering how long you were gone for, and Dickface McGee never even thought to go looking for you, who cares if he worries now?”
I shrug lightly, sipping my drink. “That’s not me. I’m not that person, and you know it.”
“So…?” Barrett trails off pointedly, frowning when I throw him an unsure look. “What’re you gonna do, Charlie? Don’t tell me you don’t know your next step. You plan every single move out in the finest detail, so I know your brain’s been working overtime since I picked you up.”
I inhale deeply through my nose, blowing it out on a heavy sigh. My eyes lock on the glass clasped between my fingers, condensation already beading on the side. Barrett doesn’t rush me, a steady presence at my side, knowing better than most how I process things.
“I guess…” I start slowly. “I guess I’ll text him. Tell him I’m here with you, and that I need space.”
“And then?” Barrett asks, with only a slight edge of impatience. “What happens after that, Charlie Girl?”
I clamp my eyes shut when they start stinging, my heart a giant bruise. I know what my next action needs to be, but to speak it out into existence makes it real.
“And then I move out,” I whisper brokenly.
Barrett doesn’t try to talk me out of it, just nodding as he finishes the rest of his juice, sympathetic eyes watching me as I struggle to remember how to breathe.
We call it a night not long after that, taking turns to clean up in the bathroom. Barrett gives me a shirt to wear.Luckily, he’s big enough that it doesn’t cling to my body and falls almost to my knees. I use a dab of toothpaste on my finger to brush my teeth, hating that I don’t have any of my things to take off my makeup and clean my face. When I come back out, he tries to tell me he’ll take the couch, but the image of him squeezing his six-and-half-foot frame onto the couch is almost enough to make me smile. So, I refuse, telling him I will be fine, insisting he keep his bed.
But I lied.
I’m not fine.
An hour later,I’ve decided this is the worst couch in the history of couches. There’s no less than three springs digging into my back, ass, and thigh. The cushion under me slips a little further every time I move, threatening to slide me right onto the floor. I’ve been telling Barrett to replace this thing for years. Now, afternotsleeping on it, I decide I’m buying him a new one myself.
Lying in the dark, listening to him rumble away like a lawn mower, I pull out my phone, the bright glare making me squint.
Six missed calls.
Nine new messages.
My phone was noticeably silent on the ride here, so these all came in the last hour. It’s a little impressive, but the ice encasing me doesn’t melt even a little. There’s some voicemails, but I ignore them, not ready to hear his voice. Instead, I click into my message thread with him, my finger shaking as I scroll up to the first message,reading them in order.
Dillon:
Where are you?
Dillon:
Hey baby, you okay?
Dillon:
Angel, it’s been ages. I’m gonna send Amber in to check on you, k?
Dillon:
Amber said the bathroom’s empty. Where are you??
Dillon:
I’m getting seriously worried. Answer the phone.
