I told myself I’d give it time. That I could play this game a little longer, wait for him to figure it out. But deep down, I knew I wouldn’t wait forever. The next time he called, I’d make him choose. Me, or the dark.
And this time, I wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Chapter Nine
~ Floyd ~
The house made noises at night that it never made in the day. The baseboard in the hallway, which creaked only under certain moon phases. The tick of the fridge’s compressor, loud as a wristwatch in a bank vault. I’d lived in this place for eleven years, but this last month—a month spent with Ransom almost every night—it felt like the walls were plotting.
I did what I always did when insomnia came: I ran the perimeter, checking every lock, every window, even though I’d installed every goddamn one myself. I straightened the rug in the entryway, aligned the shoes, then stood in the kitchen and stared at the sink.
Three mugs in the basin, all with a smudge of lipstick-red coffee on the rim. One of them wasn’t even mine. I let it sit. Maybe tomorrow I’d bring myself to wash it.
I checked my phone for the twelfth time that hour. Nothing. The message app still open to Ransom, the last text thread just a blur of“hey,” “u up,”and a string of thirsty emojis that I’d pretended were accidental. I thumbed out another message:“You around tonight?”My finger hovered over Send for a second, then I forced it down.
I tried not to watch the three gray dots as they bounced in the chat bubble, but my eyes were magnets.
He replied in under a minute:“Sorry, Sheriff. Long day. Calling it early tonight. Next time.”There was a smiley face, but the mouth was straight, not curved.
I stared at the message until the words burned holes in my vision. I wanted to send something back—something that would make him drop everything and get in his truck right now. Iwanted to tell him it wasn’t an option. I wanted to say,“I need you.”But all that came out was,“No worries. Sleep well.”
The “seen” receipt hit instantly, but he didn’t reply. Not even a thumbs up. I set the phone face down on the counter, next to the mug that wasn’t mine, and exhaled so hard my chest rattled.
I went through the motions anyway. I wiped down the counters, scrubbed the tile twice, even ran the Roomba, though it didn’t need it. The only mess was the empty takeout container from Roscoe’s, the one I’d told myself I’d finish for lunch tomorrow but knew I wouldn’t. The house felt both too big and too small—a contradiction in square footage and longing.
I went to the living room, turned on the TV, but muted it before the sound could fill the air. On the screen, a wildlife documentary played out in a loop: wolves circling a dying elk, the slow inevitability of the hunt. The living room was perfect, everything in its place, but the couch cushions still had the dent from last night when Ransom had pushed me back and climbed on top of me, hungry and laughing like he owned the place. I traced my finger along the fabric, feeling for the ghost of his weight.
I lasted seven minutes before picking up the phone again. Still nothing. I scrolled back through the thread, rereading the old messages—the banter, the nudes, the ones where he called me “old man” and I pretended it pissed me off. Sometimes he’d send a picture of his work, a new tattoo, or a sketch he was proud of. Lately, he hadn’t sent much.
I typed, “Miss you,” but erased it before I could send. The shame was instant, like the aftertaste of a bad pill. I paced to the window, peeked through the blinds, half-hoping to see his headlight in the drive. The street was empty except for the glow of the McElroys’ eternal porch light.
I went to the bathroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: eyes red, hair a mess, face slack and hollow. I splashedwater, ran my hand through my hair, and tried to force it back into shape. Didn’t help. I looked like a guy who’d lost an argument with a ghost.
I made a circuit of the house, touching everything I could—door handles, light switches, the banister on the staircase. In the spare room, the bed was made military-tight, the way my drill sergeant had taught me. The closet was empty, save for a box of old uniforms and a spare set of sheets. I shut the door and checked the lock, even though it was just habit.
On the way back to the kitchen, I picked up the mug that wasn’t mine. I turned it in my hands, looking for a chip or a stain, something that would explain why I hadn’t just thrown it in the dishwasher like a normal person. There was nothing special about it. Just a cheap blue mug, with a small crack near the handle.
I set it back down, exactly where it’d been, and went to the bedroom.
The bed was king-sized, but it felt like a cot. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. The fan spun slow, throwing shadows across the plaster. I folded my hands over my chest and tried to breathe in even counts, the way the therapist said would help. Four in, four out. It didn’t help.
I thought about texting Ransom again. I thought about driving over to his place and waiting outside, just to see if he’d come out. I thought about calling him and demanding he pick up. I did none of these things.
Instead, I rolled over, pressed my face into the pillow, and tried to pretend that the scent of him on the sheets was enough to fill the emptiness.
I tried to pretend it was normal to want someone so bad it made your teeth hurt. I tried to pretend that the silence in the house was better than the sound of my own voice, begging for something I was never supposed to want.
The house made another noise—a soft groan, like a complaint or a warning. I lay there, listening, and wondered how long it would take before the quiet drove me insane.
I reached for my phone one last time, just to see if he’d changed his mind. He hadn’t. I closed my eyes, counting heartbeats, and tried not to think about what tomorrow would feel like if nothing changed.
The next morning I woke up half-convinced it had all been a dream: the silence, the empty pillow, the unanswered message. I reached for my phone before I’d even cleared the crust from my eyes. Nothing. My inbox was a desert, just a grocery store coupon and a “please rate your recent customer service experience” from the county. No word from Ransom.
I got dressed and went to work early, thinking maybe the rhythm of paperwork would settle me. It didn’t. The morning briefing blurred into white noise. Even when Deputy Latham got into it with a local over a disputed property line, I couldn’t keep my head in the room. I checked my phone every ten minutes, like maybe I’d missed a message or a call. I never did.
At lunch, I went back to my truck, shut the door, and pulled up our thread. The last message stared back:“No worries. Sleep well.”I felt like a jackass rereading it, but I did anyway, over and over, as if a secret code would materialize if I looked long enough.
I typed:“Everything ok?”and deleted it before it sent.
