And I’ve been turning him away.
Not because he’s unreliable. If anything, Reid strikes me as the type who never makes promises he won’t keep. But that’s what makes it harder, and that’s what makes thisworse.
Because if he stays, it’ll be because he thinks he’s supposed to, not because hewantsto. And I can’t live with that. I won’t make him choose.
So I keep my head down, move through the rest of my week, and pretend I’m fine while every unread message from him knots something deeper in my gut.
He doesn’t flood my phone with words or repetitive missed calls, but the ones he does send linger.
REID HUTCHISON:You don’t have to say anything, just let me know you’re okay.
REID HUTCHISON:I meant what I said. I want to see you.
REID HUTCHISON:Carina.
I type and delete at least four different replies, and at one point, I almost hit send. Sometimes, I close the app before I can even read them properly. Another time, I nearly call him, but I don’t.
Because if I hear his voice, I’ll break.
And if I break, I might not be able to put myself back together again.
***
The apartment is dark when I get home, and I don’t turn on the lights.
There’s something about the dimness that feels helpful, as though keeping the shadows close will mean I won’t have to see the consequences of everything I’ve done.
My coat slips off my shoulders and lands somewhere near the table, and I don’t bother to pick it up. I kick off my shoes then press a hand to my sternum, trying to will my pulse to slow.
Every part of me aches, and I tell myself I’ll fix this. I’ll make a list. I’ll figure it out. I always do.
The knock at the door makes me jump, then freeze. It’s not even a loud knock, just two quiet taps.
My stomach drops, because I already know who it’ll be. I cross the living room, my heart hammering in my throat as I move down the hallway.
I look through my peephole as I twist the lock and open the door a few inches, and there he is.
Standing in the foyer with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, broad shoulders braced as if he’s expecting a fight.
“Reid.”
My voice scrapes out quieter than I intend, and my fingers tighten on the door handle.
His eyes drag over me slowly, scanning for something. Damage, maybe. Or guilt. “You okay?”
“…Yeah.”
“You haven’t replied.”
“I know.”
“And you weren’t at the clinic the other day.”
I nod, feeling hollow. “I was at the hospital.”
“You weren’t answering your phone.”
“I’ve been busy.”
