It’s a routine I’ve mastered. A cycle I’ve been running since I was a teenager.
Beckett checked in just enough to be a steady pulse in the background of the chaos.
How’s she doing?
Did she sleep?
How are you?
That last one was a trap. If I answered honestly, I’d have to admit that I was vibrating with exhaustion. I’d have to admit that seeing him in my parents’ living room, his sleeves rolled up as he talked to Hudson, made me feel a level of relief that terrified me.
So I didn’t answer it. I told him the facts. I told him she was better. I said thank you.
Now, I’m back in my own apartment. My suitcase is still in bedroom. The air smells like citrus cleaner because Celeste and Emmy stopped by when I was gone to tidy up. Apart from that, everything is exactly where I left it, but the room feels different.
Ifeel different.
I’m the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. It’s a bone-deep, soul-weary exhaustion that makes my skin feel too tight. And with that exhaustion comes the old, familiar itch to retreat.
I pour a glass of water I don’t even want. I just need to hold something.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Beckett:You home?
I stare at the screen. I should be happy he’s asking. Instead, my stomach twists.
Me:Yeah. Just got back.
Beckett:How’s your mom?
Me:Better. Stable. Thank you again.
There it is. The “Thank You.” The polite, professional wall I use to keep people at a distance. It’s a way of sayingYou were helpful,while implicitly adding,But I don’t need you anymore.
Beckett:I’m glad. And you?
I exhale slowly, leaning my head against the cool tile of the backsplash. This is where I could be honest. I could tell him I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. I could tell him I’m scared she’ll break again. I could tell him I want to come upstairs and just sit in his silence.
But I don’t.
Me:I’m fine. Just catching up on emails.
The dots don’t come back.
I set the phone face down. It’s for the best. Beckett saw too much this week. He saw the version of me that doesn’t have a snappy comeback. He saw the girl who was one wrong word away from a total meltdown. People like him—people who are used to fixing things—eventually get tired of the mess. They notice the patterns. They realize that being with me means being part of a lifelong rescue mission.
I’m a professional, a shark, a success, until my phone rings and I’m suddenly nineteen again, trying to hold a house together with sheer will.
I’m protecting him, really. Or maybe I’m just protecting myself from the moment he realizes I’m not worth the weight.
I finish the water and rinse the glass, watching the water swirl down the drain. I head for the bedroom, kicking my suitcase further under the bed.
Out of sight, out of mind.
I lie down in the dark and listen.
Overhead, I hear the familiar thud of his footsteps.
