“Uh, what’s going on? Why are we texting Camden?”
Willow’s brother lets out a sigh. “Can this wait? Mom’s still in the car, remember?”
She shoots him a look of annoyance. “Oh my God, River. Can’t you see we’re in crisis mode here? Five more minutes isn’t gonna kill her.”
Lexi’s phone chimes, and the three of us stare down at the response, reading two simple words.
Thanks, Lexi.
Tension lines my jaw, my worry molding into some mixture of frustration and relief—glad to know he’s not dead in a ditch somewhere but infuriated by knowing he’s blatantly ignoring my attempt at reaching out. It’s the anger that has me pulling up his contact and slamming my thumb on the call button, though.
As I lift the phone to my ear, I realize I have no clue what I’m gonna say when he picks up. But I sure as fuck know—
“You’ve reached the voicemail box of…”
My heart stops.
I’m off the couch in an instant, barrelling toward the stairs.
“Logan! Where are you—”
“He fucking blocked me,” I bite out, already rushing up the stairs.
More emotions than I can define rush through my body all at the same time; frustration, rage, and confusion, just to name a few. They all mix together, creating a fuel that pushes my body up the steps two at a time until I reach the main floor.
Fear and hurt join the party on my way up to the second floor, and by the time I reach the end of the hall, I’m chock full of anxiety too. Because my intuition is screaming, trying to prepareme for what I’m about to walk in on. What I’m about to see when I shove open his bedroom door.
What devastation I’m about to come face-to-face with.
But even knowing what I’ll find does nothing to ease the pain of my heart shattering at my feet.
Because gone are the trophies and awards and Leighton memorabilia hanging on the walls. There’s no pile of clothes in the corner that missed the hamper. No laptop on the desk or sheets on the bed.
No trace of Camden.
My chin trembles as I step into the room, feeling just how empty and lifeless it is with his existence stripped away. How desolate a place once filled with joy can be. It’s enough to have my knees threatening to give way, collapsing under the weight of the devastation.
I go to drop down on the foot of his bed, only to notice a lone piece of sketchpaper, covered in black ink, lying atop the bare mattress.
With trembling fingers, I pick it up before sinking down where it lay moments before. It shakes in my hand as I stare at the page. At the memories. At the love radiating so fucking clearly between the version of us I brought to life.
But all that’s clear now is the people drawn there in ink aren’t real.
Neither is their love.
My entire body swells with a tidal wave of grief, but I grit my teeth against the impact. Tears threaten to spill over, but I manage to keep them at bay, despite knowing I can’t hold strong forever.
Sooner or later, the dam always breaks, leaving devastation in its wake.
I fall to my back and close my eyes, pressing that goddamn piece of paper to my chest like it’s a lifeline. And I refuse tobelieve this is reality. None of this is real. I’m in a nightmare, waiting to be woken up. And I hope that when I do, I’ll be in bed, tucked into Camden’s side while he’s fast asleep. With my eyes shut, I can almost believe it. Can almost feel the warmth of his skin, hear the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.
But it’s merely the ghost of him haunting my memory.
I let myself live in that world anyway—the one where he’s still mine—and for a few blissful seconds, it helps. It eases the waves of anguish relentlessly crashing into me.
Until I open my eyes and see it, in the patterns of the popcorn ceiling.
A bunny on a unicycle.
