His truck is already gone by the time I glance outside.
And it stays gone. Until close to midnight again.
Again, I watch out the window as he climbs out of his truck, glancing at my house, and then walks into his house, shutting the door behind him. No lights turn on.
I type and delete and retype and delete a dozen messages, but I can’t bring myself to hit send.
Give him time, Lou. It’s okay. Nothing to panic over. It’s Zach. He’s just hurting and needs time. Don’t be dramatic.
Sunday dawns cold and rainy, our first true November weather day. The wind picked up overnight, blowing all the remaining colorful leaves off the trees. Everything just looks dark and dreary and I hate it.
I miss Zach like crazy.
His truck is gone again, and again… no messages.
How did court go?
Hope blooms in my chest when the notification comes through that he read it.
But an hour later, when he still hasn’t messaged me back, that hope starts to feel like lead inside my chest.
I’m dressed in my Rapunzel dress, finishing sticking flowers in my hair and flying out the door to a party when he pulls in the driveway.
I halt, halfway to my car as I watch him park. He climbs out, glancing at me. I wave, but he just nods his chin, and then climbs the steps without a word.
Pain lances through me, the kind I haven’t felt in a really long time. Why is he ignoring me? Is he ignoring me? Shit, is he mad at me? What did I do wrong?
Anxiety nearly chokes me then. Was… was it my note? Did I fuck everything up by writing what I did in the note?
Unfortunately, I don’t have time to find out, already running late as I am. So, I climb into my car and drive away, even though all I want to do is talk to Zach, to find out what happened.
Did I do something wrong?
It’s hours later that I have the chance to check my phone, my heart sinking when once again it shows that he’s read my message, but still not responding.
Anger bubbles up, then. Because, what the fuck.
After a hellishly hot shower and every self-care routine possible, I’m still boiling mad and half tempted to walk across the yard in my slippers to knock on his damn door and ask what the hell is going on.
But, it’s cold and my hair is wet, and I don’t really want to go look like an idiot by knocking on his door.
So, I call, instead.
Only, it doesn’t ring. It’s silent, and then the high-pitched automated operator voice informs me that this number is no longer in service.
And I fight like hell not to allow a single fucking tear to fall.
Fifty-Three
Zach
“Is that the last of it?” my brother asks.
I nod, not even bothering to grunt in response.
He shakes his head, his expression pinched. I don’t need him to say it. I know I’m an asshole.
Thank fuck Louise isn’t home while we do this. I can’t… I can’t face her.
