My chest heaving, I let out all the pain that simmers on a daily basis. My brain turns off, delving into nothingness while everything consumes me all at once. I don’t want this.
I miss him.
I want to say that being nearly forty would mean I have this all under control. That the death of a man that I considered a brother since I was twenty-four wouldn’t get to me the way this is.
Hazel’s laugh echoes faintly from the caverns of my mind—a soft reminder of life still happening beyond this glass box. It’s distant—muffled from the rush of the water and the pounding in my ears—but it’s enough to anchor me, just barely. I focus on it, willing it to pull me back. There is yet another person I’ve got to protect now.
But the sound fades, being swallowed by the roaring in my chest. My pulse slams against my throat, a violent rhythm that refuses to settle. I press the heel of my palm against my sternum as if I can push the ache back where it belongs, but it only spreads up my neck, behind my eyes, and into every trembling muscle.
“Breathe,” I whisper, though the word barely makes it past my lips. It’s a plea more than a command. “Just—breathe.”
The tile is slick beneath me, my skin raw, my body shaking with every stuttered inhale. The heat from the water has long since crossed into pain, but I let it burn. Maybe if it hurts enough, it’ll drown out everything else.
Images flash behind my eyes—Cameron’s grin, his hand clapping my shoulder, the way he used to call me “steady,” like it was some badge of honor. I want to scream that I’m not steady anymore, that whatever he saw in me died right alongside him.
The water suddenly runs cold. I don’t even know how long I’ve been sitting here. My fingers are pruned, my skin flushed red, my throat raw from silent sobs. The cold shocks through me, slicing through the haze and forcing air back into my lungs in sharp, desperate gulps.
It’s ugly, this kind of breathing—ragged and uneven—but it’s breathing.
I rest my forehead against my knees, counting each inhale like a fragile victory.One. Two. Three.The ache doesn’t disappear, it just dulls inside me. It becomes something I can carry for a few more hours. I can be that person I couldn’t be for Cameron—fuck, even for Leyla. That text message though…I need to face whatever is happening around me, and I need to remember there is somehow this miracle that they could possibly be alive.
Minutes pass like lifetimes when I finally force myself to stand, my legs threatening to give out. I turn the water off, and the silence that follows is deafening. It’s just me and the drip from the faucet, each drop a quiet reminder that time keeps moving, even when I don’t want it to.
I wrap the towel around my waist and stare at the fogged mirror. My reflection is a blur, but maybe that’s better. I don’t want to see what’s left of me right now.
Hazel calls my name softly from the other side of the door. Her voice is tentative, careful. Like she already knows something’s broken but doesn’t know where to touch without making it worse. Yet her voice sounds bright, like the sunlight human that I know she is.Did she hear me? I hope not. How long have I have been in here? I can’t give her the darkness; I can’t let her get infected with the demon in me.
I clear my throat, forcing a steadiness I don’t feel.
“Yeah,” I say, barely more than a rasp. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
And I will be. I always am.
“I’ve got a bottle of wine with our names on it.” Hazel’s voice is a bright in the tempest that swirls in my soul.
But for now, I lean against the counter, close my eyes, and let myself feel the smallest, cruelest mercy of it all. That somehow, even with a shattered heart and shaking hands, I’m still here.
I open the door, and immediately I’m met with the amber eyes that are pools of glittering gold.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT’S TIME TO GO
HAZEL
Shit.
I’m actually worried about Zack. I had my own moment, but I pushed it back into my brain and put on that happy mask I have to wear, or else the horrors will consume me. I hear his sobs. I hear his pain. And I feel it through the walls. He’s been in the shower for almost an hour now. I put my big girl pants on and knock on his door.
“Zack? You okay?” My voice is bright, wanting to be strong for him, too. He’s only a person, and as much as I want to say we don’t have a lot in common, he reminds me of someone I once knew.
“Yeah,” Zack finally says, his voice pained, barely more than a rasp. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“I’ll be here. I’ve got a bottle of wine with our name on it.” I smile wide knowing, hoping, he can hear it through the door.
Moments later, I’m face to face with his chest, covered with dark, swirling tattoos—a rose that goes up to his neck, a pocket watch, a skull. His colorless eyes narrow, and he lets out a growl as he shoves me back against the wall. Fear flashes in my eyes, my breath leaving me, but his actions aren’t out of anger—it’s not out of maliciousness.
His hand lingers against my shoulder, firm, trembling. For a heartbeat, his eyes are pure storm, but not directed at me—not even at himself—but at the ghosts clawing up his throat.
