It didn’t smell like him anymore. The scent of his expensive cologne and body wash had faded years ago, replaced by dust and my own despair. But wearing it was the only way I could breathe. It was a hug from a ghost.
The metal door creaked open behind me, slicing a wedge of yellow light across the dusty canvas floor.
“Silas?”
I turned slowly. Maverick and Scott were standing there, gym bags over their shoulders. They looked weary, but hopeful. They had come to train.
“Hey,” Dad said softly, stepping inside out of the rain. “You… you want to run some ropes? Just get the blood moving? Scott thinks it might help the stiffness.”
I opened my mouth to say no. I wanted to sayleave me alone. But nothing came out. The dam I had built for a year suddenly cracked.
A sob ripped through my chest, so violent and sudden it nearly doubled me over.
“I can’t,” I choked out, tears hot and fast on my face. “I can’t do it.”
“It’s okay,” Maverick said, rushing forward, dropping his bag.
“It’s not okay!” I screamed, the guilt finally exploding out of me like shrapnel. “I ruined it! I ruined everything! I ended Martinez’s career! I broke his fucking back and I broke myself and I…”
I broke Cal’s heart.
I sank to the concrete floor, pulling the hood over my face to hide the shame, weeping until my throat bled.
YEAR THREE - THE REED LAND, NORTH CAROLINA
Now playing: Waiting Room - Phoebe Bridgers
Ihadn’topenedthebox in three years.
I sat on the floor of my childhood bedroom, the dust of the old farmhouse settling around me in the golden afternoon light. Downstairs, the faint hum of the television drifted, my grandfather watching a western, oblivious to the fact that I was unearthing the dead.
Inside the shoebox were the artifacts of a life that felt like a hallucination. The plastic room key from Miami. A set of wrist tape, stiff with age. A receipt for two coffees in Seattle.
And the Polaroids.
I shuffled through them, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. There were dozens of them. Us in rental cars. Us in airports. Us pretending not to be us.
Then, I found the one.
Edinburgh.
The white border was slightly yellowed now. But the image… the image was as sharp as the moment the shutter clicked.
Cal was propped up on one elbow, the heavy white hotel duvet tangled dangerously low around his waist. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction. The silver Scottish light was washing over him, turning his skin to marble.
But it was his face that ripped me open.
Hewasn’t looking at the camera. He was looking at me.
His hazel eyes were soft, heavy with sleep and adoration. He had that small, secret smile playing on his lips, the one he never gave to the cameras. The one he saved for me.
I traced the edge of the photo with a trembling thumb. His voice echoed in the room, bouncing off the peeling wallpaper.
“We’d have a big porch, too. One we could sit out on every morning so I could kiss you on it. Our own little piece of heaven.”
I looked up from the photo, my eyes burning. I looked out the window.
Below, the massive wrap around porch of the farmhouse sat empty. The paint was chipping. The wood was graying. I was living in the house we built in our heads, taking care of the grandfather who tried his best, surrounded by the silence I thought I wanted.
