He whispers his pleas to me in the dead of night. To get help. To get better.
It lost its purpose somewhere along the way. It lost its cheap escape and became my downfall.
Almost three years, B.
Three fucking years withoutyou.
Help me.
Please.
No one at the bar knows who I am, or that my heart is in a townhouse at an address burned in my mind, and half of my soul is buried six feet under across town. No one knows that every drink I order is like a ticking time bomb that I continue to deny is about to implode on my life.
I drink until the other half of my soul, the one still chained up inside of me, drags me to face the redwood door.
I don’t remember the drive. I don’t remember the Uber driver parking his car or climbing out of the back seat. But I remember the way my hand trembled when I lifted it. The way the wood under my palm was still warm from the sun that just set, and how I had tears in my eyes from the very real possibility that the man in this home wouldn’t want this version of me on his doorstep.
I didn’t want it for him.
I felt like I was tainting the new welcome mat under my feet.
I stood there so long, ignoring the way my skin felt wrong on my body and how my stomach cramped with the all too familiar reminder that I haven’t had enough poison today to satisfy, but the few shots I had taste fresh on my tongue when my trembling hand finally balls and knocks. Once, twice.
The moment hangs there, nothing but the crickets breaking up the quiet of the evening. I step back, my heart in my fucking throat. My nerves fizzle with each second, and I'm about ready to tuck tail and run when the door opens.
And he's there.
Barefoot. Black sweatpants. I flick my eyes briefly up, just enough to see black curls longer than I remember, a hoodie pulled over his head. A scruffy jaw.
My focus drops once more to his bare feet, but I can feel his eyes taking me in. I watch those feet step closer and close my eyes.
“Kitten,” he croaks.
I flinch at the name, suck in a breath at the visceral ache it causes, but nothing comes out. Too much and not enough lodged in my throat. Words I want to say, words that I should have already said. Instead, I lift my face just enough to look up as far as I dare. His Adam's apple bobs with a swallow, and I want to fucking cry at how good it feels just to have his damn eyes on me.
I don't have a clue what I look like. I haven't slept in days. I'm half hungover, half buzzed from the amount I had to drink just to get my body to stop shaking. I'm a fucking mess, and we both know it.
“Have you been drinking?”
I shrug.
He exhales harshly through his nose, and I think maybe he'll slam the door after all, but he steps aside.
“Come in.”
I do. Of course I do.
I barely make it past the entryway before I feel fingers brush my wrist. A grounding touch, needing to assure himself I'm really here.
His house smells like clean laundry and cedarwood, with that subtle hint that's purely Bowen. It's small, quiet, and warm. It feels calm, and nothing at all like the mess I've made of my life. My space at home is chaotic and messy, a perfect representation of what I've become.
“You shouldn't be here like this,” he says softly, but he doesn't mean it. Not really.
I'm trembling from the inside out when I step closer to him. Watch the way he sucks in a breath and holds it in his chest when I let my fingers reach out for his arm.
“How else should I be?”This is me now, Boe.
“It’s been weeks, Kit.” I can hear the strain of pain in his words. The subtle accusation they hold.
