Page 86 of Into Pitch

“I don’t want to,” he answers immediately. Letting me change the topic back to the one I originally started.

“I figured not,” I murmur.

I finish and stand, clearing the table. Needing motion to settle the buzz that has taken root under my skin. He joins me without being asked, taking plates from my hands when they stack too high.

And right back to domesticity we return.

At the sink, I wash while he dries. Our movements synch without discussion as we pass dishes back and forth in an unspoken rhythm. At several points he goes out of his way to touch me, to stoke that warmth inside of me he only seems to wield, but I don’t comment on it.

Neither does he, thankfully.

When we’re done, we stand there for a long moment, close but not touching. The space between charged with everything we’ve left unsaid at that table. I sigh, reaching out and gently brush my finger to his own, letting my mind ponder the mess of it.

I realize I don’t need him to be better, I just need him to be honest.

And he has been despite how hard I’ve tried to back him into a corner that gives him the opportunity not to be. It’s sort of a punch straight to the gut to realize that it is enough. That he is enough.

Releasing his fingers, I turn and leave the kitchen.

The darkness in him isn’t fading. It never will.

But I’m not exactly running from it anymore either, am I?

I wake the next morning to movement.

My eyes snapping open as I push up onto my elbows to find Alex at the end of the bed placing things into a duffel bag. The sound of the zipper and the clothes rustling pulling a frown to my brow.

“Are we…?” I trail off, because the sentence I was about to finish suddenly doesn’t make sense.

Taking me home.

Leaving together.

Anything that involves me.

He doesn’t turn around to face me, but keeps packing as if I’m not thoroughly confused behind him in bed.

“I need to go,” is all he offers.

I blink, head reeling back softly. Go where, exactly?

“Okay,” I murmur slowly as I fully push up in the bed, draping my arms across my knees. “So we’re leaving?”

“No.”

“No?” I challenge.

He finally turns to me, expression unreadable but focused. My eyes flicking between his own trying to discern exactly what has got him so readily running out the door.

“I’ll be gone for a few days,” he states. “Possibly longer.”

I gape at him, my brain scrambling to catch up to what he just dropped between us.

“Wait, you’re going to leave me here?” I hiss in realization.

“Yes.”

The room feels suddenly far too big and quiet.