Page 63 of Laced in Longing

Before I can respond—before I can take back my words, beg him to stay, consequences be damned—he’s gone. Only a subtle disturbance in the air particles proof that he was here a moment ago.

Air rushes from my lungs as sound escapes me. It claws up my throat before I can stop it.

He’s gone.

I asked him to leave, and he left just like that, taking with him the only real connection I’ve ever had.

Outside, the voices fade. Without Ash’s presence, people return to their normal lives, probably confused about why they were here in the first place.

The problem is solved. Crisis averted.

So why does it feel like I’ve made the worst mistake of my life?

I curl onto my side, dust from the floor coating my airway with each inhale. His scent still clings to the shirt I wear, a ghost of his presence that will fade all too soon.

“Yes, go! Go and don’t come back!”

But he’s already gone, and the only answer is the shattered echo of my own voice.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MAVEN

Being intimate with the characteristics of a floor is a new kind of low. Yet here I remain, cheek pressed against the cold vinyl as tears carve burning paths down my face. Salt stings the raw skin beneath my eyes, rubbed tender from two days of constant crying. My throat feels scraped hollow, vocal cords shredded from screaming into my pillow when the silence became too much to bear.

Two days since I told him to leave.

Two days since he listened.

There’s snot on my sleeve. His sleeve, technically, because I’m still wearing the shirt I stole. It smelled like him for a while. Until my tears and snot and sweat soaked into the fabric and drove away any essence of him.

Everything good is ruined the second I get my hands on it.

I’ve only gotten up to shuffle to the bathroom and then collapse back into whatever puddle of myself I left behind. I haven’t even answered my phone when it rings with calls from work wondering where I am.

What would I tell them? Sorry I missed my shift, I was too busy having an emotional breakdown after banishing the god who loves me back to the Otherworld.

Everything feels so wrong without him here. Even emptier than before I knew he existed.

A fresh wave of salty liquid spills from my eyes as my chest aches with each breath, ribs splintering from the force of my sobs.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” I whisper to the empty room, voice cracking on the final word. I shouldn’t be crying either. Crying is what you do when something happens to you. Nothing happened to me.

No, I did this. I caused this. I told him to go, and he went.

I keep waiting for him to come back. How pathetic is that? Every time the radiator clanks or the pipes groan, my whole body seizes up, and I hold my breath as I think, this is it, he’s back! I can fix it. I have the apology rehearsed. Kind of. The empty room has heard it forty times now, as I tested different versions, trying to find the one that doesn’t make me sound like a lunatic who jumped off a roof and then chased away her supernatural stalker-slash-devoted-immortal-lover in the same week.

There isn’t one, by the way. They all make me sound insane.

But he doesn’t come. The radiator clanks and the pipes groan and my downstairs neighbor plays terrible music at three in the morning, all while I remain exactly where I am, curled into the smallest version of myself, waiting for a man I know isn’t returning.

At least he’s respecting what I asked for. That’s what I keep telling myself when I manage to string together a thought that isn’t just pure self-loathing and hatred. He’s being good. He said he’d leave, which he did. He said he wouldn’t visit my dreams, and they’ve been empty, black nothingness for two nights now. He’s honoring my wishes like the courteous, patient, devastating creature he’s always been.

The only issue is my wishes were a lie.

I didn’t want him to go. I have never in my life wanted anything the way I did not want him to go, and I demanded him gone anyway because that’s what I do. It’s my one real talent. Give me something warm, and I’ll set it on fire. Give me the first genuine smile I’ve cracked in years, and I’ll find a reason to smother it in its sleep. Dr. Voss would feast on this information. Self-sabotage, she’d say in that careful voice, and I’d want to throw something at her because knowing the name for it doesn’t help.

Nothing that woman says ever helps.