Page 65 of Laced in Longing

I’ll never forgive myself for it.

And look how I’ve repaid that devotion. I’m such a fucking coward.

My phone buzzes somewhere near the bed, and I could give a fuck less. It’ll be my Dr. Voss this time. I’ve missed our Friday call, which means I inadvertently officially triggered whatever protocol she threatened me with. My brows crease—honestly the idea of being carted off to a facility with soft walls and grippy socks holds a certain appeal right now. Maybe then I could listen to something other than my own wet breathing.

The buzzing stops. Starts again. Stops. And suddenly silence rushes back, worse for having been interrupted.

My eyes catch the jar of flowers. So many—too many—emotions flicker through me like a little flip book, each page holding a different sensation and story.

I need to fix this.

I don’t know how…don’t know if I can. He said he wouldn’t return if I called, right? Or did he say he would? Fuck, I can’t string together a coherent thought any longer. I’m so tired and hungry. So unbearably, catastrophically stupid.

I peel myself off the floor, wincing as my knees crack under a swimming head. The worst is my stomach lurching at the sudden change in position, but I manage to remain upright, swaying in the gray light bleeding through the window.

Dragging myself to the bathroom sink, cold water splashes my face, and the shock of it brings me back to myself a little. Until I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror and flinch.

I look like hell. Hair matted and greasy, hanging in limp strands around a face pale as death. Eyes red-rimmed and swollen, dark circles beneath them colored like fresh bruises. Lips cracked and bleeding where I’ve bitten them raw.

Is this what he sees when he looks at me from the Otherworld? No wonder he hasn’t come back, his promise be damned.

The thought threatens another wave of tears, but I force them back with a deep breath. Enough. Enough wallowing. Enough self-pity. I need to fix this—if it can be fixed.

I will hear if you call for me.

Maybe he won’t return, but he’ll hear me. He said he’d hear me.

So I’m going to call.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MAVEN

Another day passes, and I’m done waiting.

I drag the brush through my wet hair, wincing as it catches on tangles formed during my neglect that the shower did not cure. Water droplets splash against my bare shoulders, each one a tiny shock of cold. The bite of it is nothing against the numbness encasing me, though.

A stranger’s eyes stare back at me through the mirror—embarrassingly hollow and empty. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised after three days of existing in a gray haze where time stretches and contracts without pattern or purpose.

I wanted to give him time. Hoped he would defy my request and return because isn’t that what he does? Ignore the petty demands of a mortal when it suits him? But he hasn’t come back…not even in my dreams, where I’ve searched for him endlessly, calling his name until my dream-throat burns.

I sigh, whirling away from the mirror. Over my dead body will I look into a mirror ever again.

These last days have been torture, but I think what’s hurt the most is the lack of new flowers. The absence of those delicate, pressed blooms each morning cuts far deeper than I expected. I both love and hate him for respecting my wishes so completely. And I’m angry at my past self for complaining about those damn flowers when they appeared each morning.

What I wouldn’t give to have them back.

I just—I don’t know what to do. How do I get them—him—back? A scream builds in the bottle of my throat as I march to the jar, heart hammering a mile a minute.

I can’t take this anymore. These past days have shown me just how much I need him; need his presence, his voice. How I crave the weight of his attention. Without him, I’m fading again and becoming translucent. A ghost haunting my own existence.

There’s nothing left for me in this world, nothing to hold onto. Nothing worth staying for.

My fingers brush the textured glass. Without another thought, I lift it, cradling it against my chest like it’s something precious. It is, though, isn’t it? Each one represents a moment when he crossed worlds just to see me. Just to leave evidence that I wasn’t alone, even when I believed myself to be.

The weight of the jar grounds me, heavier than it should be. Blood rushes through my ears as I slide down the wall, my thighs clenching at the icy, dust-covered floor.

There’s one thought that keeps me from uttering his name: what if he doesn’t come? I mean, of course he won’t, he wouldn’t after what happened, but really…what if he doesn’t? A million scenarios flutter through my brain, each one worse than the last. He’s moved on. Found another soul to fixate on. Decided I’m as worthless as I claim and thinks about me with disgust on his face.