Page 68 of Laced in Longing

After that, I quit thinking so hard about it.

One metro ride before I just walk, yelling his name on the sidewalks of Sherbrooke and Saint-Laurent and every side street that looks like it might be somewhere he’d hide in the shadows. I pass the crystal shop and pause to stare at the exact patch of pavement where he stood in the middle of a blizzard. One of the first times I saw him in the wild.

The concrete probably thinks I’m abusing it from how hard I stare.

“Ash!” A guy crosses to the other side of the street when his dog yelps repeatedly in my direction.

“ASH! I said yes, do you hear me? I’m saying yes!”

My throat’s as raw as my heart—which is so fucking cheesy to say, but it’s true. I hurt. Tears stream down my face and freeze at my jaw while my nose drips over my lip. Here I am, screaming, crying, snotting, and holding a mason jar of dead flowers like a lunatic, and honestly? If someone called a wellness check on me right now, I’d have to admit they had a point.

Nobody calls anyone, though. Nor do they stop to check on me.

My ribs crack themselves apart as I fold over the back of a bench. Am I more upset about being invisible or Ash not appearing? I don’t even know⁠—

Actually yes, I do. He’s the only one who ever looked at me and saw something. And I screamed at him until he left.

The sun’s drifted under the horizon by the time I get back to my apartment. The stairwell light’s out on the fourth landing, so I climb the last leg in the dark with my hand skimming the rail. I don’t cry at how shit today has been, because I’ve run out of tears. There’s just this dry, scraped-clean feeling behind my eyes.

My feet pause at my door as my eyes drift to the ceiling, and the thought solidifies.

There’s one place left.

He fully crossed over into this world when I jumped from the roof. No other time that I remember has he been able to do that. I doubt he would’ve ignored the chance if it presented itself prior to this life.

So maybe that’s what he needs to finally come back.

I rush into the apartment and snatch the nightgown. The sexiest thing I own by a wide margin, which is a low bar since the competition is a sports bra with a hole in it. I wore this the night I finally let myself have something. The night he took me apart with his hands and his mouth and told me, over and over, that I was wanted. I shudder as I recall his voice that night. So reverent and focused.

The sweater and leggings drop to the floor as I don the silky fabric, the cold air raising every hair on my arms. My scars catch the light from a streetlamp, almost shimmering in their brightened color.

He kissed every one of them. Every single one. And he didn’t ask about a single one of them either, because he was already there when I carved each into my skin. He’s always been there.

With the jar in hand, I manage the final stairwell to the roof. It’s musty, and each step sends a jolt through my bare feet, the concrete so cold it burns. The door at the top sticks, and I have to shoulder it, my jaw dropping at the wind that surges over the building. It almost feels like it’s aiming for me directly, attempting to shove me back to my apartment. Not today, wind.

It’s a struggle to push through the onslaught, but I make it to the lip and set the jar down beside my feet, where it can’t tip.

“Hi,” I say.

My voice sounds so small out here. The wind eats most of it.

“So…I’ve been all over the city today, in case you weren’t watching. I fell down twice. I yelled your name at a dog.” A laugh leaves me, wet and ragged. “You would’ve hated it as much as me. You’re a homebody, just like me, but it’s also so cold—is it cold in your world? I never asked.” My throat closes. I press the back of my wrist against my mouth until it opens again. “You’re just so patient with me. You’ve always been so patient with me, and I threw it at you like it was garbage.”

The lip of the roof is maybe four inches high. Just enough to feel it under my toes, and the threads in my breasts tighten until I struggle to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I told you to go. I’m sorry I decided what was best for you without asking. I’m sorry I made you the villain when the only thing you ever did was refuse to stop showing up.” Until now.

Something in my chest cracks wide, and I let it.

“I remembered the greenhouse. The dahlias. You said they reminded you of me, and I laughed because I didn’t know what to do with being called beautiful.” A sob shakes through my hunched frame. “I know what to do with it now. I’d know what to do with it now, if you came back.”

Nothing.

“Ash.” His name tastes like the inside of a memory I scraped up from the depths of my soul. My whole body heats the moment I say it, from my scalp down to the soles of my burning feet, and for one blazing second I think—there, that’s it, he’ll come now⁠—

But the roof remains empty.

“Ash,” I say again, louder this time. “I love you. Do you hear me? I love you, and I have loved you in every single one of those stupid lives, I know I have—I can feel it in my ribs. It aches like a sore muscle, and I was too scared and broken to say it. So I’m saying it now. I love you.”