Crushing the letter in my fist, I climb behind the wheel and call him. Straight to voicemail.
Again.
And again.
Againagainagain.
Yellow streetlights streak as I fly down the road, droplets splattering the windshield. Each strangled breath drives the knives in deeper. Minutes drag on for hours. I’m swerving and hyperventilating as the familiar two-story home only a mile from mine comes into view. I pull into the gravel driveway, fling myself out of the car and stumble up the steps.
Please. Please be here. Please talk to me. I’ll get better for you. I’ll do anything to keep you. I love you. I love you so fucking much. Please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. I’m begging you, don’t leave me.
My fist slams on the door.
“Win!” I howl. “Win, answer me, please!”
Suddenly, the door swings in—
My heart lurches—
Then falls.
And falls.
I’ve met Win’s stepdad one time. He barely said three words to me then, just nodded politely and excused himself to his office to work on some case. But the man standing barefoot in the doorway is the furthest thing from composed and professional. His wrinkled shirt is rolled up to the elbows. Worry lines carve around his eyes and forehead. A frown curves his lips.
“Winston isn’t here.”
Even his voice is battered and broken.
I swallow around the rocks in my throat.
“W-where is he?”
Sympathy stares back at me.
I want to scream.
“We… don’t know. He texted his mother saying he couldn’t be here anymore. His car is gone. We think he’s headed back to his father, but he hasn’t called him either…” He’s still talking but it’s all gibberish. I don’t understand a single fucking thing coming out of his mouth. “If we hear anything, we’ll let you know, alright?”
I’m not in my body anymore. My head bobs in a shaky nod.
The door closes.
My knees are jello. They want to give out but I can’t move, not even to collapse into the rubble of what could have been. Cicadas scream in the darkness, harmonizing with the emergency sirens wailing in my brain.
No, no, no. This can’t be real. This isn't happening.
Shock— that’s what this is.
I’m frozen to the core despite the smothering humidity of a post-storm Florida night. My fingers are numb with how hard I’m fisting the crumbled letter.
Win is gone.
And it’s my fault.
50
Remy
