So empty.
It happens slowly, falling in love. You don’t realise how each encounter deepens your roots until you’re entangled.
So what happens when those roots are cut? Where does the love go?
Parts of them remain, damaged but breathing. But the branches no longer blossom—there’s nothing to feed, nothing to inspire awe. There’s just… nothing.
Nothing but an empty ache in an empty stomach.
Day eight arrives and though I still can’t bring myself to eat, I do manage to make it to the shower. My cheeks are crusted from salty tears and my hair is matted from lying on a pillow for a hundred and sixty-eight hours. Standing under the hot water makes me feel significantly less gross and marginally more human again. Enough so that when I return to my room I actually switch on my phone.
My heart sinks for a moment when I don’t see any messages or missed calls from Fiero. He really did heed my desire for him to walk away.
It was the right thing to do, I remind myself.
So why does it feel like the bottom just fell out of my world all over again?
There’s a message from Shane. I type out a quick response, and then I turn to the last lone message—from Hallie.
I hold my breath and open it up.
Hallie: Hey honey, you haven’t shown up for your last few shifts. Just checking in to see you’re ok. Call me. Kiss kiss
I guess Fiero hasn’t told anyone I’m not coming back.
Throwing the phone onto my bed, I open a drawer to find some clean clothes and my gaze lands on the money.
I sigh tightly. I don’twantto accept it, but now that my dad has a diagnosis and a prescription, I need it. There’s no other way I can pay for it.
But, I remember, I just worked a month forfree. This is money I’veearned, fair and square. I’ve bled for it in every way a person can. I deserve it.
I’m boilingup pasta for lunch when the doorbell goes. Dad and I look at each other blankly.
Not enough time has passed for Callum’s disappearance to become suspicious, so the only other likely cause is a bill collector or a mailman with yet another package too large for the mailbox.
I drop the spatula on the side. “I’ll get it.”
My gaze is fixed on the floor when I open the door, expecting a box to be waiting there, but instead I’m met with a pair of soft-soled sneakers and navy scrubs.
When my gaze has climbed to a warm, pink face, the woman beams at me.
“Hi, I’m Ronnie. I’m here for Frank.”
I blink at her.
“You’re… what?”
She glances down at the folder in her hands. “In-home support? Daily care assistance?”
I continue to stare at her, none the wiser.
“We haven’t arrange?—”
“It’s already been paid for,” she says brightly.
I shake my head. “There must be a mistake.”
“No, my love. It’s all legitimate. Now, where is Mr. McAllister?”
