Page 57 of The Sound of Him

He doesn’t stop me when I unlock the door. Not when I open it, either. He doesn’t even turn to look. Doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t make me look at a face that’s disappointed - if he even would be disappointed.

It makes me feel a little like a ghost again. Me just coming and going with him living his life either way. A ghost he can see and talk to. A ghost he doesn’t expect to play the part of being alive.

A ghost that’s stillreal, but who gets to decide when it wants to be seen that way.

I crawl into my bed, pulling my bunny to my chest before curling around him.

I sleep better than I have in years.

Chapter Eight

Ace

Maison is avoiding Dr. Deacon, every day looking worse off instead of better. Carter is declining too, just emotionally instead of physically. This lead on Mica might end up falling through, leaving Keaton in an even worse headspace than before. Kellan is impatient and angry. Casey asks to use my computer so he can look up the after-effects of sepsis, a diagnosis he received after Jake all but fell on his knees and begged him to go see the doctor. I catch Matt sneaking away from yet another meal, his plate untouched. Nolan is latching onto Maison in a way that makes me a little nervous - for the both of them, really. Bryce doesn’t stay in his room for longer than an hour at a time, so even if he’s sleeping with his light on, he’s not sleeping nearly enough. Maybe I can’t be one to judge that, but he doesn’t have what I have - the fact that he’s still standing is a medical mystery that makes me think one of these days he might just give out.

I’m keeping it together.

I’m fuckingtryingto at least.

It’s just… things are crumbling. Turning to dust, more accurately. A fine substance that’s impossible to keep in my hands, filtering through the cracks of my fingers, catching on air every time I exhale.

It feels like any minute now, I’ll be dust too.

Then Matt comes in, with his big brown eyes and his fear, and he fuckingtrustsme.

He locks himself in with me.

Sure, he doesn’t communicate, doesn’t really respond to the words I fill the air with, but he stays. He listens. He looks where I point. He nods.

I have a million questions - about his fear, about Jake, about him leaving yet another meal without eating, about what really happened the night he spoke for the last time, about what he needs from us to get better - but none of it is my business. Even if it was, I bet nearly all of those questions are ones he has for himself anyway. Just because he’s the main character in his life doesn’t mean he understands any of it.

Hell, I’ve been the main character in my own story for decades and I feel like I’m still stumbling around life like a fucking baby deer.

I’m not disapointed when he leaves. I hope he gets some rest, and I hope he comes back if he ever needs to, but I'm not disappointed. I’m just glad to have given him a moment to breathe. A safe place to hide, even if only for a few minutes. I know what that’s like, to need a moment to catch your breath before having to face the world again.

I hope he’s breathing a little easier.

I already am. A few pounds of the crushing weight on my shoulders has been lifted. The crumbling has stopped. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who needed that moment. I’m glad we could share it.

The feeling lasts long enough for me to send a check-in message to Keaton and update the search parameters on the databases I’m using to find Elliot’s identity.

Then I notice movement on the camera feed displayed in the right bottom corner of my main screen. The one that’s most important to me. The one that shows the area outside of my door.

Just a few minutes ago, I caught a flash of movement and had Matt rushing in before I could even process the new development.

This time, the flash of movement has come to a halt and remains that way. Unmoving. Staring straight ahead.

Bryce Jacobson is standing at my office door.

I stare at the monitor, an ache starting to build behind my right eye. His shoulders are pulled back, his chin held high, chest puffed out - the picture of confidence and authority. His hands at his sides give him away, though. They’re trembling. It’s barely noticeable, but I see it.

He squeezes his eyes shut, his hands curling tightly into fists. I watch as he sucks in a breath big enough to have his chest heaving. He takes another. And one more.

Then he opens his eyes, lifts his hand, and knocks.

I enter the three-key sequence that sends all of my monitors dark and slowly stand from my chair, not wanting to move too quickly and give away that I was waiting.

He’s glaring by the time I open the door, any nervousness carefully hidden away.