Page 136 of Anything But Lonely

We pull into Emerson’s apartment complex, and I pull my car into an empty spot.

After coming here yesterday, I’m still trying to make sense of everything.

The last twenty-four hours feel like a blur of panic, relief, guilt, and heartbreak, all tangled together so tightly I can't separate one from the other.

I don't know how long we sat on her couch after I found her. Time stopped feeling real the second she opened that door.

All I know is that I held her for what felt like hours, my arms wrapped around her while she buried her face in my shoulder. I was almost afraid to let go, afraid that if I loosened my grip for even a second, she'd disappear again.

It took a long time before she finally lifted her head. And when she did, every bit of anger I'd been carrying dissolved.

Because I had been angry.

The second Jack asked how she was doing, my mind went straight to the worst possible places. First, I thought something had happened to her. Then, when that fear started to fade, I convinced myself of something else entirely—that she was perfectly fine and simply didn't want me around anymore.

By the time I got to her apartment, I'd worked myself into a state. I pictured finding her curled up on the couch reading a book or watching T.V., completely unbothered by the fact that we'd gone days without seeing each other. I convinced myself she didn't care. Convinced myself she wouldn't even want to know that Crew had broken his arm.

But if I'm being honest, I think part of me rushed over there because I knew none of that was true.

No matter what was happening between us, I knew she'd want to know about Crew.

Whether she was mad at me for something I did.

Whether she needed space.

Whether she was done with me completely.

I knew she'd want to know.

Then she opened the door, and I realized how wrong I'd been.

She was standing there in a ratty tank top and a pair of underwear, one sock hanging halfway off her foot. Her hair was so matted it took nearly an hour to brush through later. The apartment behind her looked abandoned.

The realization hit me so hard it knocked every other thought out of my head.

I stayed with her for the rest of the day. I sat on the bathroom floor while she brushed her teeth. Made sure she drank water. Ordered food and watched her force herself to eat a few bites. We barely talked. Most of the time we just moved through one small task after another, neither of us acknowledging how much effort it seemed to take.

The entire time, I couldn't stop thinking that I should have known.

I should have pushed harder when she told me she was sick.

I should have shown up.

I should have recognized that something wasn't right.

Maybe that's not fair. Maybe there wasn't any way for me to know how bad things had gotten.

But knowing that doesn't stop the guilt.

And when she came out of the bathroom, her cheeks flushed from the shower and a towel wrapped around her chest, it felt like looking at a version of the woman I love that I'd never seen before.

Not because she looked different.

Because she looked fragile.

And there is nothing more terrifying than seeing someone you love hurting in a way you can't fix.

Then she asked if I would go with her to see her mom. I was halfway through changing the sheets on her bed. For a second, I thought my knees might actually give out.