Page 14 of Icy Pour

I quickly move past him and make my way out onto the street, stomping down the sidewalk. Pissed at myself. Pissed at him. Pissed at this damn world that things have to be like this. Pissed that I lost my goddamn job.

Something pulls tight and low inside me because I fucking know he feels something. I can sense it in my bones. I can feel it through every fiber of me. But, like most of us, he’s fucking scared. I know so many people like him, lashing out in anger over something they can’t control. Something they want to give into but feel like they can’t.

The cold air bites at my skin as if a thousand needles stab me all at once. But it’s not only the emotion that has me freezing in place.

Shit. I forgot my damn coat.

CHAPTER 10

WALT

“Fuck.”

I grab the empty bottle and throw it as hard as I can against the wall. Shards of glass scatter through the space, cutting across the room—just like I cut into him. I can’t believe I was so harsh. Last night things got way too close to being way too real. I had to do this. I had to let him go. I can’t be around him all day and then take care of my needs after he leaves every night. That can’t happen again.

“I had to do it.”

I slump against the wall as I crouch down, finally resting after a shift that felt twice as long and three times as hard. I scream at the top of my lungs for no one but the booze to hear.

I yelled at him.

Accused him of stealing.

Told him not to come back.

What if I just let the one good thing that’s come into my life walk out that door?

I know he wants me. And hell, if I don’t want him.

There’s a mist in my eyes that shows up so rarely. But tonight it seems to be back with a vengeance as I feel a single tear trickle down my cheek.

Why can’t I be stronger? Why can’t I be more like him?

I slam my fist on the ground with instant regret as a shard of glass rips through my skin.

“Shit.” I stagger to my feet and grab the first aid kit as I wipe my face with my sleeve, digging through the box for a band-aid.

What hits me next is the last thing I expect. That voice.

His voice.

“Sorry, I know you told me to go, but I forgot my— Jesus, what happened in here?”

He’s here.

My heart pounds. The anger I lashed out with vanishes into thin air. I don’t care if he forgot his coat or his goddamn mind. He’s here. Staring at me. Crying. Bleeding. Broken.

“Holy shit. Are you okay? Did someone come in here and⁠—”

“No. No one was in here. I-I threw the b-bottle. C-cut my hand,” I stutter, showing him the evidence. “And no. I’m not okay.”

He starts to take a step forward but hesitates, finally gesturing to the phone on the desk. “Do you need me to call 911? Do you need to go to the hospital? What do you need?”

I don’t think I could blink if I tried. Everything that’s been bottled up for so long, buried so deep no one could find it, not even me, finally comes to the surface. My resolve to keep it hidden is now shattered with the glass. My throat burns as the word pushes its way to the surface like it’s a damn hot bed of coals I have to walk across to get what I want. And right now, I don’t care if I burn up and turn into ash.

Because he came back.

I take one step toward him. Then another. Finally standing before him, barely an inch separating us.