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So instead of saying any of that, knowing it won’t do any good to make him feel worse and that a little sunshine is probably what he needs right now, I lean my head on his shoulder and try to find comfort in the fact that he’s here at all.
God knows it’s so much easier to give up and walk away than it is to fight for something.
Later that night, when I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I roll over onto my side and inhale, hating that my sheets still smell like Boyd.
My mind loops over the scent until I can’t stand it anymore, and I get up, stripping the mattress at three in the morning and replacing everything with fresh linens.
When I sink under the covers, I roll over to his side and curse.
“How does it still smell like him?”
My earlier thoughts about not giving up on people swirl in my mind, deafening as I toss and turn, trying to extract him from my nostrils. But it’s no use; the guilt wreaks havoc, seeks to steal my comfort and drive me crazy.
I can’t shake the feeling that I gave up too soon—that whatever is going on with Boyd was just too large of a burden for him to shoulder, and maybe being crushed under its weight is what made him keep it a secret.
No one wants to advertise their weaknesses.
Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him or tried to wring a confession I didn’t really deserve.
Pulling out my phone, I dial his number with shaky fingers, wondering how I might fix this.
Needing to fix it.
Because even though I’m worried about him, about us, I don’t really want to face a reality that doesn’t have him in it.
The phone rings and rings, going straight to voicemail twice.
Eventually, the calls stop going through at all.
