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I’m sure he doesn’t have the nerve to come after me.
The wicked contrast with my father’s weakness makes me think about Chris, and it hurts.
I can’t stand wondering if he’s okay.
Where he is. What he’s doing. Whether or not he’s even breathing.
Ugh.
He wouldn’t come out and say it, but I know he’s been thrown into something dangerous. And it’s a special kind of hell being stuck here, alone, when I need him more than ever.
I’m just trapped, caught between this screwed-up family business and the last man I ever expected to care so much for.
There’s no denying it, though.
Especially when Chris hangs on my mind every waking second, the entire reason I’m fighting my father tooth and nail for the first time in my life.
I’m not a religious person. But I stare outside at a cool late summer rain blowing in and send it a quiet prayer.
I ask the gods, the universe, whatever’s out there to protect Chris.
Please, bring him back to me, and mend this shattered family.
I ask for a chance to taste his lips again and renew my faith that everything will be okay.
* * *
The next coupledays are a blur.
I alternate between my paper and long breaks where I bust out my paints.
At least heartbreak and anxiety make me super productive. Dad isn’t the only workaholic in the family who copes with pain by putting his head down.
I’m over halfway through a seventy-page research paper in two days.
I’ve also crafted a pretty forest scene with so much depth, all shadows and muted light spinning a rainbow of greens that spans the entire spectrum.
Green like his eyes.
Green like his soul.
Green like my envy for everyone who gets to fall in love without so much trouble.
Sighing, I rip myself away from it and take a shower before I break down again.
I haven’t heard a word from him for days.
But he said there’d be radio silence.
Still, I can’t help frantically searching Google, Twitter, and news sites almost hourly, searching for any mention of big kerfuffles in Mexico involving American security contractors.
For once, I don’t mind the professor hounding me like mad.
At least this time it’s because he likes the first leg of my paper so much he’s eager to see if the rest of it lives up to his lofty expectations.
I make myself scarce in the house, slipping Marguerite a few extra bucks to bring me sandwiches and yogurt and drinks to restock my mini fridge.
I hear Bruce and Evie talking in the hall a few times, muttering about me in low, worried voices. They just have to add their feelings to this sick, dark cloud that’s descended over our house.
