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She looked at me, lingering on the good nights we’d just uttered as a formality. Daring me with her darkened eyes to say something, do something.
For a moment, I thought,Maybe shewantsme to kiss her.Maybe there’s a part of her that doesn’t care how wrong it is to want me, and all she wants right now, in this moment, is to feel the steel piercing my tongue slide along the softness of hers. Maybe …
But I wouldn’t. That wasn’t a move I was going to make, not without her leading the way, and all she did was stand there. Frozen, staring at me through pleading, shadowed eyes.
With a final nod of my head, I took a step backward, widening the space between us. Her chest dropped, deflating with a disappointed exhale as I tucked my hands into my pockets.
“Good night, Lennon,” I repeated before disappearing from her sight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lennon
She lingered in the open doorway for one second longer than she normally would. Her eyes swept the empty room while an unimaginable ache pulsed with every beat of her broken heart. No matter what horrors she’d witnessed here, she knew she'd miss this place. Perhaps not during the lively hours of the day, when she could keep her mind occupied and busy. But every night, when she lay in bed, alone and longing for his arms around her, she would miss it.
One more second passed, and her eyes fell to the spot on the floor where she had watched his chest deflate with his final breath. The bloodstain was long gone—it'd been scrubbed away weeks ago—but in her mind's eye, it was still there. Dark and dripping between the floorboards, disappearing into whatever hell he lived in now.
“Where he belongs,” they had all said—family, friends, and reporters alike.
But love didn’t work like that, and she knew she would miss him more than she could ever miss this empty shell of a home.
She would miss him most of all.
“Good-bye, honey,” she whispered to the room as the wind outside beckoned with the promise of a new life.
She lingered for one more final second, hoping she would hear his voice. The voice she used to know, before it’d happened, when he would sing to her in the kitchen and call her name from the bedroom and whisper the broken promises of a forever love she still wished had been the truth. But in that second, she heard nothing but the chirping of the birds and a lawn mower somewhere down the street, and as she closed the door behind her, she knew it was for the better.
Because if he had responded, if he had said anything at all …
She never would've left.
The End
The exhale that left my lungs felt old, like I'd been holding my breath for months. I sat back in my chair, allowing my eyes to readjust to the dim light of my bedroom as I released my hair from the ratty two-day-old bun.
“Finally,” I uttered to a sleeping Ernest, feeling as though I'd been working on the first draft of my story for years rather than a few months.
Emotionally and mentally, I'd been through the wringer, watching the story unfold before my eyes. The last couple of weeks of writing had been spent in something akin to solitary confinement as I forced myself to get the damn thing done before it left my head. It had been an odd blend of torture and excitement. Heaven and hell. More than anything, I couldn't wait for it to be finished, but now, with those final six letters written, I hardly knew what to do with myself.
Naturally, I texted Tarryn, Peter, and Dylan, telling my three closest friends the big news that I was one step closer to calling myself the author I'd always dreamed of being.
Then, I sent one to Connor with a big thank-you for convincing me to start in the first place. He had been right when he said the time would pass anyway. And now, I had something to show for it.
Finally, I grabbed my iPad and flopped onto the bed beside my purring one-eyed wonder, ready to curl up with an episode ofSupernaturalin a nest of pillows and leopard-print blankets. It had been days since I’d allowed myself such simple pleasures, and just as I was getting settled, my damn phone rang.
“Are you kidding me?” I groaned, grabbing it from off my nightstand.
It was Peter.
I considered letting it go to voice mail. It was probably a bad girlfriend move, but, man, I wanted to be left alone to recharge. While I recovered from the story I’d written, I needed a break—some quiet, comfort, and Netflix—before I could even think about reemerging into the life I genuinely enjoyed.
But after allowing the thought to linger for a second, I felt guilty. What if it was an emergency? What if he needed me as much as I needed a moment to breathe? I could spare the few minutes it took to answer the phone and find out why he was calling.
Knowing he'd understand when I gave him a quick good-bye, I answered, injecting enthusiasm I didn't quite feel into my tone with my, “Hey!”
“Hey, babe,” he said. “So, it looks like congratulations are in order, huh?”
“Yeah, well, let's not celebrate yet,” I grumbled, downplaying the accomplishment. “I still have to read through it about a thousand times and do some edits.”
