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I consider finding my phone to see if Connor needs me, but my eyelids are so heavy, I can’t seem to open them back up. My head falls back on the couch and I let myself slip into the warm dreamless void instead.
* * *
I’m jerked back awake again.It takes me a second to understand that the loud banging is coming from the front door. I smooth a hand over my tired face, looking around for my phone, noticing that the sun is setting through the windows. Must have slept all day.
The banging continues, and my irritation spikes.
“Hold the fuck on,” I bark, wondering who the hell would even have the gall to show up here.
I check the cameras on my phone and my stomach sinks when I realize Lucy is the one making all that noise. I half consider pretending I’m not here but I just yelled out loud like a fucking idiot, and something tells me she won’t be backing down this time.
“Shit,” I mutter, surveying the living room table. I grab whatever I don’t want her to see and throw it in a plastic bag, sticking it under the couch. I try to find a hoodie on my way to the door to hide the track marks on my arm but can’t find one. I curse under my breath again, the banging grating harshly on my frayed nerves, and give up looking. I hope Lucy won’t notice or if she does, won’t be able to make any kind of accurate connection to where they might come from.
I slide the two bolts, one at the top and the other at the bottom, before swinging the door open. Seeing her here is like Hell disguised in a breathtaking paradise. A loose braid falls over her right shoulder, faded blue overalls and—I realize with a hard pang—my old band t-shirt.
I wish I would just fucking die already.
For a long beat, we just stare at each other, her tight fist still hanging in the air. Then, as if realizing it, she clears her throat and crosses her arms over her chest, the skin between her eyebrows creating a divot as she looks at me with hard intent.
“Let me in,” she demands.
“Luce…” I say all too ready to deny her.
To deny myself.
“Don’tLuceme,” she answers angrily. Then falls silent, seeming to take me in with a long drag up and down of her gaze. “Are you sick? Contagious?”
Her question takes me by surprise and I sputter out a response without even really thinking about what she’s asking. “No. Why would I be—”
She gives me a quick nod, her shoulder clipping mine as she pushes herself inside. Surveying the loft, she turns back to face me. I concede, closing the door and locking it. Her arms are still tucked tight over her chest, her glare unrelenting.
“So just a coward then,” she says, her eyes growing teary. “Because those would be the only two reasons why you have been refusing to see me.” Her voice cracks and I don’t think I can bear much more of this but we’ve barely started this conversation.
I feel so tight in my own skin, I think I might just split open and bleed out on the floor in front of her. I don’t immediately answer, instead heading to the kitchen first, fishing a beer out of the fridge and cracking it open, then lean against the kitchen island. I gesture to her, offering her one but she dejectedly shakes her head, declining.
“I’m not avoiding you, Lucy.” I’m not sure why my first impulse is to gaslight her. Her angry expression morphs into one of hurt, the words seeming to affect her more than I meant them to and I’m immediately filled with regret.
“So it really did mean nothing to you…” she says so softly that I need to watch her lips for the words to properly make sense.
I wish I hadn’t.
“I never said that,” I reply quickly. Even I’m irritated with my fucking non-answers. I take a long swig of beer, trying to blur the edges of whatever shit existence I'm currently living in.
“So whatareyou saying?” she demands, raising her arms in exasperation. Then her demeanor falls quiet, still standing in the middle of the loft. I watch her lip quiver, a tear tracking down her cheek. “Talk to me, Bastian.” Her voice is so small, and I’m the reason she feels that way.
Maybe the dark room was better than this after all.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Luce. I just—” I’m growing flustered and agitated, the more I’m trying to find the right words. I take a deep breath in and rake my fingers through my unkempt hair. “I… I…”
I feel myself unraveling, holding on by a thread, the emotions and feelings, and just—justallof it fighting to burst out.
“What?” she says. “Please, Bastian—”
My resolve snaps.
“I thought you were fuckingdead,” I say forcefully, pushing myself off the island. “Do you understand what that means? Imournedyou, Lucy… I spent days in that—in that.” The words get caught in my throat, and I look down, trying to blink the memories of that place back down. “I don’t think I can go through that again,” I mutter.
I feel Lucy step closer to me. “Go through what?” she asks tentatively.
