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The silence in the car is a thick shroud, its weight bearing down on me, but I can’t find it in me to turn the music up. If it could drown out the chaos of my mind and heart, I would have, but it can’t. Nothing can. The oppressive silence becomes too much—reaching out and almost suffocating me with its pressure. A tear escapes, its fiery heat scalding my frozen cheek. It breaks the floodgates and multiplies until a river of agony is pouring down my face. My shoulders heave with a pain so visceral it burrows deep into my bones, fusing itself so tightly to my marrow, blending with the very essence of what makes me, me.
My phone buzzes yet again, and with a curse, I tear a hand off the steering wheel, my white-knuckled grip loathe to let go. Silencing it, I briefly contemplate throwing it out the window but instead throw it over my shoulder, not caring where it falls. It hits the back seat with a dull thud that’s not satisfying in the least. I want to hit something, break something, make something…someone hurt as much as I’m hurting right now. But violence has never been an option for me, so instead, I drive, trying to get as far away from what caused me pain as I can.
*****
BY THE TIMEI get home, the sky has taken on that indistinct quality where it’s something in between—not quite day yet, but not night either.
At some point, sanity prevailed, and I realized I couldn’t out-drive my grief. No matter how far I drove or where I went, it would still be with me, nestled like a tiny poisonous seed that grew and thrived on images that relentlessly played through my mind. On scenarios I made up in my head. On little bits and pieces over the past few months that I’ve put together. Thoughts, images, and realizations that hurt to the bottom of my soul.
I’m weary, from the top of my head down to the tips of my toes. My eyes are swollen and tired, my jaw aches from clenching it so hard, and my shoulders and back are one huge knot of pain. I want to fall in bed and forget that this day—actually yesterday now—ever happened.
Quinn jumps up from the couch when I open the door, his hair disheveled, his eyes wild. He lets out a deep breath.
“You’re safe, I was so fucking scared. I took a taxi home, and when you weren’t here—”
“What are you doing here? I told you I don’t want you here,” I interrupt him.
“I need to talk to you. I need to explain.”
I don’t want to do this. Not now. I’m not ready. My heart is throbbing like an open wound, each pump oozing pain, and I don’t want to know the details. I want to protect what little I have left for as long as I can.
“You don’t have to explain anything. What I saw was explanation enough.”
“Bailey, please. Lets just—”
I whirl around, violence tingling the tips of my fingers. “I don’t care what you need right now! Right now, what I need is for you to leave. To get the hell away from me. I can’t even look at you.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, taking a deep breath. “We’ll talk in the morning. Or at least a bit later…” Looking lost, he glances out the window where the first feeble rays of sunshine are making themselves known. “I’ll be right here. Whenever you’re ready.”
Will I ever be ready to talk? Maybe. But not right now. I’m not ready to hear any of those asinine words cheaters throw out to try and explain their reasons. It was an accident. It just happened. I wasn’t thinking. It didn’t mean anything.
It’s all hollow. No words can mitigate what he’s done. But I don’t say anything. I bend down, undo the buckles, and slide my shoes off. An image of a pair of discarded shoes flashes through my mind, and I hurl them as hard as I can. I don’t aim, and I don’t care if they hit anything. Instead, I watch in detachment as they bounce off the wall and fall harmlessly to the floor. Stupid, pointless shoes.
I’m proud of myself for not slamming the bedroom door behind me. Yanking off my dress, I bunch it up and stuff it in the trashcan in the bathroom. It cost me more than I would usually spend on an article of clothing, but there is no way I will ever be able to wear it again. I avoid looking at my reflection while I brush my teeth. I refuse to acknowledge the hollowness that I’m sure is reflected in my eyes. By the time I crawl into bed, the time on my phone tells me I have about three hours until I have to get up for work. I close my eyes, willing sweet oblivion to drag me under so I can have a break from all of these feelings assaulting me. Instead, it feels as if the universe hates me because all I see is a montage of my life with Quinn playing against my closed lids, all of it seemingly a lie.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BAILEY
I STUMBLEout of the bedroom, bleary-eyed and a deep throbbing pounding at my temples. What little sleep I managed to get was not restful, to say the least. I stop when I see Quinn sitting at the dining table, his head in his hands, a cup of coffee in front of him. He looks up, and to say he looks wrecked is an understatement. Good. It serves him right.
“I’ll get you coffee,” he says, jumping up and rushing to the kitchen.
I watch in silence as he prepares it just the way I like it—two sugars and a dash of cream. Just that small action is like a punch in the gut. There isn’t a time I can recall when Quinn hasn’t been in my life.
He comforted me when I cried on his shoulder the first time I got my period, even though he was grossed out. I teased him mercilessly when his voice broke. We went to the same school and went to prom together. Attended the same college. I was there supporting him when his mom passed away and then again through the death of his grandparents.
Knowing a person almost as well as you know yourself is a comfort that can’t be bought. I know that you can never truly know everything about a person. After all, you don’t have access to their innermost thoughts and feelings. You can only know what they choose to show you. What they choose to share with you.
But after all this time, I thought I knew everything there was to know about Quinn. The look in his eyes could tell me what was on his mind. The set of his mouth and the tone of his voice could tell me what mood he was in. Now I’m realizing that I don’t know him as well as I thought. That there’s a part of my Quinn that I don’t know at all, and the thought is making me physically ill. Watching him while he stirs the coffee and places it on the counter is like watching a stranger.
“There you go,” he says, giving it a slight push toward me as if that small action can entice me to get closer. Instead, I cross my arms across my chest. I should have put a bra on before I left the room. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable in front of him, and it’s throwing me off.
“Don’t you have to leave for work?”
“I’m not going,” he breathes out. “I thought we could…”
“What?” I bark, irritated when his voice trails off.
