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I unpack my stuff, take out sheets and make the bed. I take out my clothes and set them neatly inside the dresser. I place the three books I brought with me on top, standing, their spines facing outward. Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man. Dune. Neuromancer. I don’t watch movies anymore, but I read sometimes, when I can’t sleep.
Then I open the drawer again and arrange my T-shirts by color, then my socks and briefs. Close the drawer again. Draw a deep breath.
I sit on the bed and pull out my two pairs of shoes—running shoes, hiking boots—and place them against the wall, facing inward. My shaving kit, my shampoo and other toiletries I place in the small cupboard above the bathroom sink. The shower curtain catches my eye, stained and tattered. I’ll have to replace it. Just looking at it makes my chest tight.
Rubbing the place under my heart, I turn away and force myself to finish unpacking. Not much to unpack. My whole life is there in that rucksack—a notebook, my jogging pants and hoodie, painkillers, bandages, my cell and my wallet.
And the little box for her, with the gift I bought her years ago and never gave her.
So fucked up.
I stare at my few belongings. Of course there’s also my old stuff at Dad’s house, which I need to go get before it’s thrown out as the house is sold.
The thought of going back to Dad’s house raises my hackles. If I was an animal, I’d growl. Dammit. I run my hand through my shaggy hair. It’s grown so long it tickles my jaw and falls into my eyes.
Okay, okay. I need a plan. I need a job, additional to the graphic design gigs I do for a few regular clients. I don’t have much money and I promised Asher some money every month until he gets back on his feet. I can’t let him down. He’s been abandoned and abused too much in his life already. I’m the only family he has left, and I won’t fail him again.
Only I left Chicago without a fallback plan, except for my online work. I quit from the gym where I worked, left the apartment I shared with a guy so lost in drugs and booze I wonder if he’ll notice any time soon, and—
My cell rings, jerking me from my thoughts. I make a grab for it, wipe it on my pants three times and swipe the screen to accept the call.
I regret it instantly.
“Tyler?” asks a strident and unfortunately familiar female voice. “Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“Marlene.” I roll my eyes.
“Shall I come over? Are you at home? I can pass by your favorite Chinese place and grab your favorites and then we can feed each other and—”
“Marlene,” I interrupt the flood of words, “I told you we were done.”
“You can’t mean that.” Her voice catches, and I sit heavily on the bed, tugging on my hair with my free hand.
“I meant it.”
“How can you say that? How could you break up with me through text messaging? You bastard.”
Yeah, I am a bastard, on so many levels. Literally and metaphorically. Deeply and unashamedly.
A snort escapes me, and she hears it. Just my luck.
“You think this is funny? You break up a relationship just like that?”
“We never had a relationship,” I say. “We just fucked.”
“We just...” she sputters.
Well, it’s the truth. No kissing, no cuddling. No going down on each other, no touching other than necessary. Fucking is all I have to offer, take it or leave it.
“Asshole!” she mutters and hangs up.
Christ, I don’t want to make her suffer. But she clings to me, and I can’t be with her. Or anyone. I can barely take care of myself as it is.
There’s only one woman I want in the world. One I’ve always wanted. But I fucked that relationship up a long time ago.
I throw the phone on the mattress, then pick it up again and wipe it three times on my pants. Has to be three times or something bad will happen, and although I know now that this isn’t true, I can’t help it. There’s an itch between my shoulder blades, in the inside of my elbows, spreading to my wrists, making me shiver. A dark pressure fills me.
I make myself stop and breathe out. Fuck, I was doing better. Can’t slide back down. Can’t let these rituals rule my life. I stopped the drugs more than a month ago, as soon as I was told Dad died. How long do the damn withdrawal symptoms last?
