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Can’t stop thinking about her.
She hasn’t called or texted me since she drove me home on Sunday morning. It’s been four days now since I told her I caused someone to die. She said nothing then, and nothing ever since. Which is what I expected.
Then why am I gripping my phone so hard the damn casing’s creaking? Isn’t this what I wanted? For her to finally realize what sort of person I am and keep her distance?
No reason for this strange pain in my chest whenever I think about her. But I can’t help it. Whenever I lie on my bed, sit in my kitchen, take a shower, I think of her. Even walking to work, tattooing someone’s back or making coffee reminds me of her.
Everything reminds me of her.
I can’t ignore this anymore. Can’t ignore the fact I’ve crossed from having fun into something more serious, with no gray area in between. I feel things for her I can’t shove back into the box, no matter how hard I try. Being with her feels so good. Even when we’re not naked together, even when we’re talking, or holding on to each other feels right.
Even when talking on the phone. Just the sound of her voice smooths the jagged edges inside my mind.
But she won’t call. And I’m fucking torn, trying to decide what to do. I mean, what the hell can I do, after dropping that bomb on her? I want to punch a hole through the wall until this pressure in my chest lets up. Until the need to run out and find her goes away.
I need to kiss her and hold her and fuck her and kiss her again. Lock myself up with her, with her hot body and her smile and her gentle concern, and forget about everything else.
Meanwhile, we’re preparing for this convention Zane and Rafe set up for this weekend. Talk about fucked-up timing. If I had my truck, I’d go visit Mom on Thursday night, be back by Friday morning, but now I’ll need to rent a car to do that.
Will the cash I’ve saved cover the test costs? What about the treatment? What the fuck do I do if I have to pay everything?
First off, I can’t afford a car anymore. Can’t afford to buy another.
My Chevy, gone. She failed me.
Or I failed her.
A car racer, failing his own car. A brother failing his younger sibling. A friend failing his friend. A son failing his mother.
I sink into the only kitchen chair I own, throw the cell phone on the table and bury my fingers in my hair.
At least I can’t fail Kayla. Not when I’m not with her.
I wish it was enough.
Dragging the cell phone back toward me, I think about calling my mom, but instead I find myself clicking on the ‘new message’ icon and opening Kayla’s text messages from last week.
‘Please call me. Why did you say ur leaving? Where ru going?’
‘Talk to me. I’ll listen.’
‘Ocean, call me. Please. Come home.’
‘Don’t leave. Tell me what’s wrong.’
I swallow hard, closing my eyes. Shit. I already told her what’s wrong.
It’s me.
***
Wednesday. Five days since I last saw her, and touched her, and talked to her.
Not that I’m counting. But it’s been a damn sucky day. I found out that the insurance will pay me just enough to buy myself a bottle of Jack and get wasted. Not that I expected the minimum insurance policy I’ve been paying for to buy me a new car or anything, but it’s still a heavy blow.
Plus, I’m worried about Mom. Worried because the doctor texted me the cost of the tests, and it’s as bad as I thought.
And I miss Kayla so much I feel like I can’t breathe sometimes. It’s scary as fuck.
