Page 96 of Hiding from Hope

“What’s déjà vu, Ace?”

“Remember? I tucked you in when you were a little drunk. You said my nose was cute. But you probably don’t like my nose anymore,” she mumbles, and I frown in confusion. When I turn to look down at her and ask further, I note the sadness in her expression. I maneuver us toward the bedroom and hold her against me.

“What’s that look for, baby?” I say quietly, tucking her now messy wind-blown hair behind her ears, and she drops her forehead to my chest, hands fisted tightly in my sweater.

“That was the night I stole your manuscript.” She has little tears on her cheeks when she looks up at me, and I quickly wipe them. The pain and anger of what happened, of what we haven’t talked about, sits heavy in my stomach. Despite how confused I am at why she did that, how dirty it felt to have that secret hidden from me for so long, she’s far too wasted to hash this out right now.

“C’mon, sunshine, let’s get you into bed and we can talk about everything tomorrow.”

She crawls into the bed and I sit beside her, removing her heels and lightly massaging her feet as she wriggles out of her clothes, lying almost naked, her flimsy thong the only scrap of material on her body, and I have to physically restrain myself from joining her with my naked body.

Too drunk for a conversation means she is definitely too drunk to be fucked into the mattress.

I drag a frustrated hand through my beard and grab a shirt from a pile of laundry I hadn’t put away from the dryer, and throw it at her. “Put this on.”

She drags it across her body, and I have to turn and look away to stop myself.

“It smells like you,” she whispers. “Your sweater at home smells like you. I wore it today. My sheets smell like you, too. Today, I decided I’m never washing them.” Her words are little breaths of slurred sounds, but in the quietness of my small apartment, I hear every single one. And each of them makes my chest ache.

Confusion, anger, and frustration grip me all at once, and I have to shake my head, knowing she is too drunk to hear anything I say, but I mumble anyway, “I’m not going anywhere, sunshine.”

“I hope I forget,” she whispers, dropping more tears from where she lies on my bed curled up and eyes sealed shut.

“Forget what?”

“You. Because it’ll hurt too damn much to remember.” She sniffles, and I have to rub my face aggressively to fight off the spike in my anger. I had thought turning up, declaring her as mine, railing her like an animal in the bathroom, had been enough to clear up any doubt about where I stood, but my Casey is a gentle soul, and I knew she had beat herself up. I hadn’t realized she was beating herself to the point she was becoming delusional as to how much I loved her.

Resigned to the fact that having this conversation with a drunk Casey wouldn’t get me very far, I don’t say anything. Instead, I peel my clothes off now that she is covered under the blankets, and one percent less of a temptation–let’s be real, she could wear a fucking burlap sack and she’d still be the only woman on the planet worth looking at.

I know I should be a gentleman and sleep on the couch, but I can only put my heart through so much in one day. Knowing that she thinks we’re done is painful enough without being able to clear any of it up in her current state. So, I lie down behind her and pull her into me, a tense breath leaving me at the comfort of finally holding her in my arms and feeling her settle into me. That final piece to my puzzle.

Despite the pain in my chest, the way I’m twisted up, a little unsure and a lot mad. I know that Casey and I could beat anything. Whatever comes tomorrow, it will always be me and her at the end of it.

Morning sun has me stirring awake, but the usual comfort of feeling a small frame, soft skin, and a delicate trace of flowers under my nose is missing. My eyes snap open, trying to clear the sleep quicker than usual. Sitting up, I see the bed is empty, feeling the side Casey had slept on is cold has my heart in my throat.

She left?

The covers are tossed, I’m bolting out of bed, and my bedroom door is thrown open. My knees nearly buckle with relief when I see her standing in the living room. Looking out the window, heavy snow covers the city in a white blanket. She turns her head just so, acknowledging my presence, but returning her attention back to the window, her shoulders inching up ever so slightly.

“You feeling okay, sunshine?” I ask gently, cautious to the fact she’d have a killer hangover this morning.

“Had some Advil and water a couple hours ago.” My heart races at the uncertainty that sits around her, and when my eyes dart to the oven clock in my kitchen, I note the time. 8am. She’s barely slept.

I steal a hoodie from the couch and tug it on, ducking back into the bedroom to tug on a pair of sweats before heading back out to the main area.

“Sleep okay?” I test the waters, and she turns to give me a sad smile.

“I think we should have that conversation.” She angrily wipes at a tear and I frown deeply, unable to stop it, but nod at her. Grateful I was able to postpone this as long as I had. I am no longer livid at what she did… just confused.

Heading to the couch, I sit while she remains standing and pacing, so I stand again. I need to comfort her in some way. At this point, it felt like a basic need. Reaching out, I grab her thumb, twisting the ring that rests there, attempting to stop her racing heart and manic thoughts.

“Breathe, Ace.” She rips her hand from my grip like I burned her.

“You have to stop,” she breathes, her eyebrows drawn in, little frown lines forming on her pink cheeks, and I hate it.

“Stop what?”

“All this kindness. Why aren’t you shouting or something? Why aren’t you angrier? It’s confusing!” My hands make their way to my hips, looking for something to do with them as I feel my skin start to itch with the way fury burns my veins.

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