Page 19 of Lesson Learned

“Yes, Conner. I remember.” He strides to my room, tossing over his shoulder, “That’s what makes the intrusion extra sweet.”

I hold back as he shoves the door open, waiting for the exclamation, the condemnation, the string of jokes at my expense.

When it doesn’t come, I follow him into the space. The bed is poorly made, the covers roughly tugged into place, but he probably doesn’t notice. He crosses to the wardrobe and pulls the doors open, staring back at me in confusion.

“You’ve kept Saski’s stuff?” He grabs out a jersey, hand knitted, merino silk blend, pulling it over his head and stretching the neck hole so even if he decides against taking it, it won’t sit right if I wear it again. “Are you hoping she’ll come waltzing back after what you did to her?”

I don’t expect my brother to understand that after the disastrous end to my marriage, these physical reminders are all I have to show for my loss. The only outward manifestation of my grief.

Not for my wife, but for the man who married her. The young man who thought he’d be able to live his happy-ever-after, getting free of his ill-fitting family to carve out a life on his own terms.

When my marriage disintegrated, it took those dreams with it. I grieve for the future I never got to live.

Her clothes, the wedding photos on display; I need them to process that loss.

Patrick grins until I’m tempted to shove my hand in his smug face but it’s late, I’m tired, I need to go to sleep so I can stop obsessing over the job I’ll be doing for the next few months, maybe the next few years. The one where I’ll need my wits about me at every moment. Exhausting in and of itself.

A dress, shoes, and a cardigan are missing from my ex’s stuff. I guess that means my visitor’s gone.

A lump forms in my throat. I should have stayed. Been here when she woke up so I could talk with her, play with her again. I have her number, grabbing it from her phone when I recharged it and loading mine into hers under the tag, man from queue. There’s tracking software loaded too, just from habit.

I can’t imagine ringing it now. Not when she took the first opportunity to leave. I rub the knuckles of my right hand, massaging the swelling flesh.

“What’s the matter? Did I take a jersey with emotional value?”

The teasing note scrapes against my ears, becoming painful. “Are you done making fun of me? I’d like to get some sleep.”

“I’m on your side, remember?” Patrick walks over, grabbing the back of my neck and forcing me into a hug. “We’re still in this together, right?”

I nod, the words draining my hope instead of replenishing it.

“It’s information he’s after, not lives. Do your job and make sure no one rumbles you, that’s it.” He levels a smirk at me. “Try not to get yourself fired and you won’t end up like Sean.”

Sean was our cousin. When one too many complaints came back to Creighton about his drug use, his missed appointments, his talking to the wrong people because his brain was too scrambled to work out when he was being played, my uncle took care of it.

That’s the family environment I was raised in.

My uncle killed his own son and installed his out-of-wedlock bastard as heir instead.

Patrick claps my shoulder again and leaves, his car gunning needlessly loud before he drives away because he knows it annoys me.

I stare at the unkempt bed with gritty, exhausted eyes, wishing there was still a warm girl to fill it. But my brother’s right. No complications. No distractions until Creighton says the job is done.

Until my debt is finally repaid.

CHAPTERFIVE

PAISLEY

All Sundaylong I feel rough. In the morning, I alternate between sculling glasses of water and demolishing every piece of food I come across, then being unable to stomach a single bite.

In the afternoon, it finally dawns on me that despite remembering flash frames of sexual activity last night, I can’t remember using protection and I’m no longer on the pill. Steeling myself for a lecture, I attend the on-campus health clinic, avoiding all eye contact in the waiting room, my head thumping worse than it has all day.

Although I intend to get the morning-after pill, I end up agreeing to the longer lasting protection of inserting a copper IUD. Then, the locum doctor who pulled the short straw to work weekends, admits she’s not skilled in the process. Cue ringing around the city’s family planning clinics to find one with an emergency appointment free.

By the time I get there, get through the eye-watering, teeth-gritting procedure and get back to school, it’s time for dinner and I’ve wasted the entire day.

None of my planned assignments were even looked at, let alone done, but I have enough wriggle room that I’m not overly concerned. I can go without sleep for the next few nights if I have to and the cafeteria’s used to seeing me eat one-handed while I scribble notes with the other.

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