Page 82 of Resisting my Roommate

I open the door, and the air inside feels stale, untouched by human presence for too long. The crib, the rocking chair, the changing table — they’re all still here, just as I left them. Waiting.

But for what? A baby that never came? A future that never existed?

I take another swig of beer, my hand shaking as I look around the room. Memories flood back — nights spent painting the walls, putting together furniture, dreaming of the life we’d have. This room was once filled with so much hope. Now it’s just an empty reminder of everything I lost.

A surge of anger rises inside me, hot and uncontrollable, and I release a strangled roar that reverberates around me. In my fury, I hurl my beer against the wall, the glass shattering on impact. But it’s not enough to satisfy me. It’s never enough.

I grab the rocking chair and slam it against the floor with all my might, causing it to splinter and crack beneath the force. The sound of wood breaking adds to the chaos in the room, but it does nothing to quiet the rage tearing through me. My heartbeat thrums in my ears as I move to the crib next, yanking at the frame until it gives way. Piece by piece, I tear it apart, like I can destroy the pain if I obliterate everything attached to it.

But even as I rip apart all the reminders of the life I once imagined, I’m not satisfied. I form my hands into fists, punching the remnants of the furniture with all the heartache, grief, and despair I possess.

I’m about to throw the elephant lamp against the wall when I hear footsteps behind me, approaching rapidly.

“Jude!What the fuck?!”

Before I can take out my resentment on the innocent lamp, a pair of arms wraps around me from behind, locking me in place.

“Calm down, Jude.” Beckham’s voice is filled with alarm and disbelief at the scene before him.

“Get off me!” I struggle against his hold, trying to break free. But I’m no match for my older brother’s strength, as much as I like to think I can take him.

“Your hands are fucked,” he retorts sternly. “If you want to be able to keep making the beer I know you love, you need to take a deep breath and relax.”

I look down at my hands for the first time, noticing the blood marring them. They should hurt, but I feel nothing other than the debilitating pain that’s been present for too long now.

Closing my eyes, I do as he asks and suck in a deep breath, trying to calm the raging storm within me.

“It fucking hurts,” I admit in a pained voice.

“I know.”

Beckham helps guide me down to the floor, and I lean against the wall for support, physically and emotionally drained.

“Well, maybe I don’t knowexactlyhow much,” he continues, “but I know how painful it is to be stuck in the past. Some days…,” he trails off, shaking his head. “Some days, it felt like it would fucking suffocate me.”

My chest heaves as I suck in a shuttering breath. I should hate that I’m having this complete breakdown in front of him. But if there’s anyone I can be myself around, it’s my brothers. My family.

A nagging voice in my head reminds me I was able to be myself around Abbey, too, but I quickly silence it. Thinking about Abbey is how I got here in the first place. Right now, all I want is to forget her and move on with my life.

But I have a feeling I won’t be able to.

“Want to talk about it?” Beckham asks as Finn rushes into the room, carrying the first-aid kit he always keeps in his truck, as well as a bowl of water, and three beers.

Handing the bottles to Beckham, he squats down in front of me, attempting to clean all the cuts and scratches.

“Nothing to talk about. I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago. Getting rid of all this stuff.” I try to wave my handat the destruction surrounding me, but Finn stops me so he can continue tending to my injuries.

I suppose that’s the good thing about having a first responder in the family. And if it’sreallybad, there’s also a doctor.

“When most people move furniture, they don’t attempt to shatter it into pieces first,” Finn jokes, cutting through the tension.

“I may have gotten a little carried away,” I admit, taking the beer from Beckham’s outstretched hand and swallowing a large gulp.

“A little?” Finn scoffs.

“This isn’t about the nursery,” Beckham comments quietly. “It’s about Abbey.”

“Don’t,” I grit out, taking another long sip of beer to dull the throbbing ache consuming me. And it has nothing to do with the sting from the tweezers Finn’s using to dig out a few splinters.

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