Page 157 of Irreversible

I kick off my heels and peel the faux-leather skirt from my hips. It flutters to the cream-and-silver carpeting as I hang my purse on a wall hook, then pad into the kitchen to pull a box of frosted blueberry Pop-Tarts from the cabinet. I give Mr. Binkers a wary side-eye when I take a bite, the stale, sugary crumbs a sad substitute for true sweetness.

Mrrooww.

My nose scrunches. I break off a piece of crust, setting it on the counter beside the cat. “Bon appétit.”

The remainder of the pastry dangles between my teeth as I make my way over to the loveseat, wearing only my panties and a camisole, and plop down. The piece of furniture is the color of actual vomit—a rusty, off-putting shade of orange that never made the color-spectrum cut—but it was a hand-me-down from my childhood that Mom was going to toss in a dumpster.

I took it with me, needing the familiarity. A reminder of home.

My gaze skates over to the far wall, landing on the ten-gallon terrarium that houses my pet tarantula, Festus McGarrity IV. I pop up from the cushion to check on him, peering inside the glass enclosure and the miniature world inside. Plants, rocks, and branches are carefully arranged, mimicking the spider’s native environment. He skitters across the bottom as a heat lamp provides a gentle warmth. Then I trudge back toward the loveseat and drop back down to my butt, closing my eyes and shoving the remainder of the Pop-Tart into my mouth. It sticks to the back of my throat like a wad of bubblegum.

This is my life now: random cats, stale pastries, a stripper stage, and PTSD.

As I shove my hand between the cushions in search of the television remote, I hear something coming from the adjacent apartment. Voices. Conversation seeps through the wall that separates me from one of the neighbors. I make out a low, gravelly tone paired with a woman’s phlegmy cough, but I can’t decipher any words.

I try to tune out the distorted dialogue on the other side of the wall because it reminds me of a different wall: a sheet of white chipped by my fingernails and stained with my tears, too thick and sound to burst through with frail fists, books, or gowns made of lace.

Once, I tried to shimmy the porcelain sink from the wall, but my strength was pathetically nonexistent, and itwouldn’t budge. Sometimes I daydream about yanking it free, hammering it into the sterile barrier, and gouging a hole big enough for me to climb through.

It wouldn’t have been freedom…but it would’ve led me to him.

And that feels like the same thing.

Something flutters in my chest when the voices grow louder.

I always think I hear him whispering in my ear. He’s a shadow, a ghost—a faceless haunting made tangible by my own guilt and grief.

I lose myself in his past words, in the timbre of his voice. I imagine coffee-brown eyes I never got to see with my own. He often haunts me during my quiet moments when I’m stewing in a reality so different from the one I envisioned, if I ever made it out of that place.

I don’t think he’d be proud of me.

He’d be crushingly disappointed, I’m sure.

My mind races back to last week, recalling the man watching me dance. Smoking a cigarette as his stare unraveled me. Dark hair, dark eyes. Voiceless and volatile.

I haven’t seen him since.

That night, as I laid in bed with a little blue pick clutched inside my hand, I wondered if it could have been him—Isaac.My instincts had pinged like cold kisses on the back of my neck.

But I scrubbed the notion from my mind.

It was a stretch.

MyIsaac would never disappear for a year, only to track me down and say nothing.

MyIsaac would never allow me to believe he was dead after everything we went through together.

MyIsaac would never be that cruel.

There are millions of dark-haired, attractive men in the world. I’ve seen them; I’ve considered them. I’ve always been heartbreakingly wrong.

The sooner I come to terms with his loss, the sooner I can stop looking over my shoulder, stop seeing him on crowded streets, stop wondering, yearning, and questioning every stranger’s face.

He’s gone, Everly.

As I scrub away the goosebumps on my arms, I reach for my cell phone when the metallic ding of a notification echoes through the quaint apartment.My gaze settles on a new text message, and my stomach pitches. My insides shrivel like quick-dying blooms, their colors zapped to gray.

I blink at the name and hold my breath.

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