Page 48 of What's Left of Us

Every time I have that nightmare, I’m reminded of how badly I failed.

Marissa and my therapist can tell me all they want that it wasn’t my fault, but I made the call that led us there. I asked him to serve Jakob Volley instead of the other officers. I led us straight into danger.

Because of me, Marissa is a pregnant widow, and Cooper is fatherless.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that go without getting the justice they all deserve.

Peeling the blankets off me, I walk into the kitchen for a glass of water and guzzle the whole thing in seconds. The window above the sink looks out over the back deck, and my eyes find the glass table where I’d had Georgia splayed out in front of me weeks before she’d finally signed the divorce papers. When I’d gone back out there the next day, I saw the imprint her body left behind and was grateful Mom hadn’t been over to clean.

Knowing sleep will evade me, I don’t bother going back to bed. Instead, I get my phone, pour a glass of whiskey, and sit in the living room. The flat screen is blank, only turned on once in a while when I need to drown out the silence. Georgia used to watch it more than I ever did, making me sit through trashy television shows that made my brain bleed half the time. But I sat and endured them because she liked them, and seeing her content made me content.

Stretching my legs out, I stare at the tumbler of amber liquid that reminds me of a unique pair of eyes. I used to love it whenshe stared at me. No matter what I was doing, I could feel them locked in with interest that she tried her best to hide.

Especially in the beginning.

But she couldn’t.

I suppose that was the honeymoon phase.

Or maybe it was a delusion.

Picking up my phone, I hover over a familiar name in my contacts and hesitate before hitting the phone button until it dials out.

A groggy voice greets me after three rings.

“I can’t sleep,” I murmur, draping my head back and staring at the wood ceiling. Georgia wanted to paint the wood, but I couldn’t do it. It would have hidden the natural beauty of each dark, polished knot that gave it character.

There’s a pause. “Do you want me to come over?” Georgia asks.

I take a deep breath.

I should tell her no.

That I’m fine.

Don’t go. I have a bad feeling.

I should tell her it was a mistake calling.

But I’m always making the wrong decision when she’s involved.

So I say, “Yes.”

Twenty minutes later, the door opens to the living room, and a lean body slips in through the shadows and makes its way toward me, sitting on my lap and wrapping a lean arm around my neck.

She put perfume on for me because she knows I like it; the scent engulfing me as a pair of soft lips trail over my jaw. It’s not the same as when she used my shampoo, but it’s familiar. And sometimes, I welcome familiarity.

“Surprised you picked up,” I tell her, brushing hair out of her face that’s still frizzy from sleep.

Her palm cups my cheek as her thumb strokes my bottom lip. “I’m surprised you called.”

She leans her forehead against mine, feeling the subtle breath exhale from my parted lips. We sit like that for a while in comfortable silence. She places her palm over my heart, feeling itthump, thump, thumpagainst her.

I lift her palm to my lips, not wanting her to feel what she does to me. How my heart reacts to the traitor on my lap. “I thought you were seeing somebody,” I say, each word caressing her skin as her eyes slowly close.

It feels like forever before she whispers, “I already told you…” She moves her hand away from my mouth and replaces her lips with it in a barely there kiss. With her mouth still grazing mine, she says, “He’s not you.”

My eyes close as she kisses me again, each peck lasting a little longer than the last until I finally give in.

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