Page 114 of The Blood we Crave

That wasn’t enough for me. That’s bullshit in my eyes. If that’s the relationship he carries with the guys, fine. But that won’t work for me. It’s not the connection we have.

I get the courage to darken his doorstep when week threerolls around. I’m greeted only by workers and his grandmother, who kindly lets me know he’s okay. All he’d told her was he was going away for a few weeks—a vacation, he’d called it.

She assumes he’s at one of their other houses, possibly the one in British Columbia, one he’d loved as a child. Or the one in Vermont. It had been his mother’s favorite.

Talking to her is only a short balm to my burning heart. A little dose of him to make breathing a little easier. But it’s not enough.

I’m so disturbingly lonely. The library tower isn’t comforting; the mausoleum is grim without him there. And I can’t even bring myself to work with or look for insects. There’s an emptiness inside of me that hasn’t ached in years, a hollow well with no end, just an eternal pit with no bottom in sight.

So when May Pierson tells me goodbye at her front door, I quickly find a way inside once again. This time, without her knowledge. I’m quiet, trying to remember the steps to his bedroom.

It takes me longer than I’d like to admit finding it, but once I do, I allow myself to succumb to what lived inside his room. The little pieces of him I could grab. Crumbs of him that were left lingering, crumbs that before might have suppressed my fixation, sated my obsession until the next time I’m able to watch him from a distance or steal a sweater.

But even this isn’t enough. Nothing could ever be enough after everything we’d exchanged. I now know what it feels like to be held by a man only death could touch. Felt his fingers along my skin, between my thighs. Know what his blood tastes like on my tongue.

However, that doesn’t stop me from being greedy.

I press my nose against every article of clothing hanging in his closet, chasing his smell. Run my fingers along his cufflinks and ties. Trace the black and white keys that his hands touched so often.

I slip one of his black cardigans over my shoulders, planning to take it with me. My hands run across the small desk tucked into the corner, touching all his notes, tracing the distinct swishes and swoops in his dignified handwriting.

There is a lot you can tell from a person’s handwriting.

For example, Thatcher’s wide spacing between words tells me he loathes being crowded and enjoys being alone. The narroweloops expose how unattached he is to people’s emotions. And the deliberate slashed dot over hisi? Well, that tells me two things.

How little patience he has for others’ inadequacies.

And how much he loves to cut things.

My body melts into his sheets. I lie in his bed and think about how this is the longest I’ve been without seeing him. Watching him. Existing in the same room as him.

Since I came back to Ponderosa Springs after my mother’s death, he’d been there nearly every day, even if just a brief glimpse of his tall frame. I hadn’t been without his presence in years.

I want to be fucking angry at him. He knows what this is for me. That my obsession needs to be fed. Sometimes I think he enjoyed being the man I watched religiously, and now, he’s left.

Taken it away. Ripped my secret, lovely fascination from my hands. My heart is in turmoil but could never be truly upset with him. Not in the way he deserves.

Thatcher had a routine, a set system that he followed critically, down to every little detail. If that was disrupted, it would cause chaos for him.

I don’t think he understood he was mine. He was my routine. My fucking system. And now, I’m in chaos without him.

I let myself wallow for thirty minutes more before finally getting the energy to leave. Going home is the last thing I want to do, and even though I love Sage and Briar, I don’t want to see them.

I’m in my car driving when I realize what day it is. Thursday is chess with Silas, and I haven’t been in a while. It’s the perfect way to entertain myself, to be around someone who might understand.

The drive is long, quiet. I don’t bother with the radio, just sit in silence and listen to the hum of my older-model vehicle until I finally pull into the parking lot of Portland’s best psychiatric hospital.

Silas is readingThe Art of the Attackwhen I find him. The matching white shirt and pants fit snug against his large frame. He’s much broader than Thatcher, and somehow, I always feel small when I’m in his space.

It doesn’t take us long to settle into a game, the checkered board situated between us as we take turns moving pieces around. I’m half-heartedly playing but still appreciate the distraction.

“Checkmate,” he says lowly. “You might be the worst student ever.”

“Maybe you’re a shit teacher,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips at the joke. Silas is great at chess, and if I’m honest, I’ve learned a lot about the game from him.

He tilts his head, lifting an eyebrow, which is the closest I’ve ever got to a smile or any genuine emotion from him since I started visiting. I don’t remember ever seeing him smile, not even in the halls with Rosemary.

You could always see it, though.

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