Page 137 of What You Wish For

I woke up alone, hours later, in my bed, in the dark.

I checked the clock on the nightstand. Two in the morning.

What had happened?

I knew I’d had a seizure—but only by deduction. Not from memory. Seizures always involve amnesia. Your brain can’t exactly make new memories when it’s short-circuiting.

I was pretty sure I hadn’t gotten him out in time. I was pretty sure he’d been there. And I was pretty sure right now I was completely alone.

I sat up. Listened for sounds of life in my apartment. If Duncan were still here, but not asleep, what would he be doing? Insomniac activities, I guessed. Making tea? Reading a magazine? Or maybe he’d taken himself out to sleep in the living room.

But there was no rattle of a kettle boiling, no swish of magazine pages turning. No rhythmic snoozing of a passed-out man on my sofa.

It was so quiet the silence was practically ringing.

“Duncan?” I called, just in case. “Hey, Duncan?”

Nothing.

I flipped on the bedroom light, then followed it out to the living room. No one. Empty.

I’d been so sure he would leave—but I had also wanted so badly to be wrong.

Now I had my answer.

He wasn’t here. He’d split. He’d seen me at my worst—and taken off. I had stayed the night for him, but he hadn’t done the same for me.

I felt hollow.

I’d been right all along.

I stepped into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash up, and then I just stood there, looking at myself in the mirror. My hair was down, my bangs were mussed up, my eyes were puffy. I washed my face again. I flossed for a while.

You see? This was exactly why I’d tried to send him away. This was exactly why I’d argued with him about staying. To avoid exactly this moment—exactly this undeniable truth about the world and my place in it. If Duncan took off—despite all his cajoling and platitudes—who else on earth was there even hope for?

At least, before, I’d been able to hold on to the hope that I was wrong.

I should go back to sleep, I supposed.

But I was wide-awake now.

So I paced around my place for a while—looking for a note, maybe, that said, “Be right back!” Or any clue anywhere that could prove me wrong.

I milled around, looking for way too long.

There was no note. No sign that he’d been here at all.

Nothing at all to argue me away from the only conclusion I could see. There had been a question at the center of my life ever since my seizures had come back—and now, pretty much against my will, Duncan had given me the answer to that question.

An answer I would much rather have avoided for the rest of my life.

No going back to sleep after that.

Just pacing. Muttering to myself. Spasms of humiliation.

Just a shame-fueled spiral of misery that could easily have lasted until dawn—but, in truth, lasted only about a half an hour.

Until I heard a key in my door.

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