Page 76 of Star-crossed Betas

“I don’t know. Maybe,” I say, trying to be as honest with him as possible. I never intended to tell him, but sometimes I think I would have eventually if it was the only way to get him back.

“Fuck. Somehow, it’s worse to know that.” He gets up from the sofa and wipes his wet cheek with his sleeve.

“Are you going to bed?”

“No, I’m goin’ for a run. I need some space to think and clear my head.” The pit in my stomach grows a stem that tangles in my throat until I’m choking on it.

“You’re not going to leave me, are you?” I ask, hating how pathetic I sound. I can’t lose him over this.

I only just got him back.

“You’re my husband,” he replies, but that doesn’t really answer my question.

Twenty-eight

October 2022

Phoenix Campbell

After Cee leaves, I can’t seem to settle. Even once I’ve loaded and set the dishwasher off, wiped down all the sides, and changed Magnus’ litter, he’s still not home. I may as well go and feel sorry for myself in bed where it’s comfortable. I make a little 'psp psp' noise at Magnus for him to follow me up to bed, but the traitor looks at me as if to say he’ll come upstairs whenhisperson comes home.

I really hope he does come home.

I wouldn’t put it past him to run all the way to Niamh and Will’s, just to get space from me. Logically, I know none of this is Will’s fault, but even the idea of Connor going to Will for comfort and telling him what a shitty husband I am, makes me want to peel my own skin off.

I climb into the shower to kill some more time. Unfortunately, standing under the hot spray of water with nothing but my own thoughts is not the distraction I was hoping for. Maybe if I scrub hard enough, I can wash this entire night away—if only.

My skin has gone pink from the scalding water, so I steal some of Cee's moisturiser and rub it into my arms and chest. I throw on some boxers before I climb onto the bed and bury my face into Cee's pillow. His scent is strong on it, and the smell is both comforting and makes my chest ache that he's not lying in the bed next to me.

What if I’ve really fucked it up this time? He managed to forgive me when he thought I had actuallyagreed to marry his sister, only to find out I’d kept the truth from him all this time. I’m not sure I’d forgive me if I were in his shoes. I should have listened to Jasper and come clean sooner. He should have heard the truth directly from me, not from overhearing a conversation with Alice.

With my spiralling thoughts circling the drain, I accept I won’t be getting much sleep tonight. I grab my phone and stick on a podcast, curling up on Cee's side of the bed because it smells of him. I really hope he comes home soon so I can make this right.

I must have dozed off eventually. But when I wake up, I realise something is desperately wrong. My eyes are streaming when I open them.

They’re streaming because the room is filled with smoke.

Thick, lung-clogging smoke.

My brain is screaming at my muscles to move, to flee, to escape, to do anything except lie here, motionless. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, but my body is frozen in place. I can’t move a muscle. It’s strange how quickly I accept my fate; all I can hope for right now is that if I die in this fire, Connor isn’t the one to find me.

The horrible sensation dredges up an old memory I had long forgotten. I was only a child, maybe eight years old at the time. I had woken up in the middle of the night, unable to move a muscle or make a noise. Silent tears soaked my cheeks as I hoped and wished my dad would come and find me and make the awful feeling of being locked in my mind go away.

The next morning, when I had reawoken, this time to the sun shining through the gaps in my jungle-themed curtains, it felt like nothing more than a bad dream. The nightmare had faded into the recesses of my mind, and this was the first time I’d thought of that night since.

This feels almost the same but different. It’s worse somehow that I can open my eyes and look around the room, but my muscles are frozen in place.

In my periphery, the flames are spreading along the carpet, licking at the hem of the curtains, hundreds of fiery tongues eating through the fabric rapidly. Too rapidly. My eyes close instinctively, the thick, relentless smoke making them red-raw.

If I’m lucky, the smoke will kill me before the fire does. Bile rises up my oesophagus at the thought of being awake when the flames engulf me. I’ve never considered myself to be particularly morbid, rarely dwelling on how I might eventually die. In contrast, I now find myself evaluating and ranking what kind of death would be preferable over another. In the face of being burned alive, I can confirm I would take most of the alternatives right about now.

Except maybe a death involving a deadly spider—I really hate spiders.

With nothing to do but lie here and wait for it all to be over, my overactive brain won’t switch off. I find myself praying the authorities discover my body before he does. Nobody should have to find their loved one’s charred remains in the bed they shared together.

Part of me regrets that we argued earlier, and he’s pissed off with me, but that’s why I’m alone while he’s out running off his bad temper. So I've also never been so grateful for his short fuse because although it won’t be fun to die here by myself, it would be a hundred times worse to watch him suffer by my side. He’ll be furious with me for dying before him, but I’m grateful he’ll have a long life ahead of him.

When I reopen my eyes, the curtains are fully ablaze. The bedroom window makes a loud cracking noise, shattering from the intense heat. I try to take deep breaths, inhaling as much of the smoke as I can, willing it to end my life before the fire does. My chest rattles when I cough, and my eyes burn and water furiously.

---