Page 59 of Catch You

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his voice broken and distant. “I’m so sorry.”

“Are you awake?” I ask, although I’m not surprised when he doesn’t respond. That apology wasn’t meant for me. It’s for whomever he’s dreaming about.

I lie back beside him once he’s settled, but I can’t switch off. Just those few simple words from whatever is haunting him stir up memories of my own. Of the people I couldn’t save and who only found themselves in danger because of me.

A sob rumbles up my throat as my loss hits me full force. I’d hoped that after all these years it would have been easier, but it never is. I came to the conclusion a few years ago that the pain and regret are just something I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my life.

Pushing myself from his bed as quietly as I can, I grab one of his shirts that’s been abandoned on the floor, but before I pull it over my head, I gather it in front of my nose. His smell takes me back to being encased in his arms as I drifted off to sleep last night. I’ve slept in a bed with other people more times than I can count, but I’ve never fallen asleep in a man’s arms like that before.

It was as comforting as much as it was unsettling.

I’ve only known this man a week, yet he’s somehow managed to wriggle his way behind the armor I wear on a daily basis. He’s becoming an addiction I’m not sure I want to break anytime soon.

I look over at where he’s sleeping. He’s on his back with one arm thrown over his head. His lips are parted, and his dark eyelashes rest on his cheekbones. One leg is out of the covers, revealing the mass of ink down almost the entire length.

Dropping the fabric so his shirt falls around my thighs, I walk over to him. I may have seen him naked on two occasions now, but I’ve never really had the chance to study his art. As I get closer, I notice something that’s passed me by the last two times. The tattoos on his left leg aren’t just artwork. I drop to my knees,feeling like a bit of a creep for studying him when he’s unaware, but the rippling and stretching of the skin beneath the ink draws me in.

There are scars, and a lot of them.

I gasp at the severity. He’s done a fantastic job of covering it. You’d never know from a distance that anything was amiss. Hell, I didn’t notice, and I’ve slept with him twice. The artist that did all of this is incredible. There’s a Union Jack, dog tag, a gun, and other army paraphernalia inked onto his leg along with a series of names. Most of the ink is in black, but laced through it all are bright red poppies and the scriptLest we forget.My breath catches and tears burn the backs of my eyes at what he must have been through.

Standing, I silently back away from him and leave the room. When he told me about being medically discharged last weekend and losing some of his guys, he said it so lightly that I didn’t really think about what that meant. But seeing that has reality crashing down. No wonder he’s so closed off about love and his future. He’s probably just trying to get through each day. My nightmares must pale in comparison to the things he’s seen, the things he’s experienced.

The small hallway is void of any furniture or possessions, and I wrap my arms around myself as I make my way down to the kitchen and living area.

I didn’t have a chance to look at my surroundings when we first arrived here last night. I was too consumed by him. But now I see that this apartment isn’t a home. It’s just a place he exists in.

I chew on my bottom lip as I look around the bare space. There’s an old couch and coffee table in the middle of the living area along with a small, empty bookcase. There’s no TV, no photographs or ornaments, any of the things that turn a place into a home.

It’s just empty. Cold. Sad.

A shudder runs down my spine despite the warm morning sun beginning to pour through the curtainless window. I take a step closer and inhale a deep breath. At least he can see the ocean from here.

With a sad sigh, I turn back to the kitchen. The only thing on the counter is a coffee machine. A small smile creeps onto my lips. I’m glad he has some priorities right.

I pause at the hallway and listen to see if he’s awake, but when I hear nothing but his soft snores, I continue to the machine that’s calling my name.

I stare at it, figuring out how it works before setting about finding a pod and a mug.

Pulling the first cupboard open, I find it empty, and the next, and then the next.

Corey’s been here a couple of months. How has he lived like this?

I locate a solitary mug and place it under the machine before starting on my quest for pods.

As expected, the first few drawers are empty, but then I pull one open that has a few bits of paperwork inside. I’m about to shut it, not wanting to pry, but at the last minute the large red eviction notice stamp catches my eye.

Unable to help myself, I pull the letter out.

It’s dated three days ago and has an eviction date of Friday.

I look back to where he is when I hear a noise before quickly shoving the letter back where I found it. The last thing he needs is to catch me prying.

Suddenly the emptiness of the place makes sense. He’s getting ready to leave. But why is he being evicted? He’s got a good job. His eyes light up when he talks about it and his boss back in London. He’s told me that he’s getting paid well for setting it up like he has.

I stand motionless for a few minutes as everything settles in my head.

Something’s not right here.

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