Page 85 of Whirlwind
I can’t get out of the car fast enough. These damn shoes and this fabulous fucking dress make it hard to move quickly—whichis okay, because even though I want to run away, I need to keep my head high. Falling apart can wait until I’m safely ensconced within the walls of my home, with my puppy, who would never dare to fuck me over emotionally or otherwise.
He calls after me again as I walk up to my front door.
“Go home, Tyson.”
My hands shake as I type in my code. It takes me three tries, and I’m nearly to the point of tears from frustration. The first one doesn’t fall until I’m on the other side, my back to the door as I slide down it and let my anxiety attack take hold.
My sobs come with every gasping breath. I kick my shoes off and struggle to unzip my dress. It’s too confining when it feels like I have a boulder sitting on my chest. Nightmare whines from his crate. I need to let him outside, but I can’t do that in my underwear, and getting to my bedroom seems like a monumental task with my whole body shuddering with…what? Anger? Grief? Sorrow?
A mixture of it all and more, probably.
Focusing on my breathing, I inhale and exhale, counting to five with each one, until I start to settle the fuck down.
When I’m able, I run to my room to throw on some sweats and a hoodie.
“Come on, buddy,” I say, unlatching Nightmare’s crate. “I’m sorry that took me so long.”
Once out in the yard, I try not to look across the street, not wanting the reminder of who’s there and what he called me. Nightmare’s halfway through his nightly shit when I finally give in and peek.
Tyson stands in the same spot where he does his morning yoga. He’s removed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, and when he sees me looking, he places a hand over his heart. As if I hold a place there.
But it’s not me he keeps space for, is it?
Tears stream down my cheeks. I don’t hide them from him, even if I’m not sure he can see them from here. It’s dark, but I don’t feel the cold. It can’t penetrate this sorrow—the feeling of never being good enough or worthy. It would be unfair to blame all of that on Tyson, but I won’t make excuses for him, either. Being predisposed to feelings of abandonment or neglect doesn’t give him a pass on treating me like I’m a second-string player in his life.
The kicker is that, when we connect—which is most of the time—it’s the highest high. Some of the best moments of my life happened with him, all in such a short span.
But I’m not sure where we go from here.
“Let’s go, Nightmare,” I call softly, looking away from Tyson.
My phone chimes a moment after we’re back inside.
Tyson:
I’m so sorry, Kit. I hope you’ll let me explain. On your timeline, of course.
How do you explain calling the woman you’re currently dating by your ex’s name? The short answer: you can’t. The long answer isn’t something I’m interested in right now.
Even though he sleeps in his crate, I bring Nightmare to bed with me. Like the best friend he is, he curls up with his nose in the crook of my neck and watches over me as I fretfully sleep.
I wake up with a headache and a cell phone that won’t stop ringing. I ignore it the first two times, burying my head under the comforter. Nightmare whimpers the third time it rings.
“I feel the same, buddy,” I murmur. It must be Tyson—who else would call this urgently, this early? The sun’s barely up. “Ugh, fine.”
When I grab my phone off my nightstand, my blood runs cold at the name on the screen. It’s not Tyson. It’s not anyone I’ve spoken to in a decade.
My father never calls. I don’t call him, either. Which means, this must be an emergency.
Grandma.
“Hello?”
“It’s about time you answered,” he says, making me instantly retreat into myself. It’s what always happens, and one of the many reasons I don’t talk to him.
“It’s four in the morning, here. I was asleep.”
“My mom died last night.”
