Page 63 of Leave Before I Love You
I toss and turn, back and forth from one side to the other, karate-chopping my pillow over and over in the dark room until giving up with a groan. I’m tired, almost desperately so, but sleep eludes me anyway.
Sitting up and grabbing it from my nightstand, I toggle all the switches in the settings of my phone again, connecting to the Wi-Fi again when I’m done, and finally, everything loads in a startling flourish.
Texts, calls, emails, and notifications roll in by the hundreds, and I drop the crazed thing on my bed and wait as it struggles to catch up.
It feels a little like a ticking time bomb when I pick it back up, but I scroll furiously to Henry’s number and open the message thread, only to find one from him already waiting.
Oh my God. When did he send this?
I sit up straighter in my bed.
Henry: Hey. Just checking in. How are you feeling?
I stare at his message, the words pressing heavy against my chest. My fingers hover over the screen, desperate to answer, but for as much as I want to sayall the things, I can’t settle on a single one. I set the phone back on my nightstand and roll onto my side. The weight of his text lingers, mixing with the endless swirl of thoughts that keep me from sleeping.
The bed feels too big. Too empty. All fucking wrong.
Henry had this way of grounding me, of making me feel safe even when everything around us felt impossible. The sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body next to mine, the low hum ofthe song he’d sing when I couldn’t sleep. It became my anchor. My calm in the chaos.
I turn back toward my nightstand, grabbing my phone without thinking. My thumb hovers over the screen again, but instead of typing, I get out of bed and throw on my favorite Prada sweats before slipping on a pair of Hermès slides and grabbing my purse.
Maybe I can’t decide on what to say because fucking typing something out on a stupid phone isn’t the answer at all.
I close my door and lock it behind myself quickly, jumping on the elevator of my building and riding it to the basement garage with unconcealed urgency.
My G-Wagon is in its assigned spot like magic, even though the last time I saw it was at the airport hangar on New Year’s Day morning, and I climb in and fire it up without hesitation.
My lip gloss is in one cupholder, an old empty Starbucks cup in the other, like artifacts of a woman left behind.
I strap on my seat belt and floor it out of the spot, rolling down my window despite the nighttime chill. The wind grounds me on the drive over, blowing in my hair and tangling it wildly.
On autopilot, I pull into a parking spot outside his building, shutting off my engine and laying my head on the steering wheel as I try to muster the courage to climb out.
This is crazy. I know it is. And so at odds with the twenty-seven years of life I’ve lived up until the start of this all. But on another wavelength, in a parallel universe, it feels so, so right.
I climb out and head inside, and after a short ride up in the elevator, I’m standing in front of his door. I pause, my mind finally catching up with my surroundings and working to prepare me for an outcome I can’t foresee.
What am I expecting him to say?
What am I expecting him to do?
My heart pounds as I lift my hand and knock lightly, and for a moment, all I can hear is the sound of my own breathing.
Then the door swings open.
“Avery?”
Henry’s voice is low and rough from sleep, and the sight of him… God, the sight of him steals the air from my lungs. He’s standing there in gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that clings to his chest, his hair mussed, his eyes soft with sleep, and his beard still intact.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but it’s the first positive sign that maybe I’m not the only one holding on to the island’s alternate reality.
Relief floods through me, so overwhelming that I feel like crying.
I’ve missed him.
Not just his presence, but everything about him. The way he looks at me, the steadiness of his voice, the way he makes me feel like I’m not alone. Being here, seeing him, it’s like finally taking a breath after being underwater for too long.
In that moment, none of the questions matter.Has he been thinking about me the way I’ve been thinking about him? Does he miss me, even a fraction of the way I’ve missed him? Is he still with the blond woman named Ashley?I need him and his arms more than I need answers to anything.
