Page 184 of The Fall
“I’ll take the couch.”
“What? No, I can take the couch.”
Blair shakes his head, jaw set in that way that means the conversation is over. “Take the bed. I want you comfortable here. We have an early start.”
I collect my bag and trail after him. Our bedroom is on the right—no, not ours,his—but tonight it’s mine by default.
The bed is enormous, an ocean of crisp white sheets and plush pillows. A faint citrus-and-coconut breath lingers. I fight back the ache; I remember this scent against my skin.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Blair says, pointing to a door. “Extra towels in the cabinet. Help yourself to whatever.”
“Thanks.” A pause opens up between us. “Blair, I?—”
“Get some rest.” He hesitates for a second, then steps forward and kisses me on the cheek.
Then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him.
I go through the motions of getting ready for bed. My face in his bathroom mirror looks strange. Tired, uncertain, caught between memory and this moment. Being here feels like breathing in ghosts.
But this is not stolen time; this is not an imagined future.
This is the first time I have stood in this spot in this world.
Still, it feels like this room belonged to both of us once and now all I can think about is what’s missing: Blair’s leg over mine beneath tangled sheets, his aftershave sharp on my pillowcase, our hands entwined against his chest as sunrays inch across the duvet at dawn.
I hear Blair move through his house. Water runs. Cabinets open and close. Footsteps sound on tile, then silence.
I strip down to boxers and slide beneath his sheets. My body knows stories this bed doesn’t remember. If I stretch, I could probably find the spot where, in some broken strand of my mind, we woke sharing the same pillow.
Nothing here belongs to me yet except hope.
I flip onto my side, punch the pillow into shape, and try to convince my body to turn off. His pillow smells like his shampoo, coconut and something warmer, spicier. I bury my face in it, breathing him in.
Nothing fits tonight. Shadows make shifting lines across the wall where a breeze moves the drapes. I stare at the walls, the ceiling, count the rotations of the fan.
It’s all wrong without him. The room is too quiet. The sheets are too cool. I’m too aware of the empty space beside me where he should be.
Sleep is miles away.
I can’t stay here. I can’t lie here alone while he’s on the couch.
I slip out of bed and pad down the hall, expecting to find him sprawled on the sectional, but the living room is empty except for lines of moonlight slanting through the sliders. His hoodie lies thrown across one arm of the couch; an empty glass is abandoned on the coffee table.
No Blair.
Where would he go?
I check the kitchen, the lanai, passing through hush after hush, but there’s no sign of him.
The hallway beyond the kitchen is dark and unfamiliar. Across from Blair’s home gym is a door we never talk about, one always kept shut. Tonight, a sliver of light leaks from beneath it.
I hesitate, then slip inside.
The bedroom is small and simple: a twin bed with a navy and gray plaid comforter, hockey posters and jerseys on the walls, a desk in the corner with a laptop gathering dust. The jerseys all say CALLAHAN, but the colors are wrong, logos from European leagues and minor league teams. Photos hang between the jerseys: two dark-haired boys on a frozen pond, teenagers in matching team gear, young men with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders.
There he is; Blair is hunched in a chair by the window, his elbows braced on his knees and his gaze fixed on the bed as if he’s watching someone sleep.
Those are not Blair’s jerseys.
