Page 92 of Stick Break
There’s a pause on the other end, followed by a soft gasp. Like I’ve just wounded her. Old me might have winced. Might have softened. But not anymore. I drop into the nearest chair, scrubbing a hand over my face. “It’s just not a good time, Lyra. Okay?”
“Is there someone else?” she asks, her voice cracking with a practiced sniffle. Like she’s crying. And maybe she is. But for what? Losing me, or losing control?
“No. There’s no one else.” I say it loud, probably too loud, the words echoing off the thin cottage walls. I wince. Dammit. But I have to get that point across to protect Charley. From my peripheral, I swear I see movement in the kitchen window. I turn, but Charley isn’t there. My gut tightens.
Shit.
Did I wake Charley?
Did she hear me?
And if she did…how much?
My heart pounds because for the first time in my life, I care more about what the woman inside this house thinks than the one on the phone. And I’ll be damned if I screw this up.
“Then why can’t I come visit?” Lyra asks, her voice laced with suspicion, as if she already knows the answer and is daring me to lie.
“I’m getting ready to leave,” I say, keeping my tone flat, noncommittal.
“You said that last week. And the week before. You’re still there.”
I press my fingers to my forehead and exhale. “Something came up.”
“As in a girl?”
Of course she’d go there. “Lyra, we’re over. Okay? I need to go.”
Her silence only lasts a second before it breaks into soft, strategic sobbing. Those tears use to unhinge me, and she knows it. I close my eyes, jaw locked tight. I want to hang up. I should hang up. But some part of me, the part that always felt responsible for her feelings, holds me hostage for one more moment.
I push to my feet, and walk down the path toward the edge of the road, needing distance from the house, from the thought of Charley possibly hearing this. The morning sun sparkles off the water, but I’m not really seeing any of it.
“You and I both know this relationship wasn’t healthy,” I say. “I don’t think we can even be friends anymore. I think…it’s best if we stop communicating altogether.”
“How can you do this to me?” she cries, the words drenched in betrayal.
Do this to her?
I almost laugh. After everything she’s done to me? After all the ways she’s used me, ghosted me, only to come crawling back only when it served her?
But I can’t even blame her anymore. Not really. I’m the one who kept opening the door. Who kept hoping she’d be different. Who let history, habit, and a craving for what I thought we once had speak louder than self-respect.
“Why don’t you go visit your parents?” I offer, softening only slightly, because she sounds like she needs someone. But I know it can’t be me.
There’s a beat of silence before her voice turns sharp, acidic. “You know we don’t get along.”
Ah. There she is. When Lyra doesn’t get her way, the mask slips. The sweetness evaporates. I’ve never truly seen this side of her before, because with me, she never had to show it. I always gave in. But not anymore.
“I have to go,” I say firmly, then press end before she can twist her way in again.
I tuck the phone into my pocket, exhale, and turn back toward the cottage. My chest feels lighter, but still tight with nerves. As I step inside, I half expect to find Charley in the kitchen, arms folded, eyes narrowed. But it’s quiet.
I walk softly through the living room and peek into the bedroom. She’s still there, curled up under the covers, her hair a mess across the pillow. The tension in my shoulders eases. I let out a breath, my heart filling with all the things I feel for this woman.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, and step back outside. I take a long sip and this time I take pleasure in the beaty before me. The early morning buzzes with kids laughing, joggers pounding sand-packed trails, a dog barking at the waves. Somewhere in the distance, a guitar plays a slow, soulful tune. For a second, I think it’s Emma. But no, Emma’s not that good. Not yet.
Under Charley’s care, though…
That thought sparks something in me, and I take another gulp of coffee and head back to the cottage. I scribble a note for Charley on the kitchen counter:
