Page 101 of The Space Between
She holds me as my body still quivers, one hand in my hair, and the other on my back.
Neither of us move. Neither of us speak.
I press my mouth to her shoulder, heart still hammering, and whisper something I haven’t said out loud in six fucking years, “I don’t know how to let myself believe this is real.”
She pulls me closer and for the first time, I don’t pull away.
CHAPTER 17
Blakelyn
I’m alonein the bed when I wake up. Again.
The sun’s creeping through the slats of my blinds like it’s trying to apologize for shining on a morning that feels this hollow. My body aches in all the ways that say he was here—his weight, his heat, the rawness he left behind—but the other side of the bed is cold. Empty. He’s been gone awhile.
Pulling the sheet tighter around me, I press my fingers to the spot where his hand was tangled in mine just hours ago, and try not to cry.
This is not just about the sex.
It never was.
It’s about everything that happensafter. Or doesn’t.
It’s about the silence.
The space he slips into the second he’s done.
And I let him. I keep letting him.
Over and over again.
I get up. I shower. I dress and pull on my flats and a navy t-shirt dress with tiny golden flowers because it makes me feelsomething like brave. Pinning my hair back in a low bun, I brush mascara over my already dark lashes.
Then, I look in the mirror and for the first time since I got here, I hate what I see. Not because I don’t look put together but because I do.
Because I know how to smile on the outside and teach fractions and ask kids about their favorite books while I feel like I’m slowly breaking in private.
Because somewhere between June and now, I started mistaking beingwanted for being seen.
Gruene wants me. That’s obvious. The sex is explosive. I have zero doubts that he enjoys fucking me.
But he doesn’t see me.
Not really.
Not in the ways that count.
Not in the ways I deserve.
The middle schoolsmells like fresh wax and new beginnings. The halls are buzzing with first-day nerves—kids bouncing in new sneakers, clutching binders too big for their backpacks, whispering in nervous bursts to some friends they haven’t seen since May.
I paste on my smile.
“Hi! I’m Miss Walker. I’ll be your homeroom teacher this year.”
I shake hands with parents who give me too much information and students who give me none. I pass out syllabi. I learn names. I laugh when someone asks if I’mold enoughto be a teacher.
I tell stories about my “crazy” summer.
