Page 13 of The Space Between
I stand at the edge of the dock with a towel in one hand and a bottle of sunscreen in the other, staring down into the river like it might offer something up.
It won’t, but I come anyway. Because this is where he comes, morning and night.
Where he floats. Where he breathes. Where he forgets or remembers or justexists.
And it’s beautiful and serene. Even in its danger.
It’s peaceful.
I don’t see him yet. It’s early. The sun is still low enough that it slants sideways through the trees, making the water shimmer like glass about to break.
Lowering myself to the dock, I sit cross-legged. I spread the towel beneath me before uncapping the sunscreen. The smell isfamiliar—coconut, citrus, something chemical and sweet—and I wince before I can stop myself.
Tyler always liked when I wore this brand. He said it made me smellfuckable.
Choking on the unwelcome memory, I drop the bottle to the dock, my hands trembling just enough to piss me off.
Not now. Not here. He’s not here.
I whisper it under my breath along with the thoughts within my head.
“He’s not here.” But my body doesn’t believe me. My skin still tightens the way it did every time I’d hear his keys at the front door. My stomach still knots like it’s waiting for impact from his fists. My throat still closes like I need permission to speak. To breathe. To… exist.
Even now. Even with the quiet peace of this place wrapped around me like a shield.
That’s the part of abuse no one talks about.
The after. The waiting. The fear that turns into habit.
The trauma that builds a nest in your ribs and refuses to move out.
I hate it.
I hate him.
But more than anything, I hate that I still let him live inside me when I’ve already left.
The dock creaks behind me, and I turn my head… too fast. The fear still lives inside me.
It’s not him. Not Tyler.
Of course, it’s not him. He doesn’t know where I am.
It’s Gruene.
I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
He’s barefoot. Shirtless. His dark hair is damp, like he’s already been to the river once this morning or he just got out of a shower. There’s a towel slung over one shoulder and a vintagegreen Stanley thermos in his hand. He’s looking at me like I’m real. Like I’m not a ghost or a problem or an interruption. Just a woman on our shared dock.
This is new.
“Hey,” he quietly says.
He spoke first. He never speaks first.
My throat tightens as I respond, “Hey.”
He steps closer toward the edge, but he doesn’t sit down right away. He just studies me like he’s figuring out how close he should get.
