Page 8 of The Space Between
Something comfortable. Somethingalive.
Something that says maybe I’m not the only one trying to hold broken pieces together.
I welcome it.
Gruene
The first timeI saw someone drown, I didn’t know what I was looking at.
That’s the thing about drowning—it doesn’t look like it does in movies. There’s no flailing. No screaming. It’s silent. A quiet desperation beneath the surface. A hand that doesn’t reach high enough. A mouth that opens but pulls nothing in… but water. It’s easy to miss.
That’swhat I think about when she walks into my damn shack like she’s got no fear in her body. I’m a hard, cold man. A man she doesn’t know a damn thing about. I could be anyone. I could be capable of anything, and she doesn’t know. She’s calm, comfortable, and trusting. And she shouldn’t be. It’s dangerous.She’sdangerous.
Blakelyn.
Barefoot with her dark hair down and loose, holding an old thermos like she owns the night. She has no idea what the darkness hides.
I’m sitting at my worktable, hands buried in frayed nylon, trying like hell to concentrate on replacing buckles before the next float run. But there she is, sitting on the stool across from me like a warm breeze, smelling like sugar and some kind of clean that doesn’t belong here.
“I can help,” she says again.
I shake my head no, not saying a word. She’s in my space. Unknowing or uncaring that I don’t want her in here. Just watching me work, sipping her coffee, and humming along to my radio.
She’s got that look again… open, watching everything without judgment. She’s not trying to figure me out. She’s justseeingme.
It annoys me. It pisses me off. But I let her sit. I let her stay.
And I listen to her hum and watch her watch me from the corner of my eye.
She stays for over an hour.She doesn’t try to talk. She doesn’t fidget. She just exists like she belongs beside the mess I am, and she’s content just being here. I realize that her presence doesn’t crowd. Itcalms.
That’s a fucking problem.
I don’t want calm.
I want distance.
I wantboundaries.
I want her to get back in her damn Honda and leave.
Lies. I don’t.
And that’s the biggest problem of all.
The quiet between us is starting to feel like a tether, and I’m not sure I know how to cut it.
“You always fix things yourself?” she finally asks.
“Yeah,” I grunt it without looking up.
“Don’t like help?” She asks not taking the hint.
“No.”
Her lips curve, I can see her smile behind her cup, though I refuse to look at her. “Good thing I’m just drinking coffee then.”
I huff. A breath escapes. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s the closest thing to one I’ve had since I can remember. “That yours?” I ask jerking my chin to her thermos.
