Page 52 of Fake As Puck
“Three weeks.”
I watch her walk into the terminal, wheeling her suitcase behind her, and I don’t move until she disappears through security.
Even then, I stand there for another minute, staring at the doors she walked through, wondering why this feels like losing something instead of completing a transaction.
The drive home is even quieter than the drive there.
When I get back to the house, it feels different. Empty in a way it’s never felt before, even though I’ve lived alone for years.
I can’t figure out why until I walk into the kitchen and see the coffee mug she used this morning still sitting by the sink.
That’s when it hits me.
The house doesn’t feel empty because she’s gone. It feels empty because she was here, and now she’s not, and I got used to the sound of her voice and the way she laughed at my stupid jokes and the way she fit into my space like she belonged here.
I shake my head. It was just a few days. I need to get over myself.
I wash her mug and put it away, then start cleaning everything else.
The kitchen counters. The living room. The coffee table where we ate pizza Friday night. The couch where we fell asleep together.
I clean everything except her room.
I can’t bring myself to touch her room.
Instead, I close the door and pretend it doesn’t exist.
By noon, the house is spotless and I’m running out of things to clean, so I change into workout clothes and head to my home gym.
I attack the weights like they’ve personally offended me. Bench press until my arms shake. Squats until my legs burn. Pull-ups until I can’t feel my shoulders.
It doesn’t help.
I can still smell her shampoo on the couch. Still see the way she looked in that green dress. Still hear her laugh echoing through the house.
After the gym, I go for a skate at the rink. The ice is empty and cold and exactly what I need. Something that requires focus and speed and doesn’t leave room for thinking about anything else.
I skate until my lungs burn and my legs ache, until I’m too tired to think about anything except getting home and collapsing.
But when I get home, the house still feels too big. Too clean. Too quiet.
I answer some emails from my agent. Review the schedule for off-season training. Call my mom and pretend everything is normal when she asks how the wedding went.
“It was great,” I tell her. “Really nice ceremony.”
My mom asks, “And Liv? How did she like meeting everyone?”
Oh.
Tessa must have told her about that. Great, now I don’t have to. Kudos to my sis for saving me there.
I say, “She had a good time. Everyone loved her.”
“I knew she always had a crush on you,” she teases.
I chuckle. “Okay, mom.”
“I’m serious, West. Oh, do you remember that one time at Tessa’s birthday party when you were outside playing with your friends? I caught her inside of the living room, watching you run around. She was giggling to herself, so I cleared my throat, and she turned bright red.”
