Page 98 of From the Wreckage
The apartment is warm, the blanket soft against my legs, but none of it reaches me. I’m still out there, kneeling in the rain, breaking apart at the lake.
And no amount of hot water, clean pajamas, or background noise can put me back together again.
I sigh and rub my eyes. I try to focus on the textbook in my lap, but when that fails, my eyes move to the flickering TV screen across the room. It works for a few minutes until my eyelids grow heavy, weighed down by too many nights without real rest. The room blurs into shadows, and finally, my body gives in.
I drift into an uneasy sleep on the couch, my head tucked against the pillow.
But the memory shifts, twisting cruelly. Everett silently stands there while I beg him to fight for me. For us. His silence is a wall, cold and impenetrable, shutting me out.
Then he turns his back and walks away.
And I break all over again.
I jerk awake, tears burning my swollen eyes all over again. The TV drones in the background, the room dim and unfamiliar.
No matter where I am—awake or asleep—he haunts me.
And there’s no escaping him.
CHAPTER 71
Everett
My cabin is too damnquiet.
Even the cicadas outside have gone still, leaving only the groan of the fridge and the faint tick of the wall clock. Every sound feels like it’s mocking me. A house shouldn’t echo like this when someone has lived in it for months. But it does—because she’s not here.
I drop the bag from Lockwood Hardware onto the table with a hollow thud. The nails, sandpaper, and hinges inside are all things to keep my hands busy, to trick my brain into thinking I’m building instead of rotting.
But I’m rotting in this place. All alone.
I thought I could do this. I chose a solitary life after the accident that destroyed everything I held dear. But after becoming friends with Grayson and falling into the kind of once-in-a-lifetime, yet forbidden, love with his daughter, the loneliness that plagues me is crippling.
Grayson’s face flashes in front of me. The man across the lake was once my only friend. But today, he stood in the hardware store, hands clenching into fists like he wanted to punch me again, staring at me like I’m lower than dirt. Like I should be buried beneath it.
And he’s right to think that. What I did was the worst kind of betrayal.
I sigh and scrub my hands over my face. I can still feel the weight of his glare burning between my shoulder blades as I bolted. His face, reminding me of her with the same sharp cheekbones and stubborn set of his jaw, seared into me like a brand.
Losing Bri has caused me insurmountable pain. And losing my only friend? That is the nail in my coffin.
I yank open a drawer and pull out a hammer, setting it down with more force than necessary. The sound cracks through the silence and dies just as fast.
Pointless. Everything feels pointless.
My eyes drift to the couch. The cushion is still dented where she curled up, her legs folded beneath her as she sipped an iced latte, teasing me about my music taste. The memory is so vivid, I swear I hear her laugh ripple through the room.
But when I blink, it’s gone—just like her.
Now all that remains are shadows and silence.
The pillowcase on my bed still smells faintly like her—sunshine, lake water, and the floral scent of her shampoo. I refuse to wash them, afraid of scrubbing her away completely.
Every night, I bury my face in the pillow, desperate to catch even the faintest trace of her. But her scent is fading, slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I try to hold on.
My chest caves in over my hollow heart. I told myself I could endure this. That I could survive the silence.
But the truth is, it’s slowly and cruelly killing me.
