Page 95 of The Longest Shot
She's here on a welfare check, because apparently my emotional state has reached DEFCON 2 and triggered the buddy-system. It's been the same since our run and discovering the locker room had been… refreshed… although she hasn't said a damn word about it.
My irritation should be stronger, but underneath the annoyance, there's this tiny, treacherous warmth. Because Mills cares enough about keeping me emotionally stable enough to sacrifice her Tuesday night to make sure I don't spiral into complete dysfunction.
It's been forty-eight hours since I discovered what James did, and my response has been vintage me: complete tacticalwithdrawal from any display of emotions, with walls up, bridges burned, and all communications severed. James hasn't tried to contact me, nor I him, and that would usually bejustfine.
Except this time, the isolation isn't delivering its promised numbness. My apartment feels wrong—too clean, too quiet, too much like a showroom for someone who forgot humans need oxygen and joy—and the silence I've relied on for years has turned against me.
God, I'm so fucking lonely it hurts.
As much as I still haven't figured out what to do about James's little gesture of apology, the usual part of me that's happy to close myself off and keep people at a distance is failing miserably. I don't necessarily want him—do I?—but I'm starting to wonder if I want… need… something…
Someone?
Mills's textbook slams shut hard enough to send my tea into cardiac arrest.
"OK, intervention time." Her voice carries that determined edge she gets before doing something spectacularly inadvisable. "You've been cosplaying as a Victorian widow for two days, so we're going to O'Neil's, and you're going to have a beer and some food…"
The automatic "no" rises in my throat, but then I stop.
Because what's the alternative? Another evening perfecting my impression of furniture? Another restless night of sleep, tossing and turning over how to handle James and the new insights about him? Another week ensuring I never feel anything by never risking anything?
Mills watches me, her expression shifting from drill sergeant to something softer. "Morgue, come on," she says. "One beer…"
My throat constricts as I close my laptop. The word emerges raw and surprising even to me. "OK," I say.
Mills's eyebrows shoot toward her hairline, her mouth forming a perfect O of shock. "Wait, seriously? You're agreeing to leave the bunker? Voluntarily?"
I nod, not trusting myself with complex sentences. This isn't surrender to her command, it's surrender to the possibility that my system might be fundamentally broken and a distraction might be what I need to kick the can down the road on reconciling my feelings about James.
Her smile could power a small city. "Holy shit. Someone mark the calendar. Morgan Riley just agreed to fun."
"Let's not get carried away," I manage, standing on legs that feel theoretical. "I agreed to a meal. Everyone needs food, right?"
"Five minutes to change," she orders. "And lose the depression hoodie. We're aiming for 'alive human' not 'ghost of semester past.'"
I head to my room to get ready, trying to ignore the existential dread that comes with leaving my depression cave. As if sensing my uncertainty, Mills positions herself strategically by the door like a bouncer at the world's saddest nightclub, ready to tackle me if I make a run for it.
I freeze when I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door.
Jesus.
Who is this person?
My hair, usually pulled back in a ponytail that screams "I have my shit together," hangs limp and greasy around my face. The dark circles under my eyes aren't just bags, they're luxury luggage. Even my freckles look exhausted, like they've given up trying to add character to my face and are just phoning it in.
But it's my eyes that stop me cold.
Where's the girl with the bright eyes? The one who used to look at the world like it was a puzzle she could solve if she just worked hard enough? When did I replace her with someone wholooks like she's been surviving on a steady diet of cortisol and resentment?
This is what winning looks like, apparently.
I've successfully defended my position, maintained my walls, kept everyone at the exact distance required to ensure I never get hurt again. Mission accomplished, Captain, except I look like death warmed over and there's less than five people in the world who'd give a shit if I stayed in bed until I fossilized.
And worse is the realization creeping in like water through a cracked foundation: protecting myself from pain hasn't protected me from anything. It's just exchanged one kind of hurt for another. Instead of the sharp, acute pain of potential betrayal, I've chosen the chronic ache of complete isolation.
I haven't been living. I've been existing in a sterile bubble of my own making, so focused on not getting hurt that I've forgotten what it feels like to feel anything good. And running away from James in the library was just the latest episode, fleeing from the feelings and the danger and the mess.
And the potentialjoy.
