Written in the Scars(19)

“What do you want me to do?”

“Be the man I know you are. As much as you want to pretend you can’t fix things and she’s somehow not your responsibility anymore, you just proved tonight that’s a lie. Hell, you proved that at the bonfire.”

“Another time you shouldn’t have interfered! You’re just making it worse. You’re forcing us together when we don’t want to be.”

“I’m calling bullshit on that.”

A heavy sigh leaves my lips. Everything is so f*cked up; I don’t even know what I feel right now. And I sure as shit don’t know what Elin thinks.

“Where’s she at?” Jiggs asks.

“Sleeping. I think she’s out for the count.”

“What are you doing tonight?” His voice is careful and it makes me hang my head.

“Staying here. I can’t leave her alone.” I look around the kitchen. It still feels like home. It’s enough to take a part of the weight off my chest that has been sitting there for a long time. “I’ve probably pushed my luck tonight. Why don’t you plan on coming by in the morning and checking on her? Let her replay all this with you, not me. Then, maybe, I can build on this.”

“Sounds good.”

I don’t miss the smile in his voice.

“I’m still pissed at you, Watson.”

“You’ll deal.”

“Talk to you tomorrow,” I say and end the call. My anger is diminishing and I don’t want him to know it.

Turning the light off, I make my way back to the living room. Slipping off my shoes and sweatshirt, I open the trunk against the wall. A pillow and blanket we use for movie night are tucked away like they should be.

Arranging a little nest on the sofa, I lay down and stretch out. The house is quiet, so quiet, that if I listen closely enough, I can hear Elin’s breathing in the other room.

The couch folds around me, welcoming me with its soft leather like it remembers me. Closing my eyes, I listen to Elin’s rise and fall and pretend I’m next to her.

On a couch in a house I’m not quite welcome in—it’s the happiest place I’ve been in a very long time.





ELIN


I’m going to be sick.

Squeezing my eyes shut from the onslaught of sun pouring through the open blinds, I lie completely still in hopes that the putrid bile that’s threatening to blast up my throat goes away.

My head pounds, my stomach gurgling away.

I place my hands on my belly and realize I’m in the same clothes I wore yesterday. As I run them down my stomach to my legs, I’m even in my jeans. I never wear jeans to bed. My mom used to tell me when I was a little girl that my skin would get stuck in the zipper while I slept. It terrified me from trying it. Still does.

Everything is foggy as I try to pick apart what I remember from last night. Jiggs and Lindsay picked me up and we went to Thoroughbreds for pizza.

Beer.

Gagging, I try not to upchuck the telltale bitterness of a bottle of brew.

I take a hefty breath, only to have it halt in my throat. A flurry of shadowy images whips through my memory, a muddy slideshow . . . except for Ty’s face.

He was with me.

Oh my God.

I try to remember something, anything, that tells me what happened. There’s a blur of memories, of voices, of familiarity, yet nothing concrete.

A nervous energy courses through my body, my skin tingling with the possibility that Ty might still be here.

Dear God, please don’t let him be here. Please don’t let me have done something stupid.

I don’t even know how I will process it if I walk into the kitchen and see him. Did I sleep with him? Did I tell him about the baby? Oh, God . . .

I open my eyes, hesitating before they flutter awake. Glancing around the room, everything looks completely normal. Nothing moved, nothing out of place. No sign of an argument. No sign of him.

Giving myself a second to adjust to the light, I ignore the throbbing in my head and pull back the covers. My feet on the floor, I stand, wobbling for a second as the alcohol settles in my stomach.

With a sense of anticipation mixed with a heavy dose of dread, I start down the hallway. I listen for the television, for his voice. It’s quiet.

The couch comes into view and I grip the wall for support with one hand, the other covering my mouth. The pillow and blanket from the trunk are in a messy bundle. It’s Ty’s handiwork, the pillow lying length-wise and not horizontally like normal people use it. He always lies with his pillow under his head, neck, and top of his back long-ways.

He stayed with me.

My eyes sting as they fill with hot tears, my headache now blocked by a surge of emotion. With more urgency than I care to acknowledge, I make my way into the kitchen. I’m across the room in half the normal time.

Dashing to the window, only my car is in the driveway. A million questions fight for attention, a thousand possibilities and scenarios race through my mind. I struggle to piece together the events of last night.

I have no idea what happened. Fear hits me hard when I realize that regardless of what occurred—he’s not here. Yet, through it all, a little bubble of happiness sits squarely on my shoulders because he was here.

It infuriates me that him being here makes me happy. I don’t want to want him. I don’t want to be happy that he gave me a piece of his time, like he can walk back in my life and decide he’ll bestow some attention on me.