Within These Walls (Within These Walls #1)(79)

He reached into a backpack and pulled out my old notebook before flipping through pages and pages of crossed-out dreams.

“The last one,” he said, holding a pen out to me.

I looked down and saw, among the dark blue and black lines, number seventy-two sat untouched.

“Have my heart broken?” I said, looking up at him in confusion.

He smiled and nodded. “It is the last one. We wouldn’t want to leave anything undone.”

“But I thought…” I stumbled on my words as I watched his expression twist into something sinister. “You promised…” I whispered.

“I lied.”

I woke up, startled, my arms reaching out…searching for him.

He was gone.

My hands brushed my arms briskly, trying to warm away the chill I had in his absence. I looked around the dark room, hoping to find his sleeping figure somewhere, but he was nowhere.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something on the tray table next to my bed. As my gaze shifted, I saw the small pudding cup with a plastic spoon beside it.

I smiled and picked it up before holding it against my chest like a prized possession. It was then that I saw the letter underneath.

In Jude’s angular handwriting was my name written on a plain envelope.

My hand shook as I opened it.

The note crumbled in my hands as tears soaked my cheeks.

Closing my eyes, I remembered his tortured gaze and lingering touches as we’d made love last night. He’d known. As I had been trying to figure out why he was so melancholy, he had been saying good-bye with every kiss, every last caress.

And now, he was gone.

An echoed sob tore through the silence as the reality of my situation solidified.

He’d left me all alone.

No, he’ll change his mind. He just needs time.

I searched around the room for my cell.

I’ll text him and tell him to come back, so we can talk it over.

Once I explained my reasoning to him again, he would understand.

I jumped out of bed and found my backpack that Jude had packed for me. I rifled through it, finding clothes, toiletries, a journal, and my notebook.

But no cell phone.

It was gone.

He’d taken it.

Stopping dead in my tracks in the middle of the room, the enormity of what had happened finally came crashing down on me.

Jude was gone…and he wasn’t coming back.

I turned back around, feeling wobbly on my shaky legs, and I pulled the notebook from the backpack on the floor. I walked aimlessly back to the bed. Pulling a pen from the drawer next to me, I opened it up and found the number I’d just dreamed about. As tears dripped onto the page, I dragged the pen along the paper and crossed out the one thing Jude had promised he’d never allow.

I pulled the notebook to my chest, curling into a ball, and I fell asleep with my newly broken heart.

The comforting walls of my childhood room now felt claustrophobic and confining.

I used to lie in the hospital and dream of the soft feel of my own sheets and the crisp smell of my mother’s fabric softener on my pillow.

Now, as I stared up at the white popcorn ceiling and I felt my legs drag against the freshly laundered soft sheets, it only served as a reminder of what I was missing.

Jude’s sheets never smelled like anything but Jude, and they were anything but soft. Scratchy and cheap, the blue fabric had several holes from years of use. But none of that had ever bothered me because I was in his arms, safe and warm in his arms.

Since he’d left, I hadn’t felt warm in days. California was on the verge of record heat, and I was burying myself under piles of blankets, trying to replicate the feeling of his warm embrace.

Nothing had worked.

Nothing would ever replace him.

No one knew where he was. He’d quit his job at the hospital, and Marcus had said Jude’s apartment was empty.

He’d vanished without a trace.

A knock on my bedroom door signaled my mother’s hourly checkup. Between her and Grace, I was never alone. I was perfectly healthy—for someone who was slowly dying. But my emotional health was worrisome, according to Marcus.

No shit.

I was not to be left unattended.

So, I had babysitters—again.

“Hey, sweetheart. I brought dinner,” my mother said, balancing a tray between her hands.

“Not hungry.”

“Lailah, you have to eat,” she pushed, placing the tray down beside me.

I sat up, crossing my legs, as I looked down at the plate. “Macaroni and cheese?” I inquired. “I can’t have that.”

She smiled. “I got a recipe online. I was able to make a low-sodium version.”

My face grimaced. “Awesome.”

She huffed. “Come on, Lailah. I’m trying. You barely eat. You won’t talk to anyone, and you cry yourself to sleep. I don’t know what to do. Ever since he—”

“No! We’re not talking about him,” I said, raising my hands in protest.

“Fine. But you need to at least eat. I’m worried.”

Tears trickled down her cheeks, making my chest tighten.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m going to be okay, I promise. I just need time. And see?” I picked up the fork. “I’m eating.”

“Good.” She gave a weak smile. “Can I stay here with you?”