Come to Me Quietly(23)

He let out a breath, then smiled up at her as he ruffled a hand through her hair. “All better?”



She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “All better.”



EIGHT


Aleena



That night, I lay in bed, staring at the shadows as they climbed along my ceiling, listening to the peace outside my window. It was late. I’d gotten off work after eleven o’clock tonight, my pockets filled with tips from the busy evening. Apprehension had fluttered in my stomach when I returned to the apartment. The night had been still, the trees seeming frozen in time as I stepped from my car. Fear had clamored through my chest when I thought perhaps Jared had run, come back to the apartment in the middle of the day while I was gone and packed up his belongings, and turned his back on the things he didn’t want to face.

But when I opened the door to the silence of the apartment, I’d found Jared’s bag still shoved in the corner of the room, and I was struck with a deep relief that eclipsed the flickers of anger I’d felt throughout the day.

I couldn’t stand to leave things between us the way they’d been this morning.

After a shower to wash away the grime from the greasy kitchen, I’d crawled in bed with my sketch pad and allowed my thoughts to drift. I’d captured images, each time feeling I was close to touching on something beautiful, but in every stroke I saw my own imperfection. I’d drawn until my eyes had sagged with exhaustion and I’d finally set the pad aside.

But I couldn’t find sleep.

Hours passed, and now I stared.

Waited.

I rose to my elbows when I heard the apartment door whine open. Craning my ear, I listened, trying to discern the footsteps. They were subdued, but even then, I could tell they were too heavy to be Christopher’s.

Muted sounds leaked into my room. I rolled from bed, quieting my feet as I crossed the room. I slowly turned the knob, cringing with the slight creak it gave, and carefully pulled it open. Tiptoeing, I edged along the hall.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the sound so quiet I wouldn’t have heard it at all had I not had my back pressed to the wall, straining to listen.

Desperation filled the air, a tension that slipped along the floor, beckoning me forward.

He came into view as I peeked into the kitchen. Everything was dark except for the bright light coming from the freezer where he stood with his back to me. He was fumbling for something inside. His movements seemed sluggish, although he kept shaking his head with these harsh motions, disgust pouring from him. He wrestled with a cheap blue ice cube tray, twisting it over the sink. Ice cubes shot out in a flurry. Half clattered into the sink and the rest hit the floor. His shoulders slumped as pressed his hands onto the counter to hold himself up, his head hanging low. “Shit,” he mumbled under his breath.

Tentatively, I found my way around the bar. I sidled up to him, nudging him back a step. “Here, let me help you.”



He jerked with surprise before he twisted his head farther away and moved aside, standing there like a scolded child. He wouldn’t even look at me.

My gaze swept over the counter. He had a towel out, and ice cubes littered the bottom of the sink.

“Are you hurt?” I asked quietly, keeping my voice even, training my attention on piling ice cubes in the towel to make a compress. I glanced over my shoulder to catch the horrified expression on his face when he looked up.

I froze, wide-eyed.

That beautiful face was filthy, and his eyes were achingly sad. Pain twisted me in its fingers, wringing me from the inside. He looked like absolute death. His white printed tee was in tatters, smeared with dirt and oil, hanging from his body at odd angles from where it had been stretched and deformed. I stifled a gasp when I saw his bloodied hands. Gashes were opened on each knuckle, the torn skin filled with rocks and rimmed in dirt.