Heartbeat Repeating - E.M. Lindsey Page 0,20
he pulls out onto the driveway then squints in the sun until he finds an old pair of shades in the console.
It always takes him a bit of time to adjust switching sides when he comes home, but he’s got the hang of it again by the time he pulls out onto the road. The car is quiet, and there’s no one out and about, which he supposes is a blessing living in the country instead of some cramped, too-expensive, too-small flat in London. Everything is so green, and there’s a hint of fog settling around the edges of the horizon. The winter sun is high, and the light is hazy, and it’s cold—exactly as it should be.
His phone buzzes again, and he half considers pulling over to check it because it might be Connor trying to cancel. He wants that—a little. And also he doesn’t. He’s angry at Connor for being able to move on and love again. He’s angry that Connor can look his new children in the face and not see Gabrielle in every smile.
He’s angry that people are just so bloody-well better than he is at moving on. He also knows it’s not his fault. The chemicals in his brain make him different and there’s nothing he can do about it except cope. He just wishes that coping didn’t make him feel like he’s peeling away layers of himself until there’s nothing left.
Bzzt bzzt.
He sighs and heads into town, and eventually spots a little café near the Tesco—which is definitely new, though the building is old. His car doesn’t belong there, but he pulls into the car park anyway and lets the engine idle as he wriggles his hips—looking thoroughly embarrassing as he tries to get his phone out of the deep pockets in his trousers. When he settles again, he prepares himself for Connor’s kiss-off, but instead, his heart catches in his throat.
Avery: Couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know you hate it when I text so this is probably killing any chance I get at a gift while you’re away, but I couldn’t help it. We went to the mall yesterday, and Sharice convinced me to try this on.
The next text is a photo, and it makes Alejandro’s chest tight and throat dry and dick so suddenly hard he gets dizzy from the blood rushing away from his brain. Avery is there, in all his glory, standing on a little dressing room podium. He looks absolutely in his element, wearing leather trousers and a mesh shirt that looks like it belongs in a club. And Alejandro knows the price is probably more than Avery would have seen in three years working his shitty little college job at the Taco Stand. And it does something to him to see this man all wrapped up and decked out in the luxury he provides.
It’s like a primal, animal sort of possession, and he wants to say fuck it to all of this—to all this pain and grief and exes and parents. He wants to leave it all behind him, get on his plane, and pin Avery to his bedroom wall. He wants to fuck him so hard his eyes cross, and the only sound he can make is the sobbing syllables of Alejandro’s name.
The pain settles under his skin after that, along with the hate. The self-loathing survivor’s guilt, his therapist had called it at the beginning when he didn’t understand his anger. It’s an ugly, cruel little demon that lives behind his ribs and whispers reminders that he doesn’t deserve happiness with her gone. And he’s long-since learned to ignore it. Mostly.
Except in moments where he thinks about leaving Gabrielle’s memory buried in the earth to give himself fleeting pleasure that will never last. And it’s worse now because Avery deserves better than he can ever give. He was an unworthy man long before Gabrielle died—and her death took the last vestiges of his humanity as they lowered that sleek, tiny white coffin into the ground.
He chokes a little and wants to drop to his knees to beg her forgiveness. She’d probably have laughed at him for it too—and it’s with a gut-wrenching ache he realizes that he can’t really remember what that laugh sounded like. He can’t conjure it on command anymore. There are videos—but they’re not the same.
“Bloody hell,” he breathes out.
He wants to text Avery and tell him to never, ever, ever do this again, but he doesn’t because it’s not his fault.