into the den. His looks—sure. But I never felt this way toward any of the guy models I knew. It’s not just his looks. It’s his…everything. I like him unconditionally. Which reminds me of a quote by C.S. Lewis: “Love is not an affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.”
I tell myself that quote is bunk. I don’t love Barrett, whom I barely even know. But really—what if he’s my person? What if it’s fate that he moved in next door?
I roll my eyes and step back over by the table. Still, I’m unable to do anything but stand here rooted to the floor, trying to imagine other nights like this.
I’m lonely. That’s all. And he’s pretty, mysterious, and nice. He touched my face after I snariled. If he’s always been this type of guy, he’s probably had women falling at his feet since he was 7.
I catch my lip between my teeth. I pull out my phone and text Jamie.
‘Neighbor guy is here. He fell asleep on my couch. I’m feeling all domestic and I want him. Help!’
I see the little bubble, letting me know she’s typing. I’m like Pavlov’s dog, smiling at the site of it. ‘I knew it!’
‘Fuck you.’ I add one of those adorable new flipping-the-bird icons my iPhone has. ‘Fuck HIM,’ I type, adding the laughing face with tears dripping from its little emoticon eyes.
‘You’re hopeless,’ she writes back.
‘You love me.’
I set the phone down on the counter and decide to make some jam out of the blackberries I bought the other day at the farmer’s market.
When I’ve got my little metal and glass food mill, a soup pot, and a bunch of sugar set out on the counter, I take a picture and text it to Jamie, tacking on the little smilie with the half-smile, half-frown face. Then I type, ‘#SadSpinster.’
She sends me a photo reply. I click the picture to enlarge. It’s an empty ice-cream carton.
‘#AbandonedGirlfriend.’
She fires off another text. It’s a picture of the Mafioso with a smug smile and a thumbs up. ‘Before he left,’ she adds.
‘Cute.’
“Hashtag sarcasm,” I murmur to myself. I pour the blackberries into the pot and start to crush them with a wooden spoon.
That’s when I hear it: a low moan like a strong wind moving along the cabin’s logs. I stop and swallow. I don’t think it’s that windy tonight. A whimper reaches my ears and my heart kicks up into my throat.
BARRETT
I fumble for my pocket. Many nights, it’s the first thing that I do. Go for my medic bag. Because I think the pain is physical. I think I got blown up and need to fix myself.
A few more grains of sand in the hourglass of consciousness, and my mind lights up like a bomb. Regret cuts through me, slicing through my heart, puncturing my lungs so I can’t breathe. I can’t move, and Breck—he couldn’t move.
It all makes sense, a kind of cosmic sense. I never try to fight it. Vaguely aware of something softer than the floor beneath me, I curl over on my side and hold my head. With every cell in my body, I know I deserve this. I lie here and try to take it.
I can’t stop the sounds escaping from my mouth. The wordless feelings. They’re the black that paints the night inside my head, keeping me lost.
And lost I should be.
I tug my hair because it helps mute the inferno in my chest. I push my face into the pillow and pull air in through its fibers. Until my body is awake enough to sense its own flailing. Until adrenaline starts flowing and I’m lightheaded. Until the shaking starts.
I roll over, wanting to stretch and feel my body. Make sure I’m still here…
GWENNA
“Barrett?”
My voice sounds clipped and breathless, spilling from my throat before I make it around the half wall behind the couch.
When I see him curled up with one arm around his head, the other covering his face, I feel like I just got punched in the gut.
“Barrett?” Softer now, because I’m standing right behind the couch. Sweat prickles my hairline and my heart throbs in my throat.
That’s the moment he jerks upright and writhes onto his left side, the left side of his head hitting the arm of my couch hard enough to thump.
A hoarse moan rips the silence.
Shit.
It all makes sense. Why he’s so tired. He always looks like he’s exhausted, even