Page 168
But those people hurt me first and killed part of me.
He executed the revenge I used to fantasize about when I was at my angriest, my most shattered. He looked at what was done to me and decided it mattered enough to make them answer for it.
The hole in the wall? What even is that?
That wasn’t him avenging me, that was him taking something. Watching me without my permission, then making me trust him afterward, and building a relationship on top of it.
It isn’t fair.
How can he be so good to me and yet behave so profoundly wrong. How dare he make me the happiest I’ve felt in years, and then rip it away.
I open our text and stare at the blinking cursor for several minutes, even having to tap the screen so it doesn’t time out.
My fingers move on their own volition.
Are you awake
I scrutinize those three words. I should delete them. Instead I add a question mark to the end, which feels like tiptoeing to the edge of a cliff. I read the message once more.
Are you awake?
My heart pounds as I hover over the send button.
I shake my head. I’m not prepared for this conversation; I don’t even know what I’d say if he texted back. Locking my phone, I toss it in the passenger seat and unsatisfyingly bash the back of my head against the cushioned headrest.
I’m scared of what he’ll say if we meet in person—especially if he says it in that low, careful voice that makes me want to believe everything that comes out of his mouth; clearly my self-preservation instincts are useless.
“I’m so mad at you, Casper,” I whisper.
I’m slowly coming to the realization that at some point, we will need to talk. It’s the only way to bring this to an end . . . because somewhere under the fear and fury is a relentless ache, kept alive with love that won’t fucking die.
It hurts in that deep, exhausting way that makes everything else feel hollow and far away and meaningless. Like the whole world kept moving forward while I got left behind somewhere in the wreckage.
The tattoo machine buzzes in my hand, steady as a heartbeat, and for the first time in my life, I resent something for being calm when my life is imploding. Usually the sound settles me, it makes sense. I understand how the apparatus works, I understand how to use it, I can zone out and lose myself in my art. This place has always been a kind of church for me—clean lines, controlled sting, a way to make beauty out of pain—like I was trying to do with Anna.
My client is a regular. Nice guy, I like him. We’re adding some black and gray work to an old piece on his forearm. He’s chatty and usually I’m good at that. I can handle the easy back-and-forth, the dry sarcasm, the small human performance of seeming normal and untroubled.
I’m fucking troubled.
Today, I’m operating on muscle memory and spite.
“Looks good,” he says, watching my work.
“Mmm.”
“You’re quiet today, man.”
I wipe the area and lean back just enough to inspect the linework. “I thought the pain was enough emotional support for someone like you.”
He laughs and I mimic a smile.
Her absence feels like a missing limb. Every ten minutes my body remembers I could be doing something stupid and has to actively choose not to.
Not texting. Not calling. Not driving past her apartment to see if her lights are on.
Especially not tracking where she is, who she’s with, and whether she’s sleeping, crying, or misses me enough to hate me for it. Rhys told me she’s safe, but it’s not the same as confirming it with my own eyes.
Restraint does not come naturally, quite the opposite actually. My strengths are in escalation. But I know this much with perfect clarity: If I have even the faintest chance of getting her back, I cannot chase her into forgiving me.
