Page 42 of The Road Back Home

I spend the rest of the day listening to the playlist I made full of all the saddest songs I could think of—all the songs that put into words how I feel—and watching Ashton play with the few toys left behind when we moved.

At least, I try, but my attention strays from the child.

The emptiness of the apartment is suffocating, the quiet overwhelming.

It’s been almost a week since the relationship met its end, and I hurt just as fiercely as that first day.

I allow Ashton to fall asleep on the couch with cartoons on the TV, his lion tucked against his chest. I almost don’t want to move him, don’t want to disturb his peace, but Tristan and Luci will arrive soon.

The conversation isn’t meant for his ears, and I can’t risk him waking to see me falling apart.

Once he’s in his bed, I pull the door closed until the latch rests against the frame then move to the couch.

The cushion dips beneath me, cradles me as I bring my knees to my chest. The silence is too much to bear; it gives my mind the freedom to race and my thoughts to clatter against themselves in an echoing reminder that I messed up.

My desperation for a perfect relationship brought about the destruction.

I let my fears of losing Holden become reality because I wouldn’t talk to him.

It wasn’t even that I couldn’t —I just wouldn’t.

My phone plays music quietly, the same playlist that breaks my heart even further.

The next song comes on, and I snort as the singer sings about finding faults, the blame no longer mattering, foolish pride.

The words are too close to the truth. Closing my eyes, I let my head drop back, and I swallow against another wave of heartbreak.

God, but do I miss him. When things were good, they were great.

Holden made me feel safe, loved, and I walked away from that. All I have now are the memories.

A knock sounds at the door, quiet but still so loud over the music.

I sigh, pushing to my feet, and cross the apartment.

I pull the door open before the second round of knocking finishes, and Tristan smiles sheepishly when his knuckles rap against my forehead.

My lips twitch in a forced facsimile of a smile, but I know it falls flat when he and Luci exchange a pointed look.

Brushing past me, Tristan heads for the cupboard that holds the glasses while Luci wraps her arms around my shoulders. It’s all the permission I need: I break down in the warm strength of my friend’s arms. I hate feeling so weak, but here and now, I can’t imagine holding all of this inside alone.

“C’mon, babe, let’s go sit down,” Luci murmurs.

I follow her to the couch and sink into the cushions as I let out a shaky breath. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course we’d come. You need us, so we’re here.”

“Wine and Whine?” Tristan asks while sitting on the couch to my left.

“It’s a bit more than a Whine, Tris,” I say, shaking my head, but I take the glass of wine he offers.

“So talk to us. Let us help you.”

I do. I lay bare my heart and soul for my best friends to see.

I show every beaten, bruised part of me that I’ve kept hidden, and I cry as I tell them this isn’t much of a clean break—everything reminds me of Holden.

Of the way he cared for and loved me… Until recently.

Every thought I have revolves around him in some fashion, made worse with guilt that Ashton is hurting, too.

I hesitate then admit I don’t think we can come back from this.

Luci frowns; sympathy is etched in every facet of her face, and she tugs me in for a side-hug. “Oh, sweetie. Did you tell him any of this?”

“No.” I sniffle and swallow a mouthful of whine. “Why should I have to? I shouldn’t have to remind someone who supposedly loves me that I’m still here. I shouldn’t have to tell him I’m an actual human being who’s worthy of attention, affection, and love.”

“But you’re not,” Tristan counters.

I turn betrayed eyes on him, and even Luci looks startled at his words.

He sighs, sets his glass aside, and pulls my free hand into his.

His fingers don’t slot perfectly with mine, and I bite down on my lower lip to quell the hurt that rises.

My entire being yearns for the home I created with Holden.

It’s impossible now.

“That’s the thing about love, Deals. We don’t deserve it.

No one is worthy of it, not without a lot of hard work.

But, even knowing that, we go out, and we find it.

We fight for it. We hold it tight and let it go and repeat the cycle until we die.

But don’t think we’re worthy of love like that if we’re not willing to put in the work. ”

“As much as I disagree with how he said it, the asshole is right,” Luci murmurs as she runs a hand along my back. “And Holden may look like an angel on Earth, but hun, he’s only human. He’s going to act like a jackass sometimes, much like you can be a stubborn little shit.”

“Is this supposed to be making me feel better?” I ask, wincing when my voice cracks, and she huffs out a laugh.

“I’m just telling the truth as I know it. Okay? Holden is gonna get so wrapped up in himself sometimes that he puts you to the side. I’m not saying it’s okay or that you should just lie down and accept it. But it’s human. It’s nothing against you.”

Tristan squeezes my hand, smiling softly when I meet his eye. “You have to be the storm that opens his eyes. You have to walk right up to him and say ‘You’re treating me like shit, and I don’t deserve it. I love you, so I think we need to work on this’.”

“We love you, Deals, and we love Holden. I personally think y’all are great for each other. I really hope you guys can find yourselves again.”

“I—I don’t wanna talk about this anymore,” I mutter.

Tristan and Luci prove their status as ‘best best friends ever’ by shutting up, dropping the subject, and allowing me to drink as much wine as I want without any further discussion.

I know they’re right; I know what I should have done.

But it’s been a week. Holden hasn’t called.

Cheryl stopped calling the day after Ashton and I came back to Austin.

Samantha has only sent one text, an acknowledgment of me canceling the playdate we’d scheduled for Henry and Ashton.

What does it mean when none of them care now? When they could so easily go back to my existence being nothing?

I settle in between my friends and slowly fall asleep in the middle of a sitcom marathon with my head in Tristan’s lap. Luci’s hand is a gentle pressure on my ankle. Sleep claims me, but nothing stops my heart from breaking further at yet another night out of love.

Holden

I sigh heavily, pushing the car door shut.

It’s been a long eight days, and I am unbelievably glad to be home again.

I scrub a hand over my face as I open the trunk of my car to grab my bag from inside.

A yawn forces itself out of me, my jaw letting out a cracking sound, and I shake my head to clear it of the fog that’s settled over my thoughts.

The past week has been, simply put, my own personal Hell.

Every morning, in that split second between dreaming and awake, I’d rolled over in bed and reached for Dealla.

I only found no one. My hand kept reaching on, but it never met the familiar warmth of her body.

I couldn’t eat through the violent churning of my stomach at the realization that I’m still alone.

Something deep inside of me had reminded me over and over that I shouldn’t have left like I did.

I should have waited for Dealla to come back.

We should have talked about whatever was bothering her, whatever made her lash out the way she had.

Instead, I’d watched her leave in my car with Ashton, then went upstairs and finished packing.

Not coming back after the hours spent at The Underworld was the biggest mistake I could have made—that I did make.

I wish I had gone back home, even if it meant all we did was fight until the sun rose.

My skin crawls as I step over the threshold.

The house is silent, not quite unexpected given the time and Dealla’s work schedule.

I close the door behind me and slip out of my shoes.

Dropping my bag to the floor, I take a step and pause.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise, a shiver races down my spine, and the eerie quiet—so unlike the quiet I’m accustomed to—presses down on me.

A klaxon in the back of my mind pulsates, glows red, screams.

Walking through the house gives me no clues.

Nothing is out of place: The remotes are on the tray, and the throw blanket is folded over the back of the couch.

The dishes are put away in the kitchen, and not a speck of crumbs remains on the countertops.

Everything is neat, tidy, and where it should be. I frown and make my way up the stairs.

Entering the bedroom, I spin slowly to examine my surroundings.

The bed has been made with tight corners and a pile of pillows leaning against the headboard.

Not one piece of clothing sits in the bottom of the hamper.

This isn’t surprising; Dealla enjoys doing the laundry, says folding the clothes and putting them away is relaxing.

I can’t see anything that would cause such a sense of impending doom.

Then I do.

The empty hangers on the closet rod. The shelf devoid of her suitcase.

My sweater—the one she claimed as hers before she even moved in—gone.

My hand trembles, reaching for the switch, and I blink rapidly in the sudden spark of light from the overhead bulb.

My eyes haven’t deceived me even with the dimness of shadows.