like a successful businessman rather than a guy who sold comic books—and curled back up into bed. I’d fallen asleep on the floor sometime the night before, still wrapped in Aaron’s old sweater. The sun and the sharp ache in my back woke me up just long enough for me to crawl under the covers and sink into my mattress.
Dreams had haunted me all night, making sleep all but impossible. The idea of getting up, though, of showering and shaving and facing the world, was like a lodestone around my neck. I couldn’t even fathom the thought of it. So I crawled under the covers and hid, like I was seven years old again and afraid of the dark.
He wasn’t here. Aaron. He’d never been here. Some days, though, I reached for him. Some days I let my hand slide along the coolness of his pillow, the empty side of the bed. Some days it seemed like he was only just out of reach. Like any moment I’d feel his hands on my shoulders, a soft kiss at the nape of my neck, his arms around my waist, and I’d be home. I knew Aaron wasn’t in these walls and in these rooms, but some days, I would feel him.
Today, though, there was nothing. Ghosts of ghosts, a shivery ache that seemed to clench at every breath. He was further away now than he’d ever been, buried under six feet of dirt. I stayed in bed and missed him with guilty, heaving breaths.
Winston shoved me out of bed. An overweight ball of fluff and squished-face disappointment headbutted me until I gave in, rolling out from under the covers many hours past my usual morning. It was afternoon by the time I made my way to the kitchen, numb and hurting, exhausted down to my bones. Every inch of me felt battered and bruised, but Winston had decided I’d moped long enough, so I was pushed from bed out into the world.
He curled around my feet as I walked, purring that odd rusty sound as he pranced over to his food dish. I fed him and declined to do the same for myself. Instead I sat at the kitchen table and stared. There, in a silly little vase, was a single leaf. It’d gone brown by now, the vibrant red faded, but I hadn’t thrown it away.
Aaron had never been here. Had never touched these floors, had never filled this space. But Brady had. The borrowed scarf hung by the door, the leaf he’d given me with careless, windblown smiles was here on the table. Sleeping with him had only been one part of the betrayal. It wasn’t just that I’d had sex with Brady; it was the scarf and the movies and the crusts of my pie. That I’d given him parts of a place Aaron had never been.
A knock sounded loudly and I jumped, banging my knee on the table and cursing at the jolt of pain. Winston gave me a withering stare, prancing over to the door and rubbing against the frame, rear end wiggling in excitement. Sure enough, Tracy’s voice soon sounded from the other side. “Let me in, Quinn. I brought coffee and bagels with that ridiculous raspberry cream cheese you love.”
I didn’t want raspberry cream cheese. I didn’t want Tracy and her kindness—with those concerned looks and the way she had of making me talk about shit. I just wanted to go hide in bed some more and pretend burrowing under covers was a perfectly adult way of dealing with things. But sadly, Tracy kept knocking, and I figured she’d probably call some kind of intervention if I turned down free coffee.
So, reluctantly, I stumbled my way to the door in boxers and a worn gray T-shirt, wrapped in Aaron’s old blue cardigan. Winston practically darted outside when I let Tracy in, vibrating his happiness. He loved Tracy. Tracy fed him people food, let him nap on her bare feet, and rubbed that spot under his chin. Winston was a traitor and a turncoat, perfectly willing to abandon me for the promise of a nice piece of cheese and someone to feed his foot fetish.
“You look like shit,” Tracy greeted me, up on her tiptoes to brush a kiss across my cheek, wrinkling her nose at the stubble.
“You know, you really should get
Dreams had haunted me all night, making sleep all but impossible. The idea of getting up, though, of showering and shaving and facing the world, was like a lodestone around my neck. I couldn’t even fathom the thought of it. So I crawled under the covers and hid, like I was seven years old again and afraid of the dark.
He wasn’t here. Aaron. He’d never been here. Some days, though, I reached for him. Some days I let my hand slide along the coolness of his pillow, the empty side of the bed. Some days it seemed like he was only just out of reach. Like any moment I’d feel his hands on my shoulders, a soft kiss at the nape of my neck, his arms around my waist, and I’d be home. I knew Aaron wasn’t in these walls and in these rooms, but some days, I would feel him.
Today, though, there was nothing. Ghosts of ghosts, a shivery ache that seemed to clench at every breath. He was further away now than he’d ever been, buried under six feet of dirt. I stayed in bed and missed him with guilty, heaving breaths.
Winston shoved me out of bed. An overweight ball of fluff and squished-face disappointment headbutted me until I gave in, rolling out from under the covers many hours past my usual morning. It was afternoon by the time I made my way to the kitchen, numb and hurting, exhausted down to my bones. Every inch of me felt battered and bruised, but Winston had decided I’d moped long enough, so I was pushed from bed out into the world.
He curled around my feet as I walked, purring that odd rusty sound as he pranced over to his food dish. I fed him and declined to do the same for myself. Instead I sat at the kitchen table and stared. There, in a silly little vase, was a single leaf. It’d gone brown by now, the vibrant red faded, but I hadn’t thrown it away.
Aaron had never been here. Had never touched these floors, had never filled this space. But Brady had. The borrowed scarf hung by the door, the leaf he’d given me with careless, windblown smiles was here on the table. Sleeping with him had only been one part of the betrayal. It wasn’t just that I’d had sex with Brady; it was the scarf and the movies and the crusts of my pie. That I’d given him parts of a place Aaron had never been.
A knock sounded loudly and I jumped, banging my knee on the table and cursing at the jolt of pain. Winston gave me a withering stare, prancing over to the door and rubbing against the frame, rear end wiggling in excitement. Sure enough, Tracy’s voice soon sounded from the other side. “Let me in, Quinn. I brought coffee and bagels with that ridiculous raspberry cream cheese you love.”
I didn’t want raspberry cream cheese. I didn’t want Tracy and her kindness—with those concerned looks and the way she had of making me talk about shit. I just wanted to go hide in bed some more and pretend burrowing under covers was a perfectly adult way of dealing with things. But sadly, Tracy kept knocking, and I figured she’d probably call some kind of intervention if I turned down free coffee.
So, reluctantly, I stumbled my way to the door in boxers and a worn gray T-shirt, wrapped in Aaron’s old blue cardigan. Winston practically darted outside when I let Tracy in, vibrating his happiness. He loved Tracy. Tracy fed him people food, let him nap on her bare feet, and rubbed that spot under his chin. Winston was a traitor and a turncoat, perfectly willing to abandon me for the promise of a nice piece of cheese and someone to feed his foot fetish.
“You look like shit,” Tracy greeted me, up on her tiptoes to brush a kiss across my cheek, wrinkling her nose at the stubble.
“You know, you really should get
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