Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
If everything was fine, Macon would’ve answered. Goddammit. I knew he didn’t sound right last night. When’s the last time I saw him eat?
“Use the other bathroom,” I tell Dallas.
“Trace and some girl are in there.”
“Then use the downstairs one!”
“But it doesn’t have a shower …”
“Just …” I bite out, giving him a look.
And I don’t need to say more. He twists his lips to the side and spins around, pouting his way out of the bedroom.
“Macon!” Army shouts again.
I fit the end of the wire hanger in the little hole, feeling for the pin, and I push. The handle twists, giving way, and I open the door, immediately seeing him.
“Get out!” he yells.
Army stands behind me, but he doesn’t try to push past to see.
Macon sits in the claw-foot tub, his back against the wall and his legs bent up with his arms hanging over his knees. His head is down as the spray pours over his body, a stream gliding down his nose.
I close the door, Army stumbling back a few steps.
I look at him. “Go to work.”
“But—”
“I’ll be here,” I tell him. “I’ll call if something’s wrong.”
“Krisjen—”
“He won’t want you here.”
He won’t want me, either, but I’m not family. It’s different. He cares what they think.
Army’s next words are lost as he stares at me, his eyes filled with pain. I can’t tell if I hurt his feelings, or if he’s just worried, but he’s smart enough to know Macon won’t want anyone to see him like this. Especially another man.
Army struggles for a minute, trying to decide what’s right. He was twenty when his mother took her life. He knows something is wrong.
He takes my face, kissing my forehead. “I’ll get the kids to school.”
“Thanks.”
He leaves, and I slip inside the bathroom, closing the door and locking it before heading over to the tub.
Water spills off Macon’s forehead and mouth as he bows his head, and I lean close to his lips, trying to smell if there’s alcohol.
But he jerks away as if suddenly realizing I’m there. “Don’t.”
I press a hand to the back of his neck and then to his forehead, both burning under the hot water.
“Stop,” he growls, pulling away from me and leaning back against the tile. “Just leave. Get out.”
I turn the faucet, making it a little cooler.
“I said get out!” he shouts up at me.
I startle.
He clutches his head in his hands. “Please. Get the fuck out.”
My eyes pool with tears, and I clench my teeth to keep them from falling. I don’t know how to help him.
I look up at the blinds drawn over what little light streams in through the small window near the ceiling.
And the lights are off.
The same way his room is always dark now, and how he only ever wants to be alone.
I don’t think it’s to shield him from the world, because if it were, then it would be helping. It’s to pretend that he doesn’t exist.
If no one sees him, he’s not really here. Not alive.
It’s how he’s fantasizing death.
I reach out, touching the side of his head, my fingers on his hair.
But he shoves my hand away, and I gasp as he bites his words at me. “Get out!”
And then he slams the back of his head into the wall, and I cry out, grabbing him before he can do it again. I climb into the tub, crouch over his lap, and wrap my arms around him, my hand at the back of his head.
He wrestles, trying to shake me off, but I just hold him, burying my face in his neck.
“I don’t want anybody!” he snaps. “I just want … Please, I just want to be gone. I just want to be gone.”
He tries to push me off, but I hold tight, trembling.
“Don’t see me,” he says. “Please don’t see me. You have to go.”
He pushes a few more times, but every time gets weaker before he finally gives up. His hands fall away, and he just shakes in my arms.
“Please … don’t …” He bows his head, turning it left and right, shielding me from seeing him, but I take him and come up close to his ear, so he can hear me over the shower. I whisper, “You can let one person see you like this. Just one.”
Tears stream down my face, and I reach behind me, pulling the shower curtain, closing us in, away from the world. Hard breaths rack his body, but he doesn’t fight me. Molding my chest to his, I touch his face and bow my head next to his, inhaling and exhaling. Over and over until I feel his chest rise with mine and both of ours fall in sync.
“One person,” I breathe out.
His body slowly calms, and I run my thumb over his face as I hold it, feeling the difference between hot water and warm tears.