Who You Are

Chapter 6

It was getting marginally easier—the whole focusing thing. Day by day, little by little, I was able to read a paragraph and comprehend it. Then two. Then three. Then a whole page.

It would've been pathetic if it didn't feel so good. Like claiming a piece of myself again when I'd been sure all was lost.

And then he texted me. Bryan. After three days. Sending me right back into a daze of listlessness and sadness.

I still have some of your things, he'd said. I can drop them off if you want.

That had been an hour ago, and I still hadn't answered. But I must've looked at it at least a dozen times, trying to read into it.

Did he miss me?

Was he even sorry?

He was going to bring my stuff back—just like that. Not even try to fight.

Did I want him to fight?

It was an endless cycle of anger and hurt and deep sadness and want and desperation that I didn't know how to extricate myself from.

After a day of classes, Maddie was at work, so she wouldn't be home until later tonight. And I was just glad that Bryan hadn't texted earlier in the day, otherwise (and I hated to admit it) I wouldn't have been able to get through class and a shift at work. But considering I still had homework to catch up on and class first thing in the morning, he really hadn't done me any favors.

I was bone tired by the time I reached our door, and struggled to get my key into the lock, my mind on what I would say to him. I'd need my stuff, obviously. And I had some of his, too, which meant packing it up and getting it to him—somehow. It would be easier if he came here, but—

"Hey." Mark was already home, sitting on the couch, his legs stretched out on my coffee table.

I closed the door behind me and looked at him again—in his basketball shorts and t-shirt, dark hair a wreck on his head, glasses on his nose as he focused at his tablet.

And apparently I was staring, because he met my gaze. "What?"

"Why are you never at work?"

It just came out.

Mark didn't flinch. Only held up his tablet and said, "Because I'm always working." Then went back to whatever it was he was doing.

He was right. He worked as a graphic artist for an advertising company and did a good amount of freelance work on the side. Unlike a lot of people, he could do everything right from his computer.

I blew out a breath, setting my bag down on the first counter stool. I wasn't even sure why I'd said it. He didn't bother me—apart from the other night. And even then, he wasn't bothering me. He just wasn't leaving me alone. Not in an annoying way, exactly. Just...in a way that meant I couldn't process things the way I wanted to: alone. Without an audience. Without having to pretend that I was okay.

Because I certainly wasn't. But I didn't need him or anyone else knowing that.

And just when I started to feel a little bit more okay than I had the other day after officially ending it, Bryan texted. Because of course he did. Just when I thought I was getting there, or somewhere, he had to reel me back in; he had to make me rethink my decision again. As if I wasn't doing that enough on my own already.

"You look like you've had a day," Mark muttered, his focus on his pen moving deliberately over the tablet screen.

"I could say the same about you."