The next few days are a blur as I stick to my routine: work, more work and then home and sleep. Despite my best attempt at pretending everything is fine, I can't help but miss Noah. The emptiness hits me today when I got home and I'd talked to Noah, showered, and thrown myself on the couch. It is too quiet here. Too empty and cold.
It wasn't as if I hadn't lived this way for nearly six years before Noah had come along. But sitting here, I could almost convince myself that the last two months had been meant to be temporary, or that the hollow sound of his footsteps on my wooden floors and familiar echo of his approaching truck from the outside are the products of my imagination.
I stand up and grab the remote from the kitchen bar, then turn on the TV. It takes care of the silence, but it doesn't stop my thoughts from wandering. How is it that just a few months ago I'd been eager to leave work just so I could get to my empty house? So I could be alone again. The way it had always been.
"Just let him be there," I murmur under my breath. I repeat the chant every time I have a thought about Noah.
I sigh and rub my jaw, feeling strange after having shaved for the first time in a week. Then I catch sight of the birthday present I was supposed to be giving to Noah but I forgot. "Fuck..."
I pick up the phone to call him and tell him that I never gave him his present. And to check on him. He was visiting his mom daily, staying with her while they repaired their estranged relationship. He didn't always sound his best, but that was to be expected. The phone surprisingly goes to voicemail. And I don't think too much of it. I'll call him back later.
But days pass and he never calls me back, or responds to my texts. Suddenly, it had been more than a week since I'd last spoken to Noah.
When he finally calls me it's from a different number to tell me that his mom passed away and that he just came back from her funeral. I'm in shock after hearing this news even though it was expected. I want to ask him how it all happened? What is he doing now? How is he feeling? If he need me to do anything for him? And other not-so-important things at this point in time, but still important for us–why did he change his number? Why was he not calling me all this time?
I don't get to ask any of it because Noah says he's in a rush and he'll call me back soon. I'm trying to be understanding but that almost obsessive protectiveness I feel towards Noah is intensifying by the minute because I have no way of reading him through a goddamn phone. And ever since then, our conversations had been stilted and short.
So when I wake up in the middle of the night, I can feel it, not just see it–the darkness. It's making its way back into my mind. Not quite fully present yet, but it's coming. My mind feels... off. Something is wrong, it's almost like I'm given this twisted sixth sense. Everything starts to feel a little grayer, dampened by a little less color. A weight sits on my chest, getting heavier and heavier by the day, and no matter what I do, I'm unable to stop it.
For the millionth time tonight, I turn from my stomach to my back and reach out to the empty space beside me. I roll myself over to his side and bury my face in his pillow. Inhaling, my senses search for his scent, my chest deflating and aching at just how little of it is left. A reminder that the distance between us widens as the smells of soap and sex and sleep are nowhere to be found.
God, I need to feel his touch. I need to hear his voice. I need to tell him so many things. I need to taste him again. I need to hear the whimpers he made when I kissed him. I need him to kiss me back. I need him to tell me he is ok. I need... I just fucking need him.
"Fucking son of a bitch!" I snarl while I get up from my bed. I slam my fist into the headboard. The wood holds and pain radiates throughout my hand and arm. But it isn't enough. I get up and begin grabbing whatever I can reach and throwing it against the walls. I rip at the fabric that finds its way into my hands. Books hit the floor, glass shatters somewhere. I flip the lights on, and I find myself staring at the remains of a broken frame. Wooden pieces are all over the floor. Beyond repair. Oh God. Despair curls through me as I turn to face the beautiful art made by Noah.
I bring the painting to the living room, place it at the foot of the fireplace. I reach up to adjust the painting's positioning. Luckily the damage to the painting is only minor but I'll have to make another frame. That was my present for him–I framed his first painting and asked one of my mother's colleagues if he had a spot in his gallery in Anchorage where Noah could have it on display. He said yes, happy to do me a favor as he adored my mother and her work.
I just stare at it now as my anger outburst subsides. The lake is frosted glass. The patches of ice are like phantom white and grey water lilies. The night is still and the air hangs like a frozen cloak. A spattering of trees is painted by the side of the lake, their bare branches bent over the bank with the silent strain of the snowfall. The dome of dark blue and black above stretched infinitely into deeper blues and deeper blacks. Everything was frozen, everything was still. The portrait would have been depressing if not for a sliver of sunlight visible through a tiny break in the bleak clouds. The never-ending sunshine in the darkness of this hostile world.
I suppose I should've been stunned to find out he is the man behind this magnificent work of art. I'd been more shocked about the coincidence of it all more than anything, though, because I'd come to learn from our time together, that Noah Summerville was full of surprises—and that I shouldn't be surprised by any of them.
Dread sits bitterly on the back of my tongue, trudging all the way down my throat and into my gut, where it simmers, gnarly and loud. Was all this a bad idea, me and him? I've run through every scenario I could possibly think of, any possible outcome for us, and it's all shit. Every last one.
At the end of the day, all I want for him is to be ok. I want to wear rose-colored glasses and say this is normal. But now, I don't know if that is true. Even if he calls to say the exact words, I don't think I would believe him.
Because Noah has demons and I never had a chance to get to know them all.
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YOU ARE READING
Midnight sun
Romance[ boyxboy ] Noah Summerville is broken when his long forgotten uncle comes to his rescue and takes him to a small town of Alaska in a search of a new life. Then he sees Dylan McKenna with his man bun, thick thighs and intense stare. There is somethi...
