Chapter 8: The ache of absence
The soft cotton of Heath's shirt was a gentle cage around her. Alice drifted into sleep still tasting honey and salt, her body a map of spent sensations, her head pillowed on the scent of him embedded in his own sheets. She was vaguely aware of him lifting her, carrying her from the carpet to the firm mattress of his bed, tucking the duvet around her. His lips brushed her temple. "Sleep," he murmured, a command that felt like a blessing. She obeyed, sinking into the profound exhaustion of pleasure and emotional theft.
The shriek of his phone was a physical violence.
Alice jolted awake, disoriented, heart hammering against her ribs. Early morning light filtered through a crack in the curtains, painting a stripe across an unfamiliar room. A bedroom. His bedroom. Panic, cold and immediate, doused her. She was in Heath and Chloe's bed.
Next to her, Heath groaned, a hand fumbling on the nightstand. He found the phone, squinting at the screen. The color drained from his face.
"Chloe," he answered, his voice thick with sleep but instantly, painfully alert.
Alice froze, her blood turning to ice. She could hear the tinny, cheerful voice through the receiver. "...surprise! Mom's feeling much better, so I caught the early train. Should be pulling into the station in about fifty minutes. Can you pick me up? I've got a ton of bags."
Heath sat up, the sheet pooling at his waist. He ran a hand over his face. "Fifty minutes? At the station? Yeah. Yeah, of course. I'll be there."
"You're an angel. See you soon, love."
The call ended. The silence that followed was deafening, pressurized. Heath stared at the phone, then slowly turned his head to look at her. His dark brown eyes were wide, unguarded, filled with a raw, primal fear she had never seen in him before.
The clock on the nightstand read 10:07 AM.
"She's back in an hour," he said, the words hollow.
It was like a starting pistol. Alice scrambled out of the bed, her legs tangled in the sheets. The world snapped into horrific, hyper-focused clarity. Evidence. Everywhere. Her clothes were a trail of sin from the living room. The honey jar. The spatula. The scarf. The scent of sex in the air.
"Oh, god," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Heath was already moving, a study in controlled panic. He shoved his legs into a pair of sweatpants from the floor. "Your clothes. Living room. Now. Get dressed. I'll check the bathroom."
He disappeared. Alice ran, her bare feet slapping on the hardwood floor, his shirt flapping around her thighs. The living room was a crime scene in the harsh morning light. Her jeans, sweater, bra, underwear—a scattered confession on the carpet. She snatched them up, her hands shaking so badly she could barely pull her underwear on. She could see the faint, sticky spots on the carpet where the honey had dripped. The metal spatula lay by the leg of the sofa, gleaming accusingly.
