Chapter 14: Dandelion in the cracks
The drive to Alice's apartment was quiet, the silence in the car heavy but not oppressive. It was the kind of silence that follows a thunderstorm, when the air is still charged and the world feels reset. Heath drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, his knuckles white. Every time Alice shifted in the passenger seat, his eyes darted to her, checking, ensuring she was still upright, still present.
He didn't take her to her building and drop her off. He parked the car. He walked her up the three flights of stairs, his hand hovering near her lower back as if ready to catch her, though he didn't touch her until they were safely inside her apartment with the door locked and bolted.
The space was small, cluttered with the chaotic remnants of a life lived too fast and too hard. Textbooks piled high on a desk meant for studying but used for sleeping. Clothes draped over every chair. But to Heath, standing in the tiny entryway with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, it looked like a sanctuary. It smelled like her—vanilla and old paper and a distinct, floral scent that drove him mad.
"You're staring," Alice murmured, kicking off her shoes. She leaned against the doorframe, exhausted but acutely aware of him. Her body, despite the fatigue, was humming. The adrenaline of the collapse, the shock of the voicemail, the reconciliation in the breakroom—it was all swirling together, making her skin feel tight and hot.
Heath didn't apologize. He stepped further into the room, his eyes scanning the space before landing on her. "I'm memorizing it," he said simply. "In case I ever get to be here again."
The possessiveness in his tone sent a shiver down her spine. She walked over to the small sofa and collapsed onto it, tucking her legs underneath her. Heath hesitated, then sat on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of her. The position brought him to her eye level, invading her personal space, forcing her to look at him.
"Talk," he commanded softly. "You said you were drowning. Tell me where the water is."
Alice looked down at her hands. She picked at a loose thread on her uniform sleeve. "It's everything. The guilt. The secrets. Gareth. Frank. The feeling that at any moment, the floor is going to open up and swallow me because I'm the other woman. I'm the bad guy in someone else's story, Heath. And I hate it. I miss being just Alice."
"You are just Alice," he said, reaching out to still her hands. He covered her fidgeting fingers with his large, warm palm. "To me, you're the only story."
She looked up, her brown eyes swimming. "Even with Chloe? Even with the voicemail?"
"Especially with the voicemail. That was fear, Alice. Pure, unadulterated fear. I saw you fading away, day by day, and I realized I was the poison. I tried to cut the poison out, but I forgot that I'm the host too. I can't survive without you."
The silence stretched again, but this time it was softer. It felt like a blanket.
"Do you remember," Alice started, her voice barely a whisper, "the first day we really spoke? Not just supervisor to waitress. But people."
