Before us...

Chapter Eighteen

It was Christmas and Milo had not seen or heard from Lila since he left her at the hospital two weeks ago. The past two weeks he had gone mad with worry seemingly worsening as time passed. Although he had informed her that she could rely on him in her time of need, he felt that she would come to him when she was ready, if she was ever ready and if he called or contacted her first, she may feel pressured. He wanted to avoid that as much as he could choosing to focus on his work at the bookstore and returning to his roots at the gym.

His first two weeks at work had been simply training; taking stock here and there whenever his boss, Simon, needed the extra hand. The store was empty most days, a customer here and there, and Milo enjoyed the peace and quiet it brought. It was a reprieve away from his constant worry over Lila having come to rely on that time away from home. When he was home, he had nothing to do but sit beside his phone ignoring the calls from his father, enduring short and chatty calls with his mother anxiously awaiting a call from the one person he actually wanted to hear from.

From time to time he would see either Nathan and Lily or Jensen and Lily leaving their home to take Zar on his morning and evening walk which was the only indication he had that Lila had not yet returned home. It made him think that her father must be in pretty bad condition if the pup was still under their neighbour's care.

He had visited Grace's twice since he had returned namely for his weeks' worth of groceries but also to hope that the woman behind the counter would be a lot younger than the one who had served him on his previous visits. He had no such luck as of late and had taken to the gym to vent his frustrations, to release the anger that was building inside. Who he was mad at he had no idea; perhaps his father who continued to badger him on a daily basis to the point that his phone would be dead by the end of the day or the lack of communication with Lila herself.

Over the last few weeks, Milo had spent every waking hour either at the bookstore being trained by Simon or at the gym where he would tire himself out in order to sleep through the night. The weights themselves were enough to knock him out having allowed his stamina and endurance to slip over the few months he had returned to the US. The amount of sweat and his rasping breath informed him of that.

He favoured the punching bag to cool down after his lifting regime and found himself wrapping and rewrapping his abused knuckles day in and day out. It was therapeutic for him. It was something he had taken up back when he was training to let out his pent-up frustrations, his anger towards those around him. Occasionally, it would be anger at himself. Back then he would focus on James's death; the part he played and the lack of action that was taken. He would think of his mother and father and the way he was raised into a spoilt brat who had stupidly gotten his friend killed. He would think about each and every commanding officer whom he felt had isolated, tormented him upon his arrival and would hit and hit and hit that bag until there might as well have been nothing there to hit.

Some things were the same. He would think about James and the role he played in his death but along the way he had accepted that the sole blame did not rest on his shoulders. He would think about his father but not his mother whom he had finally began a real relationship with. He would think about the officers but not in the way he had before. Instead he focused on the motivation they had given him and felt himself thankful for their negligence. Lastly, he would think about Lila and the uncertainty he had around her. He felt selfish for thinking about it when she was clearly dealing with a lot, but he felt that being kept in the dark, cut off from her for so long allowed him to feel a certain type of way about her silence. He was annoyed and concerned which resulted in his frustration.

Milo felt bad about it. But mostly he felt alone. It was Christmas day and he was alone feeling sorry for himself. He was sat on the couch in the same spot he had been all day drinking from a glass filled with brown liquid that he had purchased from Grace the previous day. It warmed and burned his throat at the same time allowing him to wallow in self-pity a little while longer. He had woken up cold and alone to the buzzing of his phone on his bedside table which informed him that his mother was calling. They hadn't spoken long; apparently his mother and father were flying someplace warm for the holidays. She had wanted to say goodbye before they left, accepting his grunt of dismissal as his way of saying he wished them a good time before ending the call to hop on their private jet to where ever it was they were going. She had told him, he just wasn't paying attention.