Written in the Scars(6)
“I miss her,” I sigh. “No matter what I try to think about, it’s related to her. High school. The mine. The lake.” My jaw clenches as I look at him. “Our lives are one and the same, you know? Everything we’ve been through in our lives we’ve done together. I held her hand at your parent’s funeral, remember your mom’s lemon pie every time I go through the produce section. I know she hates storms and love being there for her when she reaches out.”
“So fix it.” Jiggs raises his brows. “Go to her. Talk it out.”
“I can’t.”
“You can,” he laughs. “You’re just a pussy.”
“Maybe I am,” I chuckle. “But I’m afraid I’ll make it worse.”
Jiggs rustles through a red cooler and pulls out a beer. “Want one?” he asks, extending a bottle.
“No. Thanks anyway.”
The top flies off and hits the dirt floor. He takes a long swallow, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “You coming by the bonfire tomorrow night?”
“I’ll pass.”
“You can’t pass, asshole. We do it every year.”
Grabbing a wrench, I start to work on the truck’s alternator. “Yeah, we always have. But some things have changed.”
“Maybe in your life, but your issues aren’t fucking up mine. You better show up or I might have to kick your ass.” He waits for me to respond. “Elin’s not coming, if that helps.”
“Where’s she going?” I ask too quickly.
“Some teaching thing or something,” he says, his voice on the bridge of a laugh. “So be here.”
“We’ll see.”
He leans under the hood with me, holding a wire out of my way. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.
“By the way,” I say, smirking. “You can’t whip my ass. Let’s not get it twisted.”
He laughs, smacking my shoulder. Walking out of the barn, he leaves me with his broken truck and my thoughts of the woman I love too much to even love at all.
ELIN
The back door groans as I push it open into the kitchen. Letting it swing shut behind me, I sit my bag brimming with papers I need to grade on the kitchen counter. The thump resonates through the room, bouncing off the buttery-colored walls that Ty and I took forever choosing.
“I love this color!” I squeal, holding up a color swatch and flashing it in front of his face. “It would be perfect in the kitchen of our new house.”
“It looks like piss.” He grabs my wrist to stop the sample from waiving erratically.
“It does not,” I pout. “It’s beautiful.”
Instead of pulling the sample out of my hand, he tugs me closer to him. Leaning down, his lips hover inches from mine. “The color is piss, Mrs. Whitt. But if you like it, then we’ll take it, because my eyes won’t be on it when I’m in there. They’ll be on you.”
I can feel the heat of his kiss lingering on my lips, even nearly seven years later, as my heart rapid-fires in my chest. He always let me have what I wanted, always made me feel like the only person in the world that mattered.
How did things go so terribly wrong?
The room feels empty, so barren, even with the knickknacks sitting on the counters and the dishes from last night’s dinner in the sink. It’s my home, but it doesn’t feel comforting. There’s no contentment to be found here.
It’s been this way since he left. Even though I’ve purged the room of all of his physical belongings because I can’t look at them without wanting to curl up in a ball and die, that or throw them into the fire pit out back and burn them to ashes, the little nuances of him still exist and still hit me at hard.
The oil stain on the floor beside the door is still there, a tarry looking spot made by his mine boots lying there after a shift. No amount of cleaner will remove it. I’ve tried them all.
The little basket that hangs under the cabinets is now filled with ink pens and highlighters, not for any reason other than to take the place of Ty’s keys and gum packets. Even though it’s technically not empty now, it feels that way. Because what’s in it isn’t what should be.
His face from only an hour ago pops in my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut, like somehow that will make it go away. Like the action will barricade his rich, warm voice from echoing in my ears.
The door creaks again and I jump, my eyes jerking to the door, my breath automatically ceasing. I watch and wait for it to swing open, for a knock, for a certain voice to call through the air. Because only two people use that door. Me and Ty.
The wind rattles the glass against the wood and my hopes dash.