Page 97 of Quiet Obsession
I snatch my phone, type out a quick message, then delete it. He’s having drinks with his friends, enjoying aquiet evening, and I don’t want him to see my blotchy face.
He thinks I’m doing better... said so the other day. He smiled, pulled me in, kissed my head, and if I text him, I know he’ll seethisas a setback.
Dropping the phone, I open the drawer and dig deep until my fingers close around the pill bottle. My mind flashes back to the hospital, Mom and Dad with pink-rimmed eyes, Hyde by my bed, head hung low, my hand in his.
He looked devastated and I promised myself I’d never again be the reason for my brother’s vacant stare.
Me: Are you still in the common room?
That should work.
It sounds casual, like maybe I want to join them. Like maybe I’m truly better and seeking out company. It doesn’t screamI’m falling apart. He won’t be worried, so I presssendand wait for the message to turn from delivered to read.
A minute goes by, then two, then three... it’s loud in the common room, maybe he didn’t hear the ping.
I toss the phone aside, my thumb running along the bottle cap. Just one will do it, and tomorrow, this evening will be nothing more than a hazy, distant memory.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I open it, the pills rattling inside, the powdery scent hitting my nose. It makes my pulse spike that much higher, but I pinch my lips, tasting the saltiness of my tears. Exhaling a centering breath, Iwipe my snotty nose and shake one tablet onto my open, shaking palm.
A tear lands beside it and a knock on the door snaps my head up, eyes on the swinging hardwood.
Noah enters without waiting, takes one look at my teary face, scans the crumpled pillow, the open drawer, and then his eyes drop to my hands. His jaw tightens, long legs swallowing the distance between us as the door shuts.
He snatches the prescription bottle, and I instinctively close my fist around the single pill I’m holding.
“Give it here,” he says, holding his hand out.
“Noah—”
“Don’t argue, Millie.” He stares into my eyes, waiting.
More tears slide down my cheeks, but now he’s here, nowsomeoneis here, and I’m not so utterly alone; I don’t feel like I’ll drown in my misery.
I drop the pill into his hand, watching him put it back in the bottle. He caps it and I half expect him to shove it in his pocket, but he puts it back in the drawer and slides it shut.
“Scoot over,” he says.
And I do. I don’t have the energy to argue. It’s clear I’m far from fine, so there’s no point in lying. I slide toward the wall, and he sits with his back to the headboard, holding one arm out in a silentcome here.
Wiping my face again, I fold into his side.
He drags me closer until my face is in the crook of his neck, his arms wrapped tightly around me.
I last about forty-five seconds before the pressurebehind my sternum becomes too much. The comfort he offers feels like permission tofeelmore. The first tear slips out, then the next, and before I know it, I’m pressing my face into his gray pullover and holding on to the fabric with both fists, shaking all over.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
He doesn’t tighten his grip, doesn’t shush me or tell me to calm down, just breathes, and I cry until I can’t anymore and try breathing alongside him instead.
We stay like that for a while, the warmth of his body keeping me grounded, but it isn’t enough to quiet my screaming mind.
“Better?” he asks, kissing my head.
A little tremor passes through me.
I’m not thinking clearly, running on leftover misery and the need to feel something other than discarded. I brush my lips along the line of his jaw and his hold on me tightens. Emboldened, I move, planting soft kisses in the crook of his neck...
Just likeshedid tohim.
