Page 9 of Angel
Every instinct in my body screams to chase her. Grab her wrist and pull her back. Make her sit down and talk until we fix it. But I know that look in her eyes.
I’ve seen it on brothers right before they ride into something they ain’t sure they’ll come back from. That faraway focus. That hard-set jaw. The way they go still because if they let themselves feel, they’ll lose their nerve.
You push them, you make it worse, and you corner them, and they bolt. So, I let her go. And it might be the worst mistake I’ve ever made. The house smells like the hospital again. Antiseptic and grief, and that faint metallic note that doesn’t belong anywhere near a home. It’s like it seeped into our walls, into the bedding, and into her hair. Like the place is holding onto every loss even if we pretend, we ain’t.
I grab a dishcloth off the counter and wipe down a spotless surface just to have something to do. My hands shake. Not from booze. Not from adrenaline. From helplessness. That’s the part I can’t stand. I can handle anger. I can handle violence. Give me a problem with edges. Give me a threat with a face. Don’t give me this slow bleed in my kitchen while I stand here like a man who’s forgotten how to move.
I rinse the cloth and wipe again. Then again. The counter gleams like it’s mocking me. She’s not here. Nothing I scrub is gonna change that. My gaze catches on the junk drawer. The one she thinks I don’t know about, but I know. Of course, I know. I’m not blind.
She’s been sliding it shut too quickly. Standing with her back angled, blocking my view. Acting as if she keeps it secret, I can’t see how deep this runs. I shouldn’t open it. I know I shouldn’t. But my fingers pull it out anyway.
Inside are batteries, spare keys, a lighter, some pens, a random screwdriver… and the notebook. Black cover with dog-eared pages. Her handwriting tight and sharp on the first page. I flip it open, and my chest tightens immediately.
Temperatures. Charts. Lines rising and dipping. Dates circled. Dates crossed out. Notes in the margins in her neat, frantic scrawl.
Don’t miss this window.
Cut caffeine completely.
Research progesterone again.
Ask doctor about supplements.
No hot baths.
No lifting heavy things.
Pineapple core??
Try legs elevated after sex.
It’s like reading someone’s private prayer. Only this one’s written in fear. My throat works as I swallow hard. This ain’t healing. This is punishment. This is her turning her own body into an enemy and deciding she can win the war if she just fights hard enough. I flip another page. There’s a list that makes my stomach drop.
Things I did wrong last time:
Coffee.
Stress.
Crying.
Lifting grocery bags.
Sex too rough?
Didn’t take enough folate.
Didn’t rest enough.
Didn’t deserve it.
My vision blurs for a second.
“Jesus,” I whisper, voice rough.
Stevie, baby… no. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t deserve this.
I slam the notebook shut like it burned me and shove it back into the drawer, pushing it closed too hard. My chest feels like it’s caving in.
