Page 12 of Angel
I exhale hard.
“What if she doesn’t come back?” I ask, voice barely there.
Carrie’s gaze turns fierce. “Then you fight. Not with words that push her. With presence. With patience. With showing up even when she don’t make it easy.”
She pauses. “But I don’t think she’s leavin’ you, Angel. I think she’s runnin’ from herself.”
That sounds too true. I ride home alone. The road blurs under my tires, the wind slapping my face like it’s trying to knock sense into me. When I pull into the driveway, the house is dark and still. No porch light or movement behind the curtains.
Empty.
I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, hands resting on the grips, listening to the metal tick as it cools. This is what I’m good at: war, roads, violence, and order out of chaos. But this? This is watchin’ the woman I love slip through my fingers while I stand here afraid of sayin’ the wrong damn thing.
I walk inside, and the quiet hits like a punch. I move through the house without turning on lights, letting shadows swallowme. In the bedroom, her side of the bed is rumpled from where she got up, but it’s already cold.
I sit on the edge of it, elbows on my knees, hands dangling uselessly between them. For a long time, I don’t do anything. Just breathe and listen, feeling the weight of the house pressing down.
My phone buzzes. My heart jumps hard enough that it hurts. I grab it. A text. Not from Stevie. From Joker.
Find her?
I stare at the screen and feel something like panic claw at my ribs again. I type back.
No. She ain’t answering.
Joker responds almost instantly.
You want us to ride?
My jaw tightens. Part of me wants to say no. She doesn’t want the club in it. She’ll feel hunted. Cornered. But another part of me sees the notebook. Sees that list. Sees her walking out without a bag, like she didn’t trust herself to stay.
I text back.
Not yet. Give me an hour.
I stand and pace the bedroom, the hallway, and then the kitchen. The counter is still spotless from where I scrubbed it like a man possessed. I go to the junk drawer. Open it and pull out the notebook again. My hands shake as I flip to the page with the list.
Didn’t deserve it.
“No,” I whisper, voice rough. “No. No, baby.”
I close it and set it on the counter like a weapon I finally decided to look at. Then I pull my phone out and stare at her name again.
Stevie??
I type. Delete. Type again. Delete.
Please come home.
Delete.
I’m sorry.
Delete.
I love you.
That one stays.
