Page 89 of Blades Out
Was I that bad?
The questions scraped against the inside of my skull. Ugly. Pathetic.
I shoved them down and kept working.
By closing, exhaustion had settled into my bones. Not the physical kind. The kind that came from spending eight hours waiting for someone who never showed. From feeling invisible to the one person I couldn't stop seeing.
I felt used. Discarded. Like something he'd touched once and decided wasn't worth keeping.
And the worst part?
I still wanted him to come back. Still caught myself glancing at the door. Still felt my heart stutter every time footsteps echoed down the hall. Still hoped—against all logic, all self-preservation—that he'd walk through and prove me wrong. That he'd say last night mattered. That I mattered.
But he didn't come.
And I hated myself for waiting, anyway.
The rest of the week bled together in a haze of routine and avoidance.
Rhys stayed away. Not just from the café—from everywhere I could see him. He sent Barrett or one of the other coaches for coffee. Took different routes through the building. Managed to make himself invisible despite occupying the same rink where I worked eight-hour shifts.
I told myself it was fine. Better, even. Easier to forget someone who refused to exist in my line of sight.
The lie tasted stale by Wednesday.
But something strange happened as the days accumulated. The sharp ache in my chest dulled to something manageable. The hyperawareness every time the door opened faded into background noise. I stopped checking my reflection obsessively for signs of what I'd done wrong. Stopped replaying every touch, every breath, every moment of that night looking for the exact second he'd decided I wasn't worth staying for.
I just… worked. Made coffee. Wiped counters. Restocked cups. Let the rhythm of it smooth over the jagged edges until they didn't cut as deep.
By Friday, I almost believed I was okay.
Ben helped. His relentless good mood became something I leaned into instead of resented. He cracked jokes that weren't funny but made me smile, anyway. Complained about his statistics professor with the kind of earnest frustration that reminded me other people had normal problems. Problems that didn't involve criminal fathers or one-night stands with coaches who ghosted before sunrise.
He'd started the week asking if I wanted to grab food after our shift. I'd deflected easily—too tired, too broke, too busy. The excuses came automatically, reflexive as breathing.
But by Thursday, when he asked again with that hopeful grin, I hesitated.
Friday, I almost said yes. Not because I wanted him. Not the way I'd wanted Rhys. But because Ben was safe. Uncomplicated. The kind of person who didn't leave without explanation or avoid eye contact in hallways. The kind who might actually show up if I let him.
And maybe that was enough. Maybe that was smarter.
Marsha's texts punctuated the week like breadcrumbs I didn't want to follow. Short check-ins that I answered with equally short reassurances.
I'm fine.
Work's good.
No problems.
She didn't push, but I felt the weight of her worry in every message. The unspoken questions about whether I'd heard from him. Whether I felt safe. Whether I needed help I was too proud to ask for.
The truth was simpler and more complicated than she probably imagined.
No contact. No sightings. No late-night knocks or strange cars idling outside my apartment. My father had been released into the world and promptly ignored my existence.
Part of me wondered if Marsha had been wrong. If maybe—just maybe—he'd moved on. Found something else to occupy the rage that used to fill our house like smoke. Maybe prison had changed him. Maybe my mother's recantation had been enough. Maybe I could actually breathe without waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The hope felt dangerous. Fragile as spun glass.
