Page 10 of Chasing Hope

My bleeding, aching, battered, lifeless soul.

His tone is so soft, so gentle, I take a step away before I realize what I’m doing. “Please get in the car.”

Ignoring him, I lift my chin. “Did you at least leave him breathing?”

“Yes.” His eyes remain glued to mine as he all but pleads now, “Get in the car, Dove.”

Spinning on my heel, I slide into the passenger seat without a rebuttal. After knowing everyone is still breathing, I’m more than happy to get as far away from this fucking hell as I can.

Matteo wastes no time, jumping into the driver’s seat and turning on the ignition. He puts the car in reverse right as the elevator doors open and Felicity comes running out, drenched head to toe.

My lips twitch as I slide my gaze to the driver’s seat. “Felicity looks a tiny bit wet.”

Matteo grunts, his annoyance slipping away as we exit the garage, our timing impeccable as her hyena-like scream fills the garage. His tongue darts out to slide along his bottom lip before he shrugs innocently. “She seemed thirsty.”

A bubble of laughter rises in my chest only to get stuck halfway by the boulder of emotion lodged in my throat. The weight of the passing hours, the turmoil, and the adrenaline that coursed through me while destroying their cars leaves me the moment Matteo’s car hits the streets of Denver.

The crash happens instantaneously.

It feels as if I’m sinking in the ocean, weights tethered to my legs. I’m being dragged to the bottom, and no matter how hard I try to free myself from the heavy shackles, I continue to drown.

And I fear I no longer have the willpower to keep fighting to reach the surface.

The car ride to Matteo and Caleb’s apartment was so silent you could hear if a pin dropped.

My silence was due to the adrenaline crash, one so strong I struggled to keep my eyes open. Matteo, on the other hand, was white-knuckling the steering wheel the entire drive to the point I think he was restraining himself from turning the car around and going for round two.

I didn’t even bother asking what happened in my old apartment. No matter how hard I push for answers, he won’t tell me. Matteo has always been a silent fixer. Once when I was fourteen, I accidentally knocked my favorite mug off the counter, smashingit to smithereens. It was an emotional support mug at the time, even though I can look back and admit I was crying a little too much over a mug.

Despite that, the next morning, I opened the cupboard to find it sitting on the shelf, glued back together. No one owned up to fixing it, but I saw the way Matteo was watching me, as if he was savoring the smile that overcame my face.

But this is no broken mug. This is my life, and Matteo can’t fix why my heart is shattered.

At the very least, finding your boyfriend sleeping with your best friend is a great cover-up as to why you’re truly depressed. People will stop asking questions now that I have an excuse.

Unlocking his apartment door, Matteo lets me walk in first, trailing behind me with the suitcase I tried to grab only to have my hand swatted at. He’s like a damn cat with his reflexes.

I stop in the open kitchen and living area, swinging my head to the right, to the stairs that lead up to the bedrooms, then to the left, where a hallway leads to a bathroom and laundry.

Matteo’s quiet as he passes me, taking my suitcase upstairs to the guest bedroom that sits between Caleb and Matteo’s rooms. Following behind him, my lips twitch, a smile threatening to bloom for the first time since…forever. Matteo is wholly unaware how much space he takes up, his broad shoulders filling the doorway of the guest bedroom, his head having to tilt to the left slightly so he doesn’t knock it against the frame. He wheels the suitcase into the room before stepping back into the hallway and opening up a cupboard behind me, pulling out blankets and pillows.

I should move to help him, not that he would let me anyways, but I should dosomething.

And yet I can’t.

I feel stuck.

Stuck in life, stuck emotionally, stuck mentally.

I don’t know what to do with myself.

The sudden urge to go home hits me, the deep-bone yearning suffocating me until my throat burns and the backof my eyelids sting. The feeling’s uncomfortable because I don’t have a home. It doesn’t exist.

It’s not my old apartment.

It’s certainly not my childhood home.

And it isn’t this apartment.