Page 100 of Dissonance
He’s not much different on the drive home. No radio, no conversation beyond the necessary. Hands tight around the wheel, eyes forward, and every time I look at him, he looks the same.
Inside, I kick my shoes off by the side table and head into the living room, the silence pressing in on every side. I expect him to follow, but when I glance back, he’s in the same spot by the entryway, jacket on, hands fisted at his sides.
“Are you going to come in?”
He steps wordlessly forward, shutting the door behind him. I start to pace, needing the movement to settle the energy circulating through my blood.
“I’m fine,” I say, not quite looking at him. “They said everything’s fine.”
“I know.”
I spin to face him. “Then why does it feel like you don’t?”
He looks over my shoulder toward the window, that same expression from the hospital still sitting on his face. I huff out a breath, frustration slipping into it because I don’t understand this. Lockie’s quiet at the best of times, sure, but not like this. Not closed off.
“You’ve barely spoken.” I shake my head. “You can barely look at me.”
He exhales, forcibly dragging his gaze to mine before immediately looking away. I step closer, searching his face, trying to find something familiar in it.
“It was a lot,” he says finally, voice too flat, too controlled.
“Yeah. It was. For me too.”
He nods, jaw still working.
“Lockie…” I say his name carefully, the way you’d approach a wounded animal. “Talk to me.”
He looks at me then, dark eyes filled with emotions so thick I can’t pull a single one from them. His mouth opens, draws in a breath, then closes again, his gaze lowering to the floor.
“I just—” He stops, scraping a hand through his hair. “I need a minute.”
“You had the entire drive.” It comes out sharper than I mean it to, not that he reacts. He absorbs it without flinching, without moving, and somehow, that makes it worse. I exhale, pressing my fingers to my temples. “I’m sorry, I’m tired.” I look at him, willing him to meet me halfway. “I don’t understand what’s happening right now. She’s okay, we saw her. The doctor said it was normal, and you’re still”—I gesture at him—“like this.”
“I know she’s okay.”
“Then what is it?”
The silence stretches, and he’s back to looking at everything that isn’t me. I can feel the distance growing between us like it’s a physical thing, even though he’s barely two feet away. I let out a slow breath, trying not to let frustration and exhaustion turn this into something neither of us means.
“Okay,” I say, quieter now. “Let’s not do this tonight. We’ll talk about it later.”
His eyes lift, and behind that closed-off, carefully maintained expression, there’s fear. Unmistakable and so painstakingly raw that it knocks the air from my lungs. I want to reach into it, understand what it is, but he’s already sealed it over.
And maybe that’s not my place. We never talked about what this is. What we are. We just moved toward each other, and it felt like enough, and I let myself believe that meant we were on the same page without ever checking.
Maybe we weren’t. Maybe he got there—the hospital, the heartbeat, all of it suddenly, undeniably real. Maybe he realized this isn’t what he signed up for. A baby in theory and in reality are two different things. Maybe I was living in a thing I built inside my head, and maybe I built it there alone.
“I’m going to shower and go to bed.” I wave a hand toward the bathroom. “It’s been a long day.”
He nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”
That’s all I get. No explanation, no attempt to let me in. He stands frozen, eyes down, and I wait for one more beat, for his weight shifting toward me, his voice saying my name, anything. Nothing.
So I step back, the space a fissure, growing wider with each inch I put between us. Turning, I force myself toward the bathroom, each step controlled. If he’s going to say something, he’ll stop me, he’ll—
The click of the front door cuts through my apartment like a gunshot, my breath ripping from me. My hands grip the doorframe. No footsteps, no voice, no reaching for me.
He’s gone.
