Page 61 of Wraith

Maybe she always was like this. Maybe I just never paid attention.

Or maybe I kept her from it.

Crushed this side of her beneath my heel.

The thought sits heavy in my chest.

She tapes the fresh bandage in place and sits back, examining her work. “There. That should be good for the day. I’ll check it again tonight and change it if it needs it.”

“Thank you.”

She looks up at me, her eyes bright. “You’re welcome, Dylan.”

Then she’s moving again, crossing to the table where the food containers wait. She brings them to the bed, setting them out one by one like she’s arranging a feast. Pancakes, still warm and smelling of butter and syrup. Bacon, crispy and perfect. Eggs, scrambled with cheese. The hash.

The fucking hash.

“Eat,” she says, handing me a plastic fork.

I eat. The pancakes are good — fluffy, sweet, buttery. The bacon crunches between my teeth. The eggs are rich and satisfying. The hash is better than it has any right to be, savory and filling and exactly the kind of food a man needs after getting stabbed and spending the night fucking.

In that fucking moment, I understand Guy Fieri.

This shit is an experience.

June sits beside me on the bed, eating her own breakfast, and I notice she’s humming. Just softly, under her breath, some melody I don’t recognize. Her leg bounces slightly, a slight gesture of contentment, and that smile is still on her face. Like she’s happy. Actually happy.

I’ve never heard her hum before.

I’ve never seen her like this.

In all the time we were together before, she was always anxious, always looking for the angle, always trying to figure out what I wanted so she could give it to me before I demanded it. She never just sat and hummed and smiled as if she had nothing to worry about.

Because I made her worry.

I made her afraid.

I made every moment with me a calculation of risk and reward instead of just letting her be.

And maybe sometimes I needed to. Maybe. When we found each other in that fucking bar — the name of which I forget because I was fucking drunk when I arrived — and then fucked in the bathroom after a trio of Irish car bombs, neither of us had our shit together; June needed a helping hand, someone to guide her, but what I gave her instead was something so much crueler. Not a helping hand, but a crushing fucking boot.

The realization lands like a punch right to my knife wound.

I set my fork down and just look at her. Really look at her.

She’s beautiful.

She’s always been beautiful, but right now, in this shitty motel room, wearing yesterday’s clothes and humming while she feeds me breakfast she bought from a diner across the street — this is the most beautiful she’s ever looked.

“Thank you,” I say again, and this time the words carry more weight.

She glances at me, tilting her head slightly. “You already said that.”

“I know. But I mean it.” I take a breath, ignoring the way it makes my ribs protest. “You’re more capable than I ever gave you credit for.”

Her eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across her face.

“I should’ve been better to you,” I continue, and the words come easier than I expected. “Before. I should’ve trusted you. Should’ve respected you. Let you be who you actually are instead of trying to make you into what I thought you should be.” I pause. “I’m sorry.”