Page 63 of Control (Everyday Heroes 3.50)
Tons of them.
Holy shit.
Knock-knock-knock.
I use more force this time. More urgency.
I slide to the side of the door and cup my hands against the window and peer inside.
He’s gone.
The furniture is still there, as it was rented, but every little piece of him that made it his is gone.
Just like that.
I lower myself to the step as the tears well and then slip down my cheeks.
You said don’t bother, Des.
This is what it feels like when your heart is breaking.
This one is on you.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Desi
“Thank you for inviting me...again”— I chuckle into the phone –“but I’ve got a full house today, and I’m already behind schedule.”
“It’s been two months, Des.”
“Two months since what?” I ask, even though I know damn well what she’s saying. It’s been two months since Reznor left, and I’m still licking my wounds and pretending I’m not nursing a broken heart.
“Just call him already, will you?”
“And say what? Drop your life and come back here, because I don’t know how to commit to anyone and I can’t make you any promises, but I want to try? That maybe I can figure out how to change my ways, and we can live in our own kind of happily ever after where we don’t get married but we are together?”
“That’s a good start.”
But it’s not Emerson who says those words. It’s the deep tenor voice from my back door.
I gasp as I turn to see Reznor standing there. He’s wearing his police uniform that fits his personality and doesn’t fit it, all at the same time.
“Reznor?”
“What?” Emerson asks the same time Reznor says, “Ooops, I didn’t mean to scare you. I forgot.”
Knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock.
“Em? I have to go.” I don’t even know if I end the call or not. I drop my cell on the counter with a clatter as my feet move involuntarily toward the screen.
Reznor has a ghost of a smile on his lips and caution edged with hope in his eyes.
“We don’t want any,” I say without any conviction as I stop a few feet from him.
“Yeah well, we already know how far that got us, so this time, it’s my turn to lead.” That rasp of voice—with hints of gravel and grit to it—sounds like music to my ears.
“What are you doing here?” My heart pounds a strident staccato and my head begs him to answer that he’s here for me.
