My eyes won’t close, half because of the nap I took earlier today, and half because my heart won’t stop burning a hole through the center of my chest. As the hours tick by, the celebrating in the streets dies down. There are a lot of students in my building, and most of them have left for their homes elsewhere over the holidays, so my complex feels like a ghost town.
The wind has picked up, and there’s a slight flurry of snow blowing by the window. If I lay just right, I can watch the white float against the black sky—like Mac’s stars—and it’s perhaps the only thing left on this earth that can make me smile, and I do briefly, but then I think of home. I haven’t called Caroline since the day I left, not even for the holidays, and I hate myself for it. She hasn’t called either, but I know she’s been occupied with her own rituals and delusions, so I can’t blame her.
I could call her now—she’d be up. She always is. I worry when I don’t sleep, worry that I’m like her. And at that thought, I shut my eyes tightly, and whisper to myself to go to sleep, wishing for it to come.
The tapping on my door is light, but I know it’s not just the wind or nature. My windows all face the wrong direction, and my throat burns from the instant spike to my nerves. The apartment is completely quiet, only the odd crackling of the building settling, and outside is much the same. I flip the bathroom light on, the only one not already on in my home, and tip-toe closer to the door, stopping to grab a golf club from my small coat closet.
“Who’s there?!” I yell, my voice for once in my life strong and not shaking. The room remains quiet, and I’m starting to wonder if I imagined the knock in the first place. I hold my breath and wait…nothing comes…for the longest time.
“It’s me,” he says, and I drop the club from my hands the second the warmth of his words wraps around my heart.
When I open the door, he’s filling the frame, leaning against one side, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and his head slung low, trying to hide the redness of his eyes. But I see it…I see the heartbreak he’s wearing, because I’m wearing it, too.
“Cody,” I say, just because I want him to hear his name on my lips.
On instinct, I reach for him, but he steps away—only slightly—but enough, and it cuts me deep. My eyes are pained when I look back at him, but he still can’t seem to look at me. “I know it’s late. Gabe showed me where you live a while ago. I just hoped…I guess…I hoped you’d be up?” He starts, and I fight against myself to reach for him again.
“I was up,” I whisper, leaning against the spot he just abandoned and folding my arms in front of me to stay warm.
The outside smells of burning wood, and the snow has started to pick up, dusting the black of his sweatshirt and hat. Cody reaches up to pull his hat from his head, and twists it in his hands, finally tilting his face up to look me in the eyes. His smile is labored, and crooked, tugging at the top of the corner of his mouth.
“I, uh…I brought you something. I wanted to give it to you for Christmas, but…I…” he looks back down, running his hand through his hair and around the scruff of his bearded face. “I don’t know. I just didn’t, I guess.”
My brow is bunched, and I comb my eyes over his body, searching for my present. His hands are deep in his pocket again, and I’m terrified he’s going to pull out some fancy piece of jewelry—or worse, a ring! Something Trevor would have bought me to make everything better. I’m readying myself, prepping myself to be polite about it, when Cody looks back up to my eyes and lets his shoulders slump.
“I need your help. It’s in my truck,” he says, turning to walk back down the walkway to the parking lot. Curious, I fold my hands deeper into my armpits and stuff my feet in my sneakers to follow him.
“Should I just leave my door open?” I ask, dangling my keys from my finger, not sure what he’s up to, and part of me thinking—maybe even hoping—that he’ll get me in his truck and drive away, kidnapping me.
“Yeah, we’ll be right back,” he hollers over his shoulder. Damn, I’m disappointed.
Cody struggles with his walk, and everything Gabe’s been telling me, I witness happening before me. His limp is heavy, probably made worse by the cold, but if his life depended on running right now, I don’t think he could. He looks over his shoulder, and I know he can tell I’m staring at it, because he tries to walk straighter—be stronger. But it’s too hard, and his gait slips back into its painful, slow pattern again.