Damage

Chapter 30

tell me what you think in the comments! i've been waiting to write this chapter since day 1. x

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***

"Do you think you'll break up with him?"

Emily's eyes don't meet mine, like she's ashamed. Ashamed that she turned on me Friday night. Ashamed that I had to pick her up at 2 in the morning because her boyfriend kicked her out of his car and left her on the street.

Her blonde hair clings together, wet with the rain and I can see the tiny, purple veins on her pale eyelids, looking down.

She looks like hell. We both do.

***

"What's this?"

Paint-stained shirt. Cigarette smoke. Skin like coffee beans. Ink on rough fingertips.

"That's something I'm working on."

3 months before. Billie Holiday. 24 stitches. Too many tears to count.

"Hey, why are you crying?"

"I'm sad."

"I know you are, I know you are. But you don't have to be anymore."

2 days later. Shouting. Crying. Breaking. Slammed doors. Then nothing. Five days. Five months. Nine years. No explanation.

***

There's silence, neither of us looking up. So many things I want to say, that she wants to say, but can't.

So we listen to the hum of the heating in the only Chinese restaurant that's open at 3 in the morning. Looking at our plates, searching for some meaning in them besides all this empty space and unsaid apologies.

"No," she repeats softly, her voice strained. "Lance and I - We'll be okay. I'm okay."

And then she breaks down, sobbing into her hands.

***

The next morning, Emily's gone when I wake up. The only sign that she ever came home are the dark smudges of last night's mascara on her pillow.

It's just the beginning of November (my favorite time of year) and the chilly Sunday morning with just the right amount of sunlight feels cleansing. Like nothing could go wrong today. Like the calm after a storm.

This little coffeeshop just outside campus has quickly become my favorite. And although I usually sit inside by myself or with Emily and study, the weather is perfect and it would be a crime to not sit outside.

Even though I have a book, sitting outside gives me the perfect opportunity to people watch. But my people-watching is quickly interrupted by the ringing of my phone.

I pick it up without looking at the caller ID, assuming it's Jake, who usually calls me on Sunday mornings.

"Hello, Mia?"

The voice is still hoarse and a little bit raspy, but instead of belonging to my 8-year old brother, it belongs to someone a lot older.

"It's Luke."

This morning is perfect and although I wanted to talk to him last night, he's the last person I even want to think about today.

"Luke. Hi." There's a pause. "Why call?"

"You called me."

Right.

"Last night."