The Hours We Have

chapter eight

I was seated in the kitchen when Mikeal came downstairs the next morning. 

He paused in the doorway, his bright blue eyes seemingly baring my soul, and then he cautiously entered the kitchen. He was trying to read me and I left the page frustratingly blank, my fingers curled around my forgotten coffee. 

"Mad at Ezra?" 

My eyes flickered up to Mikeal, he stood across from me. I sighed and nodded. 

"I don't blame you. He had no right to say those things to you." His voice was almost cold, like the snowflakes beneath a distant sun. "Don't let him get to you." 

I nodded once more. I really didn't have words today, my lips were heavily sealed by the weight of my thoughts. 

"I'll talk to him tonight," Mikeal assured me. "His childish behavior has gone on too long." He walked around the counter and pressed a kiss to my hair. "Don't worry too much, okay?" 

I watched him leave. He was always busy with work. Late nights, early mornings, it seemed work was pulling him farther and farther away. The distance was growing like an old road that no one traveled anymore and I had no words to express my weathered grief. Soon, I would be standing alone on that road, watching the dust swirl away and disappear, just like the people in my life.

When I heard the front door close, I peeled myself out of the chair and headed into the living room. I turned on the television to watch the news, hopefully as a distraction. I had some time to kill before I roused the twins out of bed for school. 

Forty-five minutes later, Ezra appeared at the threshold of the living room. I slowly glanced at him before turning my attention back to the television. If he wanted to play a game, then two could play. Ezra stood tensely in my peripheral vision as if he wanted to say something before he quickly turned away and left. 

I told myself that I hadn't just created a wider distance between us by giving him a taste of his own medicine. I tried to push aside the feelings that made me want to apologize to him. But, once again, I came to the same conclusion. He wasn't willing to try, so why should I? Because I was always the one getting hurt.

I took a sip of my cold coffee.

When I woke the twins at seven, they came downstairs in an unusually quiet fashion. Julian kept glancing at me from the kitchen. I had met his gaze once and forced a tight-lipped smile, he frowned. Roman almost seemed angry, closing the refrigerator a bit too hard, and then he was heading for the door like he couldn't stand being in the house anymore.

I didn't blame him. Every day, this place felt more and more empty. Of love, of laughter, of life. We were all getting pulled away in a world of grey and meaningless time that took our joy. 

"Are you alright?" Julian leaned against the doorframe, "Did Ezra say anything to you?"

I sunk into the couch, "No." For some reason, even when I didn't want to speak, I found myself responding to Julian because if I didn't, he would get hurt, too. Somehow, everyone always ended up getting hurt and I was powerless to stop its circle. 

"Asshole," Julian muttered under his breath, "This isn't your fault but he's trying to make it out to be because he's an insensitive jerk and he doesn't know how to apologize. If it makes you feel any better, I promise he's the only one who would think such stupid things about you."

"You don't need to get involved." I rubbed between my eyebrows, a headache already forming. "Maybe he needs space." I would repeat those words until I forced myself to believe them because I didn't know what else to do. Especially when it felt like a one-sided conversation.