Page 72 of The Space Between Heartbeats
Mom must be out there quietly eating her pizza. She doesn’t knock again. I’m sure she’s had enough of me for the day. Soon, there’s a glow under the crack of the door, letting me know she’s settled on the couch watching TV.
Hours pass. Law and Order episodes end and begin again. I stay curled on my side, staring at the TV without really seeing it, my mind replaying the same moments on loop. Knox’s hand reaching for my face. The heat in his eyes. How my body leaned toward him like it had a will of its own.
Around midnight, my stomach finally growls loud enough that I can’t ignore it anymore. When was the last time I actually ate? Yesterday morning? The morning of the accident?
I can’t remember.
Moving quietly, I slip out of my room and head into the dark kitchen. Crossing it, I peek at the couch where Mom’s asleep on her side, the TV still playing one of those dating reality shows. Tomorrow, I’ll be better to her, more appreciative for how well she’s looking after me. Tomorrow, I’ll try harder.
Remembering what I came out here for, I open the fridge and stare at the contents until the cold makes me shiver. Nothing appeals to me. It all looks like a jumbled mess of items, mostly leftovers from our few days here.
My easiest choice is the pizza shoved on the bottom shelf, so I pull it out and flip it open, finding half a pepperoni pizza, cold and congealed. I grab a slice and eat it standing over the counter, not bothering with a plate. It tastes like nothing but I keep chewing, keep swallowing. I eat two more slices that way, barely tasting, as each bite slides down my throat.
Pushing the box aside, I riffle through the pantry, finding the package of Oreos that Owen bought at the gas station on the ride here. Then the bag of salt and vinegar chips beside it.
I’m not even hungry anymore. Some dark place inside keeps telling me if I just keep eating, keep filling the emptiness, something will feel different. I’ll feel better. Whole again.
But I don’t.
I’m halfway through the Oreos, my jaw tired from chewing, when I realize I brought Owen’s phone in here with me. I don’t even remember grabbing it, but there it is on the counter beside the pizza box, screen glowing with a new notification.
Instagram: ella_moretti liked your photo
My hand freezes halfway to my mouth, an Oreo suspended in mid-air. I set the cookie down and pick up the phone, swiping it open.
More notifications cascade down. Ones I ignored earlier. It looks like most are from the last few days judging bythe preview banners—condolence comments on his Instagram posts, messages from friends and teammates who I’m guessing haven’t heard the news yet, missed calls from numbers I don’t recognize.
I don’t open them. There’s no reason to.
Swiping back to the home screen, I see his messages app flooded with notifications. So many unopened texts. My stomach starts to churn. Something about seeing them feels different from the social media notifications, so much harder to look at somehow.
Maybe because I know if I open them, I’ll see Owen’s words. And not some overly curated Instagram captions he wrote to be witty, but his real unfiltered conversations.
My fingers move of their own accord, my stomach twisting in knots.
The most recent message before the accident was from Ella.That’s right.He was texting with her before the ride.
I tap on her name and the thread opens.
Ella:We need to talk.
Ella:Meet me by the bathrooms.
Owen:Later.
Ella:Now, Owen. A ring…Why didn’t you tell me?
Owen:It doesn’t have anything to do with you
Ella:Does she know?
I check the timestamp. Ten minutes went by before Owen responded.
Owen:No.
Ella:We need to tell her…Tell both of them.
Owen:Absolutely not.
