Page 214 of Rising Heat
My pillow still smells like her shampoo—that floral stuff—and the vanilla body spray she wears, and I’ve reached the point where I can’t catch either one without feeling like a weight is sitting on my chest.
I make it until six-fifteen before giving up on sleep.
The kitchen light’s already on by the time I come downstairs, which doesn’t surprise me. Mack’s usually up before I am.
Finding him fully dressed with his duffel bag by the front door as he pours coffee into two travel mugs does.
“What’s going on?”
“We leave in twenty.”
He screws the lid onto one of the travel mugs and slides it across the counter toward me without looking up. I pull out the stool.
“Leave for where?”
He finally looks at me.
“Go get ready.”
I stare at him another second.
“…How long’ve you been up?”
He shrugs.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
My eyes drift back to the duffel.
“…You packed.”
“Sunday.”
Sunday.
She probably hadn’t even hit New Jersey yet.
“You were just gonna go.”
“Thought about it.”
“Without me?”
That finally gets him to look up.
“...No.”
He holds my gaze just long enough that I know he’s telling the truth.
While I was sitting around convincing myself we were giving her space, Mack was upstairs stuffing clothes into a duffel bag. He’d already decided. The only thing he was leaving up to me was whether I came with him.
“I’m still pissed at you.”
“I’m pissed at myself.”
“I’ve spent four days wanting to punch you.”
“I don’t blame you.”
