CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE i was mad, but not anymore

"Will you stay?"

I NEEDED TO PEE.

The urge had been there for hours. Dull at first, then sharper and more insistent. I couldn't bring myself to move. I just lay here, staring at the wall, my bladder screaming in protest, the weight of my body sinking into the mattress, almost like I could disappear into it if I tried hard enough.

Josh had just left for work. I heard his alarm. The shower. The front door click shut behind him, and then the lock turn. I should get up. I should pee. Shower. Eat.

I close my eyes. Just for a second.

A sharp cramp in my side forces me up; not because I want to, but because I need to, but because my body was demanding it. My legs are stiff as I hit the floor. I have to brace myself against the wall, dizzy, and shuffle to the bathroom.

A shower was next. If I didn't do it now, I never would. 

I don't know how long I stood there. But it was long enough for my fingers to prune and the bathroom to fill with steam to the point where it was hard to breathe.

When I finally turn the water off, I felt lighter. In a way that only made it easier to move. I retreat to my cocoon wrapped in a bath towel and reach for my phone. I was going to order something- a bagel, a sandwich. Anything. Just to be able to say yes when Josh asks if I eaten today.

Then I see the text.

Shayla: we need to talk.

I stare at it for a while. I should feel something. Anger. Betrayal. Sadness. Anything.

But I felt nothing.

I don't know how I got there, but I did. I don't know if I stopped at the red lights, if the radio was on, if the air conditioner was on or off. I just drove, almost as if I was watching myself from somewhere else rather than being inside my own body.

She opened the door before I could knock.

"Oh," is all she said, like she wasn't expecting me to actually come.

I don't say anything. I just look at her, then past her, at all the boxes stacked across the living room.

"I'm, uh-" she steps aside, gesturing into the kitchen. "Come in."

The house smelled of cardboard and cleaning supplies. Like change.

She had been packing. There are boxes everywhere- half-sealed, open, filled with clothes and memories. She walked ahead of me, nudging a box out of the way with her foot. "I'm... finally moving to New York."

I don't react. I just look at the boxes, look at her, look at the way her hands fiddle with the hem of her shirt.

She's stalling.

And I let her.

She goes around the room, picking things up, setting them down, pretending this was normal. That we were normal.

She finally stops.

She turns to me, twisting her fingers. She takes a shaky breath and says, "I sent the pictures."

The words don't hit me in the way I thought they would. They just... settle.

We stare at each other, waiting for the other to make the next move.

She finally crumples; "I- I didn't mean for it to happen like this. I was just too jealous and I wanted you to feel the way I felt. I was so jealous, Lua, I've been jealous for too long."

She swallows, shaking her head. "I wanted the love you have. The way Joe loves you." She sniffs, gripping the edge of the island. "I wanted to love someone like that. I wanted Ja'Marr to love me the way Joe loves you."

I blink as she lets out a strained laugh, wiping her face. "I fucked up. I know I did." She looks at me with pleading eyes. "Please say something."

I say nothing- I let my eyes trail along the boxes, peaking into one of them. It's full of dinnerware. I pick up a Bengals coffee mug, turning it over in my hands thoughtfully. Shayla watches me, chewing on her lip. I meet her eyes finally. "New York, huh? A fresh start." I let the mug fall, breaking against the ground and the piece flying across the floor.

She gasps, flinching. Her reaction cracks something sickeningly pleasing inside me- I dig around the next box, picking up a picture frame of her and the team. I turn it over in my hands, dragging my thumb along the wooden frame. It's a team photo- Shayla, the other social media coordinators, Marren, and other random people from the office. All grinning like nothing could touch them. Like nothing had touched them.

My grip tightens.

And then I let it slip from my fingers.

The glass shatters against the floor, splintering into jagged pieces. She jerks, "Talullah-"

But I'm already digging through the box, reaching for the next. A candle jar, heavy in my palm, smooth and solid. I toss it just enough to watch it burst against the floor.

She steps forward like she wants to stop me, but doesn't. I grab a plate next- porcelain, delicate. One of the good ones. I throw it harder this time, watching as it slams against the counter and clatters to the ground in pieces. Something about the sound, the destruction. It feeds something in me. A sick, bitter satisfaction curls in my stomach.

Shayla broke something of mine, so it's only fair I return the favor.

I pick up another frame, small, maybe from her nightstand. It takes no effort to snap it in half. Another plate, small figures, probably antiques or family heirlooms. It doesn't matter, because they all make the exact same shattering sound and splinter against the floor the same way.

I only stop when there's nothing left in arms reach. Surrounded by broken glass, cracked ceramic, and pieces of her life, I smooth back my hair with a slow and steady exhale. I meet her eyes and give her a calm, small smile. "Good luck in New York, Shayla."

And I walk out.

I slam the car door shut behind me so hard that the entire frame rattles. I don't care. I don't think I care about anything right now except the anger that's brewing in my chest so strongly it feels like it'll crack my sternum. 

My breath comes in fast, uneven gasps. I have to grip the steering wheel- my hands shake, my fingers are stiff, but I barely feel it. My heads buzzing, skin hot, and my entire body is coiled so tightly that I might burst at the seams.

My nails dig into the leather and I clench my jaw so hard it hurts. Her pathetic, shaking 'Please say something' rattles in my head. The entire scene rings in my head: the shatter of glass, the way she flinched, the way she stood there, watching, helpless.

Good.

She deserved to feel helpless.

She deserved worse.

I slam my fist into the steering wheel. Once, twice, again. I don't stop, not even when the sharp and immediate pain bursts through my hand.

I want to feel it.

I need to.

My breath rips in and out of my lungs like an animal trying to claw its way out of a trap. My pulse is violent- pounding against my ribs, thick in my throat, behind my eyes, loud in my ears, inside my skull.

It's just not enough.

I try everything. I grab at the dashboard. I claw at the rearview mirror. I pull on the steering wheel like I could wretch it from the column. I let out a strangled sound, low and guttural, when I can't scream any longer.

The dash, the window, my own thigh. Over and over and over, as if I could hit something loose inside me. If I force it out through brute force against my car and myself. I know the pain's there, even if I can't feel it. The skin splits over my bloodied knuckles and my wrist is scraped from the steering wheel column.

Everything is wrong: my face is hot, vision blurred, throat burning. A broken exhale is all I can muster before hitting the wheel one final time, my entire body slumping forward. My entire being is screaming,

I don't know how long I sat there. I don't know when or where the anger ebbs but it leaves something quite in its place. Not peace, not relief. Just... emptiness.

I was mad.

But I'm not anymore.

I don't know how I ended up here, on Joe's front doorstep, but I did. I swear I was just in my car, head pounding with the aftermath of my outburst. The next I'm here, standing on Joe's step, wet hair, barefoot, and blinking blankly at him like I was lost.

I am.

I watch as his stomach drops, face shifting from surprise to concern. His lips part, "Tally?" His voice is careful, like one wrong breath will blow me over.

The concrete is freezing and rough against the soles of my feet. They sting, but it feels distant. My hands are tinging as well, but my fingers are stiff. I look down at them- they're raw and bloody, trickling down my hand and under my nails. "I think- I think I broke my hand. Do you have a bandage?"

He moves fast. He wraps his fingers around my wrist gently. He's warm and steady and everything I need. He lifts my hand to examine it, his jaw tightening at the sight of the open wound.

"Tally, what the hell happened?"

I blink down at my feet. There's blood there, too. Smeared across my skin and white-polished nails, thin, little cuts run across the curve of my foot and around my toes.

Huh. I hadn't noticed.

"I was mad," I say, lifting my head to meet his gaze. "But I'm not anymore."

He exhales sharply as if I said the wrong thing. He reaches out with his open hand, holding my elbow as if to steady me. "Talullah..." He sighs under his breath, holding me as we climb the stairs. He guides me to the couch, never asking again. "Sit," he softly murmurs, and I do, without objection.

I watch his hands as he tends to me. He touches me carefully and it feels nice, even if I don't fully understand why. "I'm sorry I came here," I mutter as he cleans the blood from my skin, "I'm sorry you have to take care of me."

It feels too heavy to ignore, even if it was just a thought that escaped my mouth. He doesn't answer- he moves his attention to my feet, picking them up and pulling at the shards of glass embedded in my skin. It doesn't hurt in the way it should. He works carefully, his hand gently holding my ankle. Once the pieces are gone, he cleans the blood off.

When he's done, he moves to the kitchen and returns with a sandwich. He watches me with soft eyes as I chew mechanically. I finish the sandwich, not because I want to, but because he wants me to. Joe sighs as he pulls me into his chest, running his fingers through my hair. His touch is careful and slow even though his fingers knot in the tangles of my unwashed hair.

He continues to move in silence- taking my hand, pulling me to my feet and into the bathroom. He runs the water. He guides me into the bathtub.  He washes my hair as I stare at the wall, the feeling of his fingers in my hair grounding me in a way nothing has the past weeks. He doesn't rush through it. He doesn't care how much time it takes. he just takes care of me.

He helps me out of the tub and wraps me in a towel. He leads me to his bedroom and helps me dress. He brushes my hair, slow and deliberate, each stroke an act of care. It's gentle and normal; I'm afraid to acknowledge how much I needed it.

How much I need him.

Once my hair is free of tangles, he tucks me into my side of his bed. "Will you stay?" The question slips out as he brushes my clean, damp hair from my face. I feel quiet and small asking. Maybe I don't want to be alone. Maybe, in this moment, he's the only thing that feels real.

The corner of his lip twitches up as he climbs into bed beside me, his body warms and solid against mine. I turn, pushing myself closer until my head is pressed against his chest.

"I love you, Joe."

"I love you too, Talullah."