Well, no more. He stomped into the living room, arranging a patterned armchair he’d never sat on over to the wall. Climbing on top of it, he lifted the clock in both hands, yanking it from the wall. Heavier than he remembered.
Yeah, it’s packed with twenty years of baggage.
Hefting it in his arms, he marched out to the curb. The trash cans sat in the darkened morning, awaiting the pickup. Shane tossed a lid aside and dumped the clock, face-first, into one of the cans.
Hands on his hips, he stared at it for a moment, waiting for peace to cover him. When it didn’t come, and he realized his neighbors were probably wondering why he was standing in his boxers regarding his garbage, he turned and went back inside.
Shane padded to the kitchen, determined to shake off the sense of dread consuming him. But his hands still rattled, his breaths still came out in uneven pants.
Relax, idiot, nothing’s the matter.
Silence greeted him from the direction of the living room, where a naked nail marked the wall. No ticking. No chiming. No echoes of his father’s voice prodding him.
He filled a glass with water from the sink and downed it, pausing to take a few deep breaths. Then he crossed to the fridge and held the door open long enough that, if his mother was alive, she’d have scolded him. In the bluish light from the appliance, his body cooled, his heart rate gradually returned to normal.
See? You’re fine.
Shutting the door, he turned to the coffeemaker, then thought better of it and opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He drank it down, replaying his curious physical reaction, searching for its source.
He thought of Crickitt’s face as she sat across from him and waited for him to put an end to the most incredible week of his life. At the time, he’d been sure it was the right thing to do. They were getting too close. He was getting too close. He needed to establish some healthy distance between them before…before something happened.
Something he couldn’t name.
Or something you’re afraid to name.
For whatever reason, he’d been unable to end it, to say the words that would allow him to get his footing. When he saw her with her parents, the interaction between a real family that, while not perfect, had its own special rhythm, he ached to be included. And then he had been. Chandra and Gerald had ushered him into conversation, praised his accomplishments. Made it clear he had their approval to be with their daughter. For the first time in his adult life, Shane felt needed, and like he needed someone.
Shane rested the empty glass on the countertop, staring blankly at the granite surface. Their relationship had advanced without his permission, without his knowledge. Crickitt had utterly invaded his life. But that wasn’t the problem, was it? The problem, the real one, was Shane liked having her there, coiled around his heart and squeezing. He liked how, when she was around, he thought of the future rather than the past, or sometimes didn’t think at all, just got lost in the smell of her skin.
If he could lose himself in her, if simply being in her arms made him forget everything else, then he was in bigger trouble than he thought. Spending time with someone, passing the hours, was different from needing someone.
Needing Crickitt meant when she left—and she would leave, either by her own doing or by God’s undiscerning hand—Shane would get hurt. He missed her already, and it would be a fraction of how much he’d miss her if they continued to be together. His heart splintered as he considered the very real possibility of her telling him she didn’t want to be with him any longer. How much more could he take? Losing his mother, then his father, had hurt him enough for two lifetimes. Maybe three.
If he gave in to the intense feelings for Crickitt, then lost her, it’d kill him.
Or worse. He’d shut down like his father had. Become as fragile and paperlike as the cicada shells he used to pluck off the trees in his backyard when he was a kid. If he allowed that to happen…
So don’t.
A shiver shook his arms, rattling the glass in his palm. If he continued down this rocky path of thought, he’d be crushed under the pressure, do something stupid. Like tell Crickitt everything he was thinking.
I can’t be with you anymore because I…because I…
What? What did he feel for her? He shoved the thought away. It didn’t matter. Because he wouldn’t tell her. He couldn’t.
Just imagining the pained expression on her face wrenched his heart. He needed to get out of here. Away from everything for a while. The house, work, Crickitt…just until he could think rationally. Just for a few days.
He should say good-bye to her, but he packed an overnight bag knowing he wouldn’t call. If he did, and she started to cry, he’d crumble at her feet. What he needed was a good two or three days absent from his own life. He’d locate his pragmatic side, separate his haphazard emotions, and plan the best course of action.