As for right now, I’m almost too tired to even change into my pajamas. I debate even leaving my muddy shoes on as my eyes drift shut. It’s much nicer to lay here, reminiscing about this one time Jonah and I went hiking on the outskirts on Annar and I ended up wimping out halfway up the trail because, no matter what I like to think about myself, I am not a natural hiker nor am I inclined toward outdoor sports. We ended up resting near a really beautiful waterfall, and we’d really talked about our future that day—not the future he saw for us, or the one that I imagined, but the one we wanted together. It wasn’t an exciting day, nor an overly romantic one in our history as a couple, but I hold on to it now because of its simplicity. How it made me feel normal, like I was just a girl and he was a boy, and we were in love and it all just was, rather than us being Council members who dabbled in the worlds’ affairs when we were still teenagers.
The ache I feel for him is so tangible that I am positive I can stick my finger in it and swirl it around until my chest constricts once more.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, sleep no longer claiming me as its own. Now it’s just sadness that presses me against the sheets—sadness and a knowledge that I and I alone am responsible for messing up what I had with the best guy I’ve ever known.
Sometimes, a girl doesn’t need a bad boy like so many stories tell her she does. She doesn’t need to redeem him, and he doesn’t need to redeem her. Sometimes a girl doesn’t need a tortured artist or the recovering playboy, but somebody who helps balance her out, someone who makes sure her feet stay on the ground when life is tough and lift up into the air when her lips find his. She needs somebody smart and funny and comfortable and exciting all at the same time. She needs somebody to go to sleep with who makes her feel secure enough not to care that she snores or drools, and somebody to wake up with who won’t judge her when her hair sticks up and pillowcase lines crease her face. Sometimes a girl needs somebody who she’s content talking about deep things with, or small talk, or sometimes nothing at all.
Sometimes a girl just needs a partner who will help her grow rather than explode.
I had that. I had that and now I kick myself over and over again because I was stupid enough to let it go.
My phone beeps to let me know a text message awaits me. I sigh heavily, debating whether or not to leave it be until morning. It’s probably Zthane or Karl with yet another idea about why we’re striking out so much with our missions lately. Or maybe Caleb, checking in with me to see if I contacted the University of Alaska about online classes yet. But ignoring it would be the Old Chloe thing to do. Even still, I’m annoyed when I roll over to grab my phone.
And then a pair of hummingbirds take flight in my chest. Because the text isn’t from Zthane, Karl, or Caleb. It’s not even from Kellan, whose texts I practically live for when we’re not talking on the phone or hanging out with one another.
It’s from Jonah.
It’s been nearly a month since he walked out of this apartment. Three weeks, four days, ten hours, seventeen minutes, and . . . well, I’m not too good with seconds. But he’s been gone that long, and we’ve had radio silence, and now, there’s a text, and it’s from him.
It says: You called me from Alaska on your birthday and hung up. Yes or no?
I’m laughing maniacally, muddy boots streaking my comforter as I surge up on my knees. Three weeks of separation, and this is what he chooses to say when he finally reaches out? And seriously—how does he even remember? It was a teeny call that had him saying hello twice and me hanging up immediately. A standard wrong number type call that devastated me but should have meant absolutely nothing to him.
There’s no way he could know about it. I didn’t tell Kellan or Callie—the only people who know about that call and the idiotic aftereffects are Will and Cameron, and they would never break confidence.
My hands shake hard when I type back: Yes.
Ten agonizing minutes pass. Why?
I retype my message back at least a dozen times. I missed you and needed to hear your voice so I could get through the day.
Another five minutes pass. I’m going to die. Just die right here on my bed. But then: Did you call my brother, too?
I’m clutching the phone like it’s the embodiment of our Connection. No—not our Connection. Our past. Our bond that we forged together, Connection or no. No. Just you.
Three minutes this time. Why?
I don’t hesitate. Because I missed YOU.
He’s faster with his replies now. Why did you hang up?
I was afraid. It’s honest.
He doesn’t text back, but when I fall asleep hours later, hope has officially found its way back into my soul.