Always

Chapter 35

Slowly, methodically, I managed to wash my hair and skin, rinsing it much longer than necessary as the ribbons of soap and water twisted down me. Wanting to prolong my time in the scalding water, I even shaved my legs. I didn't even react when I nicked my skin on my knee, causing a stream of blood to flow out of the tiny cut.

I looked at the red current streaking down my leg, thinking I probably should feel the sting of the cut but feeling nothing. After a few more minutes of wallowing in the shower, I finally turned it off and climbed out. I wrapped a towel around myself and another around my hair as I left the steam filled room to return to my bed.

The first thing I did when after walking through the door was check my phone, hoping against hope I would have a missed call, a voicemail, even a text from him. Of course, there was nothing. With every passing day, it became more and more clear that Harry was no longer interested in being with me.

He hadn't even offered an explanation; simply ran away with no hope of ever returning. Once again, I felt the stinging in my eyes that should have indicated tears, even though I hadn't been able to cry actual tears for nearly two days now. Apparently I had run out, because even though sobs frequently took over my body, my eyes remained dry.

I let my towels fall to the floor as I pulled on a sports bra and underwear. The bottom drawer of my dresser that contained my shorts as tugged open as I extracted a pair of plain black ones and pulled them up my legs. After throwing my hair up into a bun on top of my head, not even bothering to comb it out, I walked over to my closet, opened the doors and stared inside.

A gray sweatshirt caught my eye, making my heart pound simply by looking at it. It was the sweatshirt Harry had given me the night he had picked me up on the street. I had refused to give it back to him, even though he had never asked. Feeling stupid, I gently pulled it off the hanger and hugged it to my chest, hating myself for feeling comforted by the simple piece of his clothing.

He didn't care about me, obviously, why should I feel comforted by his sweatshirt? I knew I shouldn't, but that didn't stop the fact that I did. Admitting defeat, I slipped the fabric over my head and yanked it down.

I immediately regretted doing so. His scent that somehow still clung to the fabric invaded my senses, bring back countless memories of Harry and I together. Memories of him rescuing me from that dreadful party, taking care of me, snuggling together in his bed. Memories of laughing with him, smiling, touching, hugging, kissing, everything.

Suddenly the tears that had been absent for so long reappeared as they spilled over my lids and down my cheeks. God, I missed him. Even if he didn't love me, we could still be together, right? He didn't love me now, but he could in the future. Maybe. No, he won't. If that had been a possibility, he wouldn't have run away. I was being pathetic. He didn't love me, and he never would.

Despite all the dark thoughts running through my head, I didn't remove his sweatshirt. Apparently the masochist in me was stronger than I thought. I crossed my room to sit down on my bed, pulling my knees up to my chest as I stared at my phone sitting on my bed.

Ring. I urged it. Come on, ring. Much to my dismay, however, the phone remained silent. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately trying to talk myself out of what I knew I would eventually cave to: calling him.

Gingerly, I picked up the phone, treating it as if it were a bomb about to go off and shatter me into a million pieces. Again. This is an awful idea. He said he would call and he hasn't. Clearly, that's a sign. He doesn't want to talk to you, don't do it, Joey. Give it up.

I knew that I shouldn't call him. There was almost no way this could go well, but I couldn't help myself. I had to at least try once before completely giving up on it. With shaking fingers, I somehow managed to dial his number before pressing the phone to my ear. I instantly began to chew the fingernails on my other hand, a habit that I hadn't realized I had developed until just now.