On The Run: Part Two

Chapter Twenty - "Side Effects"

I’m not a crier. I’ve never been a crier. But this was a new kind of pain. It seemed the only thing I could do was give in to the weakest thing possible, because that was exactly how I felt. Weak.

“Chloe?” I heard Sarah’s voice at the door, rather close. I was seated at the door, and it sounded like she was sitting on the other side.

I wiped my face, trying to compose myself. It didn’t work.

“I mean, you and me. I can’t be with you anymore. You can’t come and see me, and we can’t be us anymore. It’s too hard, and you should probably focus on you right now.”

I just kept hearing the words, over and over again. The more I replayed them, the more I could physically feel my heart sinking under its own weight.

“Chloe,” she said softer, and I saw her fingers slide under the door, “Let me in?” she asked. It could have had two meanings, and I was sure that it ran a little deeper than the obvious.

I hated crying, but even more, I hated being seen crying. So, instead, I just took her hand, and clutched it.

“I’m really sorry about all of this,” she said.

I stayed silent, not letting go of her hand. There was a certain comfort to the gesture.

“Okay, I’m coming in. Back away from the door,” she said, and pulled her hand away. She must have had a key to the door, but I just reached up and unlocked it myself, opening it up, as I stayed sitting on the floor, leaning against the tub.

I wiped my face and tried to compose myself. Again.

No such luck.

“Hey there,” she said, cocking her head as she walked in. She sat next to me on the floor, and said, “You’re not fine.”

I felt my eyes welling up again as I shook my head.

She sighed, “Okay. I’m going to do something that could be awkward, so don’t freak out,” she said slowly.

As I looked up, she slipped her hand across my shoulder, hugging me to her chest, as she wiped my tears away. That was the impetus to increasing the waterworks. Comfort always makes a person let go. And here I was, letting go. And I couldn’t control myself.

“I can’t be with you anymore.”

What? I kept asking myself.

She ran her hand along my hair, as she kept muttering, ‘It’s okay,’ ‘It’s going to be okay.’

After what felt like hours, I sat up straighter. It probably was hours. I was exhausted from all the crying.

“Better?” she asked.

No. Not even a little.

But I nodded, feeling a bout of embarrassment wash over me, as I wiped my eyes.

“I’m sor—” I started to say, but she cut in, “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize.”

“So—” I began, but stopped right away; I felt a smile make its way to my lips. I really didn’t want to smile, and yet . . .

She smiled back and handed me the tissue roll off the wall hanger, “You’re allowed to be sad, and you’re allowed to cry. So, don’t apologize. My shoulder’s right here if you want to cry some more. Frankly, I love that it’s being used.”

“I’m okay now,” I murmured. I wasn’t. I just wanted Fitch to walk through the door with his playful smirk and take all of this away, but he didn’t. He wasn’t going to.