ryland's pov
guilt. there's a certain guideline to how it's supposed to make you feel, the order of the different phases that either cripple you into a state of insanity or lurk in your peripheral vision. the first wave of guilt is often the sickening panic, the realisation, the surge of anxiety that flies from the pit of your stomach to the core of your chest. it's hot, sticky, sweet – but still sour enough to leave a bitter taste in your mouth, and rough enough to scratch the side of your throat with cool, sharp edges.
the sensation coated my skin as i stood alone, mouth agape, in the doorway to the bedroom. i'd been home less than a minute when i called out to say i was home, but had received nothing back but silence. and then my gaze had been filled with nothing but noise.
"please stay five more minutes." shane had whispered into my neck half an hour ago, frowning when i pushed his chin away from sucking on my skin. "what about four? four minutes seems fair. you'd be surprised what i can do in four—"
"i need to get home."
i had crawled out of his lap and rubbed the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger, taking a few steps back as i watched him bask in the sunlight, acting like a cat who'd come across a sunspot. his eyes closed and crinkled at the corners as he moved his face to be in direct contact with the rays, and when the beep of a car horn sounded loudly, he barely flinched.
"that'll be my taxi. i'll see you later."
i didn't get much but a hum back, yet as i walked out, i could see the smirk crawling onto his lips with one eye peeking open in the reflection of the glass doors. the look stayed in my head for the whole drive home.
the door slammed loudly downstairs before i could even step into the mess, and suddenly the first wave of guilt crept back up again. my lungs felt tight, smothered by the sensation. the makeshift desk in the corner of our bedroom that i used to study in had been emptied, papers everywhere, a biro pen homeless on the floor, taking shelter near my open, dented folder. my work diary, filled with tiny notes on who to call and when each meeting was due, lay open on the centre of the desk table, the only thing which had seemed to have held out the earthquake that had rippled through seemingly just my belongings. the chair had toppled over at an angle and left a scratch mark on the walls i repainted last june. as confusion and anger rose up through my chest, the urge of confrontation was suppressed by the patter of tiny feet.
"daddy's home!" madison squealed excitedly and tore off her beanie and shoes, taking two steps at a time as she thundered up towards me, flinging her tiny body into my arms. i stood at the top of the stairs and held her tightly as she rested her cheek on my shoulder with her arms around my neck. i stole another fleeting glance at the carnage in our room and swallowed thickly, not even wanting to meet conor's stare as i watched his shadow from the corner of my eye.
"makes a change." he called out, not even greeting me and walking straight into the kitchen. i heard the sound of the fridge open and madi wriggled out of my grasp, racing into her room and sitting down to play with her toys.
"can you come play with me daddy?" she shouted, having no spacial awareness and, like most five year olds, forgetting that i was just a few feet away. i walked into the explosion of pink and felt my eyes strain a little, my hangover making the harshness of the tone seem even brighter. my head had only just stopped thumping. i crouched down next to the tiny girl, whose legs were now crossed with each hand holding a toy, and ran my hands through her slightly knotty blonde hair.
"did dad not brush your hair for you this morning?" i asked warily as i untangled each piece, listening carefully as she muttered the voices for each imaginary character. how i envied the simplicity of her worries. she shook her head before thrusting a blue horse into my palm and looking up at me expectantly. "we'll play later. i've got to go talk to dad now, okay?"
"about my hair?" madi asked naively, self consciously reaching up to rake her fingers through the blonde mess.
"yeah. about your hair, sweetheart." i whispered and pressed my lips onto the top of her head with a small smile. she nodded absentmindedly and went back to her toys, leaving me to head downstairs with the touch of the night before lurking under my skin.
i stood apprehensively a few feet away from the kitchen door, eyeing conor's movements carefully. he was emptying the dishwasher with his back to me, embodying sharp, jerky movements, slamming the china coffee mugs into the cupboard with brute force.
"what happened to my work desk?"
the words fell off my lips slowly and he spun round defensively, expression unreadable.
"that's what you're asking?" his voice wavered as he pushed the empty cups away in agitation. they clinked together, sliding across the surface. "you're asking what— what the fuck, ryland? i've called you countless times in the last twelve hours. you left after an argument in your boss' swanky car, saying you'd come home when the event finished, and then you don't. i tried to stay calm about it, i called, i texted, i asked around, i told madi you were absolutely fine. and then you rock up at eleven in the morning and ask me about your fucking desk?"
my cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, panic creeping up behind my ears and warping into ties around my throat. my hands curled around the loose thread of the joggers shane had leant me, and a small part of me was thankful that he never payed any attention to what was in my wardrobe and that he wouldn't bat an eyelid at the fact they were several sizes too big for me.
"the event ran late, so shane let me stay the night at his house. i know i should've texted but my phone ran dead and— and i couldn't find a charger in the living room where i was sleeping."
i watched as his fingers clenched around the counter top, knuckles turning white. "you stayed in his house... alone with him?" he asked slowly, his tongue running over his top teeth.
"what? no. it's him and his girlfriend's place... she's the one that suggested i stay over because we didn't leave the venue till two am." i rushed out, the lie thick and hard to swallow as it curdled like milk on my tongue. conor's eyes moved slowly across my face, doubt coursing through his expression, trying to decipher the validity behind my words. "christ conor, he's not gay or anything."
the words felt heavy as they tumbled off my bottom lip and he scoffed, making the anxiety slip through my teeth, swallowed with the lack of remorse i had felt in shane's arms an hour ago. conor turned back around and continued to pack away the clean dishes, picking up the wine glasses from below and using a cloth to wipe the last of the water away. i stood gormless, playing with my fingers like a small child, waiting to be told off. what made things worse was that even i could see that.
"i still don't understand why you didn't call me." he said lowly, standing the flutes up in the cupboard one by one.
i sighed, walking further into the kitchen. "i've already told you, they didn't have a charger in—"
"i don't give a fuck about a charger, ryland, you didn't come home!" he shouted, making me flinch as the glass in his hand slammed into the surface and smashed across the wood. blood dripped from the tiny scissor-like cuts across his fingers and he hissed in pain. "shit!"
"daddy?"
we both spun round to look at the doorway, my face falling as i caught sight of madison's forlorn countenance, fear knitting her eyebrows together with a needle and threat. her voice was small, almost a whisper, terror laced with confusion as she took another step forward with her bare feet.
"don't come any further, there's glass on the floor." i reacted quickly, spinning around and retracing my steps, guiding her shoulders to do the same. "why don't you go play with daddy's ipad? it's by the tv, you can take it up to your room." my tone was flaky and urgent as i encouraged her to scamper off, exhaling softly when she did as she was told.
i turned back to see conor's head bowed, his hand still clutching the handle of the wine glass, red ink seeping into the wood and spreading like fire.
"you idiot." i said softly, stepping over the fractured pieces and uncurling each of his fingers. ten minutes later i was sat with his hand in my lap and bandage wrapped around his skin, shards of unpicked glass and a pair of tweezers sat beside us like two old friends.
we had messy sex that night. messy in sense that it was unenjoyable. haphazard. all over the place. i had been the one to insinuate it, having stared into the dark for half an hour as conor's phone lit up the room.
"you awake?" i'd whispered, and he hummed, not looking away from his phone. the need for gratification rose to the front of my mind. reassurance that he wasn't still doubting the lies i'd told earlier. reassurance that what happened with shane was nothing but a moment of insanity, and that of course i still had feelings for the father of my child.
i rolled over and felt underneath the covers for his boxers, slipping my hand underneath the fabric and hearing him grunt in surprise, drawing a breath in. his phone was placed on the bedside table and the room went dark.
with the side of my cheek pressed into the pillow and the numb feeling of my body being rocked back and forth, i squeezed my eyes shut and repressed every memory of the last twenty-four hours, one by one. and just like that, i let him slip through my fingers.
new chapter enjoy :)))