Fall (VIP 3)

I haven’t been here, huddled on the bathroom floor, for a while. Not since that dark day. Now I’m back, and I know what caused it.

Stella.

Loving Stella.

I’ll fuck it up eventually. One way or another, she’ll leave. And there will be no coming back from it. She’ll argue that. She’ll want to fix me. But she can’t. I don’t want her to. I don’t want her seeing me as broken.

God, I need to get away. Go back to how things were. Numb. I need to be numb again.

Stella

* * *

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. Strange how I know that before I’m fully awake. I feel it in my bones, in the heavy dread that weighs down my insides. Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, I find myself alone in bed, John’s side rumpled and empty.

In a weird fog, I pull on his discarded T-shirt and my lounge pants. The room is dim, the drapes still drawn, but the clock says it’s almost noon.

“John?”

He isn’t in the bathroom.

“Babe?” My steps shuffle as I head out of the bedroom and into the hall. The loft is quiet. Too quiet.

I won’t panic; it won’t help and it feels disloyal to worry. I find him in the music room, huddled between a row of guitars. Wearing a pair of sweats and nothing else, he’s curled in on himself, his back pressed against the wall. He doesn’t look up when I draw near.

“Baby?” I kneel next to him. “What’s going on?”

His arm is cold and clammy, and he flinches at my touch. He looks right at me, but his focus is off, like his thoughts have fled elsewhere.

“John.” I rest my hand on his arm. “Baby, look at me.”

His eyes finally meet mine. There’s so much pain reflected back at me. Pain and panic.

“Take a deep breath,” I tell him. John simply stares, panting and wide-eyed, and I stroke his arm. “For me?”

Slowly, he draws in a breath, then lets it out. He keeps doing it, slowly in and out, as I hold onto his hand.

“Is there anyone you want me to call?” I ask when his color returns a little.

“No.” His fingers clench and unclench. “There is no one.”

God, his hair is damp with sweat. He shivers a little before tensing. There’s a throw on the armchair, and I grab it to wrap around John’s shoulders. He lets me. Then again, he doesn’t seem to notice what I’m doing.

“I don’t like this.” The tone of his voice is so hollow, he doesn’t sound like himself.

“What don’t you like?” I ask softly.

His gaze slides away.

“This,” he says through clenched teeth. “I don’t like this … feeling.”

“What are you feeling?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I don’t like feeling.”

“John.” I stroke his arm. “You’re not making sense. Let me call your doctor—”

“Don’t touch me.” With a snarl, he shakes off my hand. I can only gape, my heart pounding hard and fast as he glares. “Don’t. Patronize. Me.”

“I’m not.” My butt hits the ground as he stands and stalks away. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need help,” he snaps, pacing. “I’m not a project.”

I stand too. “I never said you were. But something is obviously upsetting you, and I want to …”

“Help?” he cuts in dryly.

Heat swamps my chest and runs over my cheeks. “What’s wrong with helping? What would you do if you found me curled up on the floor? Ignore it?”

“But I wouldn’t find you like that.” He runs a hand through his damp hair and then flings his arm wide. “You wouldn’t have a panic attack after having a dream.”

“I might. Depends on the dream.”

John doesn’t reply but folds in on himself, his body so tense he trembles.

“Have you gone to see Dr. Allen lately?”

He snorts. For a second, I don’t recognize him; he’s too full of anger and disdain—for me.

“You know damn well I haven’t,” he bites out. “When I’ve spent every minute I have with you.”

My back snaps straight. “Don’t you dare imply that not going to therapy is somehow my fault. I would never get in the way of that. Ever.”

John’s shoulders sag, and he grips the ends of his hair. “I know that. I didn’t mean … No, all right? I forgot. But I really don’t need to be reminded about how I fucked that up too.”

“I’m not …” I take a breath. Calm. Don’t push. “Are you okay now?” I want to hold him but don’t dare when he’s like this.

He looks away. “I’m fine.”

“John—”

“Fuck it,” he shouts, turning on me with wild eyes. “I’m not fine. I’m fucked up. And there’s not a thing you can do about it.”

I don’t know what to say or do. Horribly, I want to cry, but I can’t. Pride won’t let me. But he sees right through me.

His jaw bunches and he runs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this.”