The lonely space breathed a sigh of relief as I jimmied the lock again and stepped into the musty, unloved lounge. It needed someone to comfort, just like I needed someone to comfort me.
I meant to do some dusting, return to the borrowed shack, and grab my backpack. To have my first shower in a while—if the water hadn’t been turned off—and eat if the pantry still stored food.
But that was before my feet guided me to Della’s bedroom, and my eyes fell on her unmade bed. Images of her sitting cross-legged while doing her homework slammed into me. The memory of her blue-dyed hair so glossy and bright. The sounds of her laughter as I pulled her ponytail. The feel of her arms around my waist and her cheek on my chest—
Fuck, it was too much, and every chore and task faded beneath the immense blanket of exhaustion.
I wasn’t proud of it, but I fell face first onto Della’s bed, wrapped myself up in her blankets, and inhaled her pillow.
I slept for two solid days, waking briefly to drink water straight from the tap and gnaw on a few stale crackers from the kitchen. All my body cared about was dreaming, and I woke angry and hard when my dream goddess refused to visit me—almost as if being in Della’s domain meant my loyalties to her returned to loving her as a brother, rather than the complicated tangle I now accepted.
Unfortunately, once my body caught up on sleep, it became determined to reveal how badly I’d neglected it. Rundown immune system and no weight reserves meant a simple cold found me a very comfortable host. Within a few hours, the congestion and headache turned to fever and coughing—cursing me with the flu.
I got sick.
And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
I spent a week combating lungs full of oppressive agony, and hugging a burning chest that charred me to ash.
At some point, I feared I wouldn’t get better. That I’d fall down the sickly slope into pneumonia like I had when I was fifteen.
But, through some miracle, the hacking coughs slowly abated and the burning slowly cooled, morphing to a wheeze I could cope with.
When I felt semi-human again, I returned to gather my things in the forest. Afterward, I cased out a local convenience store for staples, and spent two full days spring cleaning the apartment.
To start with, I didn’t want to spray the tropical scented disinfectant just in case I deleted any smells of Della, but she hadn’t lived here for so long that no whiff or note of her was left.
Della had paid utilities as well as rent, which meant I had hot water to wash and gas to cook with. I wanted to thank her for wasting money on something she no longer used—almost as if she’d known I’d return and need a place to stay.
When I wasn’t staying busy with chores, I tailed her.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t go back.
I broke that promise.
Countless times.
I couldn’t help it.
After I was better, and more publicly acceptable, I walked to her shared house in much cleaner clothes than before, and watched her go to college. I waited outside like all those years ago when she first went to school, and followed her home again.
I slowly drove myself insane, keeping her constantly in my thoughts, all while she returned to David every night.
By the end of the second week, I couldn’t do it anymore.
Any of it.
I couldn’t keep stealing supplies so close to home unless I wanted to get caught. And I couldn’t keep stalking unless I wanted to keep sliding into that dark, dismal place I couldn’t climb out of.
I needed money.
I needed to learn how to exist without her so I could put myself back together again and be the parental figure Della needed, not the off-the-rails, rejected lover I had currently become.
The next day, I headed to a supermarket two blocks away that I hadn’t stolen from and read their advertisement board for employment. I wasn’t deluded to think I’d find a perfect farmhand role, but I was prepared to do what was necessary to get my life back on track.
The only two positions available were a window cleaning gig or a barman at a local nightclub. No way could I be cooped up in a darkened cesspit with writhing bodies and pounding music.
That left the window cleaning job.
I memorised the number then asked to use the supermarket manager’s phone to arrange an interview. I knew nothing about washing windows, but I needed cash, so…
The owner was a spindly looking pothead whose dad had bought him a franchise once he’d dropped out of school with no prospects. He wanted someone to run the bookings and basically handle the entire business.
I bullshitted enough that I got the job, earning cash under the table with a bonus for each new contract I signed.