Chapter 39: Echoes of Us (Caleb POV)
Chapter 39: Echoes of Us (Caleb POV)
I’m back at Diane’s, sitting on the guest room bed, the box from The Static open beside me. It’s Sunday afternoon, sky gray outside, and the room’s dark—curtains drawn tight, lamp off, air still and heavy. My boots are by the door, muddy from the bar, and my duffel sits unzipped, clothes spilling out like they’re tired too. The photo’s in my hands—me and Ryan, smiling, arms slung around each other, The Static alive behind us. It’s creased, edges bent, but our faces are clear—happy, young, before it all fell apart. My chest’s tight, guilt twisting hard, and my fingers trace the corner, slow, feeling the paper crinkle.
The room’s quiet—rain gone, just my breathing, rough and low, filling the space. My guitar leans in the corner, black and scratched, strings dull, and my throat’s thick, staring at it, remembering the bar—music loud, us together. I see Ryan signing—eyes dead, pen dropping—and my stomach sinks, heavy with longing. My hands shake, photo trembling a little, and I set it down, slow, on the bed, creased and worn. My head’s heavy, and I rub my face, rough, feeling the stubble, trying to shake it off.
I grab my phone, fast, screen glowing harsh in the dark, and scroll to Ryan’s name. My thumb hovers, chest pounding, and I hit call, holding it to my ear, waiting. It rings—once, twice, four times—and my legs bounce, restless, socks sliding on the wood floor. Voicemail kicks in, his voice flat—Ryan, leave it—and my throat closes, breath catching. The beep hits, loud, and I lean forward, elbows on my knees, talking fast.
“Hey, it’s me,” I say, voice rough, breaking a little. “Found a photo—us, at the bar. We’re not done, man. Not like this.” My hands shake, gripping the phone, and I swallow hard, words spilling out. “Call me—we’ll figure it out. We’re not done.” I hang up, quick, tossing it on the bed, screen dark again. My chest hurts, sharp and deep, and I stare at the photo, Ryan’s smile staring back, wishing he’d pick up.
The room’s too small—walls close, air thick—and I stand, slow, pacing barefoot, floor cool under me. My shirt’s wrinkled, same one from yesterday, smelling like sweat and dust, and my hands clench, unclench, restless. Ryan’s out there—silent, sinking—and I’m here, stuck with Diane, broke and useless. My stomach twists, and I kick the box, light, cardboard sliding soft, spilling coasters on the floor. The photo sits there, glowing weak in the phone light, and my throat’s tight, longing pulling me back to him.
I drop onto the bed again, springs creaking loud, and pick it up, slow, holding it close. My fingers brush our faces—me laughing, Ryan grinning—and my chest burns, guilt heavy for letting it end. My head leans back, hitting the wall, and I close my eyes, tight, hearing his voice—it’s over—from the signing. My hands shake, creasing the photo more, and I mutter, “We’re not,” voice low, raw, hoping he hears it somehow.
(Ryan POV)
I’m slumped on my couch, bottle tipped in my hand, whiskey dripping slow onto the cushion. It’s Sunday afternoon, late, and my apartment’s shaking—fists banging hard on the door, loud and steady. The room’s dark—curtains half-open, light weak through the cracked window, cold air sneaking in. Bottles roll on the floor, clinking soft, and the air smells sour—booze, sweat, trash piling up by the sink. My head’s spinning, eyes blurry, and my voice slurs, yelling rough, “Go away!” The banging keeps coming, louder, fists rattling the wood.
My phone buzzes, weak, buried under a pizza box on the table. I lean forward, slow, couch creaking, and grab it, knocking the box off, crusts spilling out. The screen glows—Caleb’s name, voicemail—and my stomach twists, sharp, cutting through the haze. My hands shake, bottle slipping a little, and I hit play, slow, holding it to my ear. His voice crackles—we’re not done, call me—raw and loud, hitting me hard. My chest stops, breath stuck, and I drop the phone, fast, clattering on the table.
The banging’s louder—“Delgado, open up!”—and my head jerks, eyes darting to the door. Debt collectors, probably—fines, notices piling up, chasing me down. My legs feel heavy, stuck, and I grab the bottle again, drinking fast, whiskey burning my throat. The room tilts, walls swaying, and Caleb’s voice echoes—we’ll figure it out—but I can’t move, can’t call. My hand grips the couch, fabric rough, and my voice slurs again, “Leave me alone!” loud, breaking over the noise.
The floor’s cold under my boots, littered with bottles, and I lean back, slow, head lolling. My cap’s low, shadowing my eyes, and the banging shakes the walls, fists hard and relentless. The Static’s gone—signed away, Miles’s—and Caleb’s out there, fighting still, but I’m here, drowning, too proud, too lost. My chest hurts, sharp, hearing his words, and my hand shakes, bottle empty now, rolling away. I close my eyes, tight, letting the dark pull me under, fists still pounding, unanswered.
(Caleb POV)
I’m back in the kitchen, standing by the table, photo still in my pocket, crumpled tight. It’s Sunday night now, Diane at the sink, washing her mug, water running soft. The room’s bright—lights glaring off marble, air warm with coffee—and my hands rest on a chair, wood cool under me. My head’s heavy, Ryan’s silence weighing me down, and I feel it—rift wide, us apart. My boots are off, socks quiet on the floor, and my shirt’s damp, sticking to my back from pacing all day.
Diane turns, slow, drying her hands on a towel, suit still on, face blank. “I’m meeting Miles tomorrow,” she says, quiet, folding the towel neat. “About The Static’s future—redevelopment plans.” Her voice is flat, steady, and my chest stops, cold washing over, staring at her, waiting for it to sink in.