Next day feels off, like the air’s gone sour. Alex barely grunts when I drag myself downstairs. He’s at the counter, sorting books like always, but there’s this wall between us—can’t pin it down, but it’s there, pressing in with every step. He lets me crash at the bookstore, no talk of booting me, but it ain’t the same. Used to be he’d crack a joke, ask about my day, even the shitty ones. He’d hear me out. Now? Just a tight nod as I pass, lips clamped, eyes sliding off me. Small shift, but it cuts deep, like a crack splitting slow and silent. Stings like hell.
Try to play it off, snagging the broom to sweep the aisles. Muscle memory kicks in, something to fill the quiet, but even that’s off. He doesn’t stop me—just keeps his head down, flipping ledger pages, moves all stiff and cold. Silence ain’t the old kind, easy and chill—it’s thick, heavy, choking the space between us. Catch him flicking a look my way once, quick, then gone. Like he’s checking but doesn’t want me catching him. Feels sneaky, loaded—like he’s hiding something, or maybe he’s scared I’ll see too much.
Tension’s a weight on my chest. He’s still here, letting me sleep upstairs, but there’s this gap I can’t shake. Something’s pulling him back, outta reach, and I can’t fix it. Sweep harder, faking normal, like I don’t feel the shift crawling under my skin. But I’m not okay—far from it.
Later, I’m in the kitchen, slapping a sandwich together, when his voice drifts in. Back room, door half-cracked, low and muffled. Don’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s dead quiet, and the words slip through, clear enough to gut me. “Dunno what to think anymore,” he says, slow, like it’s tearing him up.
Freeze, bread stuck in my hand, breath caught. He’s on the phone. About me? Broom, cops, suspension—all that tangled bullshit—it’s gotta be me. He’s doubting me, right? Saw it in his eyes yesterday when I spilled about college, but hearing it? Hits harder. Chest aches, heavy and tight. Drop the bread, hunger gone, just trying to untangle his words floating there. He’s my rock—since the crash, since it all went to hell—and now he’s wobbling. Questioning me.
“Wanna believe him, but… it’s a lot,” he goes on, sigh cracking like he’s breaking under it. “Just need time.”
Heart’s pounding loud now. Who’s he talking to? Who’s he leaning on while he’s doubting me? Head’s spinning, hands shaky. Should barge in, demand what’s up, but my feet won’t budge. What if he says it straight—tells me he thinks I did it? That’d rip me apart. Can’t face it, not from him.
Slink upstairs instead, shut my door soft so he doesn’t hear. Room’s a dump—books sprawled on the floor, clothes everywhere, sketchpad ditched in the corner—but I don’t give a shit. Flop on the bed, stare at my hands. They’re trembling. Hate that. Why am I such a damn coward? Why can’t I just ask him? Is it the evidence—fake emails, cash I never saw? Or something else, something he’s keeping quiet?
Notebook’s still missing—Riley’s got it, I’d bet, after Casey’s throwaway line. Did she show Alex? Tell him what I scribbled, what I poured out? Makes my gut churn. If he knows how I feel—shit I’ve been wrestling with—maybe that’s why he’s weird. Can’t ask, though. Too chickenshit to hear it.
Day drags, each minute heavier than the last. Stay upstairs mostly, sketching nothing—random lines, bullshit shapes that don’t add up. Can’t focus, can’t think straight. Alex doesn’t yell up for lunch or dinner, doesn’t check in, doesn’t ask jack. Hurts, that quiet. When I spot him, it’s fast—grabbing coffee, locking the front after close. “You eat yet?” or “Cold out there,” he says, but it’s dead, hollow. Not him.
Mumble back, keep my eyes low, dodging his gaze. Tension creeps up slow, quiet, but I feel it every time he passes. He’s here, but not—not really. Mentally, he’s checked out, drifting off somewhere I can’t follow.
Can’t sleep that night. Late, past midnight, bookstore’s silent as a grave. Lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, brain running wild. Hear him downstairs—not the usual shelf groans or kettle hum, but something sharp. Click. Hard. Office door locking.
Heart skips. He’s locking it.
Never locks that door. Not once. Seen him leave it wide open a hundred times, even when he’s out. That little room’s his spot—where we’d sit, shoot the shit over coffee, kill time. Now it’s bolted shut.
Slip outta bed, barefoot, creep to the stairs. Wood’s cold under my feet. Can’t breathe right, chest tight with panic. Peek down. Office light’s off, but Alex’s shadow moves—heading to his room. Doesn’t look up, doesn’t know I’m there.
That click loops in my head, over and over. Why now? What’s he hiding? Or is it me he’s shutting out? Grip the railing, thoughts racing. He’s doubting me—heard it on the phone. This seals it. He’s pulling back, locking shit up, keeping secrets. Wanna pound that door, make him spill, make him talk. But I don’t. Can’t. Just stand there, frozen, panic chewing me up.