chapter thirty-two

                                    

                                          
"WHEELER, WHAT ARE you still doing here?" Clark asks as he leans into the doorframe of my office. The strap of his briefcase dangles from his shoulder as he watches me with a steady gaze. It's not his usual look when he finds me working later than everyone. He's not amused with me.
This gaze is hardened. It's like he's studying me, trying to understand why I am here instead of at home living my life outside the walls of this office. I'm young and I should have something to do other than work, but I don't. I can't when I'm half of the person I used to be.
"I was just finishing up some stuff," I tell him as I shift in my seat.
"It's nearly nine o'clock."
I wet my bottom lip as I cross one leg over the other, smoothing my hand down the front of my jeans. "I'm nearly done," I tell him. "I promise."
"Emery, go home," he says.
"I–"
"It wasn't a suggestion, Wheeler," he says. "I know you miss your boyfriend, but you can't bury yourself in your work to avoid the loneliness."
My lips part to argue, but I know it's no use. He won't leave until I do, and he knows the guilt of keeping him away from his family any longer than he's already been won't let me stay. Even if all I want is the distraction of work to keep my thoughts off Luke. It's been nearly a month since he left, and I'm slowly fading away each second I'm away from him.
And it's pathetic.
"Okay," I say with a sigh as I brush some hair off my face. "I'll go," I say and shift toward my computer, reaching for the mouse.
"Emery."
I shift my eyes from the computer screen to Clark and find the same concerned look painted along his features. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn back to the computer, eyeing the letters on the screen and the spaces between them, hoping that somehow by me staring at them longer, I'll find a way to stay here. I won't have to leave.
I won't have to go home and stare at the roof, missing Luke.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"No," I whisper as I move the mouse to the corner of the screen, putting the computer to sleep. "I'm not, but I have to be," I say as I get up, picking my bag out from beneath my cabinet. "I'll go home."
He stays in his spot when I walk towards him, not moving an inch. "I know you're hurting, and I know you think burying yourself in work is going to help, but it's not. Nothing is going to fix that missing ache in your chest. What will fix it is reminding yourself that each day you go, each day that you miss him, is a day closer to seeing him."
For second that reminder helps. I stop missing him and I let myself live in that feeling of seeing him again after all this time. I'll get to see his smile, and that stupid little smirk that appears on his face every time he calls me 4A.
I used to hate it when he did that. I hated him, until I didn't. I hated him until I loved him, and then that helpful reminder turns to fire as my ache for him grows.
I love him and he's not here.
I love him and I'm not there.
I love him. I love him. I love him.
And I hate myself for loving him this much. I hate myself for becoming half a person without him but before I can dwell, that small glimmer of something outside of hate fills its spot. The courage of letting myself fall that deeply into another person, and the absence of fear in knowing it could all get pulled out from under me.
Clark gives me a gentle look, like he's afraid I'll break if he says anything and he's probably right. I will fall apart. I'll crumble, and then that will be it. I'll just be gone. Scattered about in pieces without a clue where I'm going and for the first time, I'm okay with it.