22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Beck

I climb into my car on campus and pull my phone out, dialing Roman. Today was the coolest day ever. The phone rings and rings, but he doesn’t answer, so I decide to text him instead.

Me

Heading home, beautiful. See you soon!

I sing along to the radio, smiling to myself as I eat up the distance between Roman and me. I can’t wait to tell him about my day. I think I figured out what I want to go to school for. I definitely would like to do something in the medical field, but I’m not sure nursing is the right path. I think I might want to be a physician assistant. It’s more schooling, but it feels like a good fit for me.

I pull into the driveway and my heart sinks when I see that Roman’s car isn’t there. Well, shit. I park and head into the house before trying to call him again. No answer this time, either. Maybe he went to the bakery. He wasn’t scheduled to work today, but it’s possible he went in. But then why wouldn’t he have sent me a text to let me know?

I try Dad instead. He answers on the first ring.

“Hey, Beck. What’s up?”

His voice alone soothes some of the anxiety building inside me. “Not sure. Have you seen Roman today?”

“Yeah, he was home when I left earlier.”

“Did he seem okay?”

“Yeah, nothing out of the ordinary. Why? Is everything okay?”

I pause. Is everything okay? I have no reason to think it wouldn’t be, but like the day that I found him at his dad’s, covered in bruises, something in my gut is telling me there’s something wrong. “I’m… not sure, honestly. I’ve tried to call him and he’s not answering. I don’t have any texts from him, and he’s not here.”

There’s silence on the line.

“Dad?”

He sighs heavily, the sound making a rush of anxiety spike through me. “I’m here. You don’t think he’d go to Richard’s, do you?”

My stomach drops out. “No, he wouldn’t do that,” I say, but it sounds flimsy, even to my own ears.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and no, I’m actually not sure.

“I’m gonna run over there and check.”

“Give me ten, and I’ll head that way too,” he says.

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Okay, yeah. He’s… he’s probably not there, but I’ll check anyway.”

“Beck,” Dad says. “Be careful, please.”

“I will be. I’ve gotta go. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The drive to Richard’s house isn’t long, but I make it in half the time it usually takes. I relax when I see that Roman’s car isn’t in the driveway—the relief making me a little dizzy. Thank God. Maybe he went to the bakery after all and forgot to text or didn’t want to bother me.

I’m already here, so I may as well go ahead and check on things. I get out of the car and bound up the porch steps, my heart stopping when I see blood smeared on the door. What the fuck?

I push the door open, renewed panic rising in my chest, and call out, “Richard?”

No answer. I look around the room. There’s blood on the carpet—drops that definitely weren’t there yesterday—leading across the floor toward the kitchen. I walk forward slowly, not sure what I’m about to find. Oh fuck, I hope Richard didn’t hurt himself. Roman will never forgive himself if he did, and he wasn’t here. Something happening to his dad when he’s not around to help him is one of his biggest fears.

I pick up my pace, my anxiety getting worse as I follow the blood. My heart takes off in a gallop when I get to the kitchen. There’s blood pooled on the table, a bloody handprint stark against the dingy white floor. “Richard?” I call out again.

“Look what he made me do.”

The voice behinds me startles me and I turn around, not sure what to expect. Richard is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, swaying on his feet. I scan his body, looking for injuries, for some sort of explanation for the blood, but I find nothing.

“What is this?” I choke out, anger replacing my anxiety. The blood’s clearly not his.

“Little fucker thought he could yell at me? At me ?” he bellows, his voice rising with each word, hatred burning in his gaze. “Ungrateful little prick!”

I’m moving before I can stop myself, slamming Richard into the wall of the kitchen, pressing my nose into his. “What the fuck did you do to him?” I growl, barely concealing the rage burning inside me.

His eyes blow wide, fear shining in their depths. Good, you sick fuck, you should be scared of me. The scent of whiskey on his breath makes my stomach twist, and I have to fight back a gag. I pull back from him and stare into his eyes. “Where is he?” I demand again.

He says nothing, just stares at me with a shell-shocked expression on his face. I swing at him, pain blooming in my hand as I make contact, and his head snaps to the side. “Where the fuck is he? What did you do?” I scream, my voice cracking, despair filling my body. Anger follows hot on its heels, the conflicting emotions making it hard to breathe.

My fist connects with his face again, and he drops his eyes, his expression impassive. Something about it tickles my brain, and I pause, fist raised in the air. I say nothing as I stare at him. His eyes are downcast, his hands at his sides, like he’s cowering from me. He’s not fighting back. He looks like Roman right now. Beat down. Defeated. Hurt. “Where is he?” I ask again, gripping his shirt in my hands and shaking him hard, trying to get a reaction out of him. I’d take any reaction at this point, but he doesn’t respond. My lungs are burning. I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? Where the fuck is Roman?

Someone grabs me from behind, and I turn, swinging blindly, but nothing connects. “Beck, it’s me. It’s me.”

Dad. My dad is here. Thank god. He can find Roman. He can figure out what’s going on.

I try to open my mouth to ask him to help me, but no words come out. My stomach lurches, and I gag, saliva filling my mouth as I fight the urge to vomit. The blood. God, there’s so much blood. What the fuck did he do to him?

“Breathe, Beck. Just breathe, it’s okay.”

Nothing is okay. Nothing will ever be okay again. Where’s Roman? Where is he? What happened to him? A broken sound tears through the room. What was that? A sob? Then another one. That’s me. I’m making that noise. A hand pats my back. “Let’s go. We’ll find him. Let’s go.”

1 week later

The ache behind my eyes matches the ache in my heart. I haven’t been able to sleep. I haven’t been able to eat. I’ve raged and cried, but not much else. Riley left two days ago. She didn’t want to, but I couldn’t have her stay here solely for me. My world ending shouldn’t mean that hers does too.

I blink tears away as I type another message to Roman. I know it will be the next in a long line of messages that he won’t respond to. But I have to keep trying.

Me

I miss you, beautiful. I can’t sleep. I know I keep saying that, but it’s impossible to sleep when you aren’t here. When I don’t have your body tucked against mine. Please come home. Please. I love you.

I stare at my phone, praying to any and every God in existence that it will light up, that Roman will text me back. That he’ll call me. It goes straight to voicemail every time I try to call. I’ve listened to his voicemail message so many times, just to hear his voice.

With a sigh, I try calling him again. The phone doesn’t even ring. His voicemail picks up. “Hey, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message, I guess,” he says. Tears well up in my eyes and spill over again. Fuck.

“Hey, beautiful. It’s me again. Please call me back. I love you.” I hang up and roll to my side, staring at my phone like maybe if I look at it long enough, it will light up and he’ll call me back.

3 weeks later

School is fine. I haven’t met anyone or talked to anyone, really. I don’t want to. School. Home. School. Home. Riley keeps trying to call me, but I ignore her. My parents are trying to get me to open up, but I ignore them too. Why can’t we find Roman? Where the fuck could he have gone? His dad doesn’t even remember what happened. The man is a lost cause, as far as I’m concerned. Dad doesn’t want to give up on him, but I don’t give a shit. I want Roman back.

I climb into my bed and try Roman again.

My blood freezes when I get a message that his phone is no longer in service. Panic grips me, my heart pounding so hard that I can hear it in my head. No. No, this can’t be happening. I pull the phone from my ear, clutching it tightly in my hand, double-checking the number. I don’t know why. I know I’m calling the right person. I dial again, thinking it must be a fluke, only to be met with the same message.

It takes me a moment to realize I’m crying. But once I do, it’s like my body decides to double it and give it back to me because within seconds I’m sobbing—my chest heaving and my body shaking violently. The pain feels like a physical ache inside. I’ve never been this sad in my entire life.

2 months later

Mom thinks it’s time for me to clean Roman’s stuff out of my dresser. I don’t want to, but she laid down the law. So here I am, sitting on the floor in front of the dresser, about to erase part of the man I love.

I open his drawer and my heart aches at the sight of the stuffed rabbit I won him, tucked in with his shirts. A sob catches in my throat as I grab it from the drawer and crawl across the floor until I can reach my bed. After I pull myself up and climb in, I pull the blankets over my head and clutch the soft rabbit in my arms. I bury my face in it and soak it in my tears.

When I’m all cried out, I send him another message. I know he won’t get it, but it feels like the only way I can talk to him. I need it, even if I do feel pretty pathetic for having a long line of messages with no response.

Me

I don’t understand why you won’t come home. I need you. Please come back. This hurts. Why don’t you care that you’re hurting me? I would never hurt you like this. You’re being so selfish.

Me

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so mad. I’m not mad, I miss you. Please come home. You’re not selfish. I didn’t mean it.

I close out of the messages and open my photos, flipping through them and taking in his beautiful features until the screen is so blurry I can’t see anything anymore.

4 months later

Me

Today was a good day at school. I got a good grade on that test I was really worried about. I know I’ve said it before, but physiology is going to be the death of me. Sometimes I think maybe I chose the wrong field. I still haven’t made any friends, but that’s okay. I talked to Riley yesterday. She misses you too. I wish you would come home, beautiful. Nothing is the same without you. I hope you know that I love you.

I pull the rabbit back to my chest as I place my phone on the bed beside me. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. How hard can it possibly be to find one single person? Dad is a damn cop and yet even he can’t find Roman. It’s like he’s fallen off the face of the earth.

Closing my eyes, I try to fall asleep. My phone buzzes. It’s probably Riley. I crack one eye open, peeking at the screen. Roman. There’s a text from Roman. Oh God. Oh my God.

I sit up quickly; the rabbit falling to the side as I pick up the phone with shaky hands.

Roman

Hey, I think you have the wrong number. I wasn’t going to respond, but then I kept getting these messages. Sorry!

I don’t know why I thought it might actually be Roman. I know his phone has been disconnected. But something about knowing that the last way I had to talk to him is gone guts me. I can’t really keep pouring my heart out to some random stranger multiple times a day.

I delete the entire text thread, erasing months of Roman’s words. I feel numb.

6 months later

I’m crying. What else is fucking new? I’m always fucking crying. And does Roman even care? No. Because if he cared about me at all, he would be here. We’d be together. Why did he leave me? My anger almost chokes me. Anger and grief. Always. It’s nonstop—a constant war in my heart and mind. I open my photos and delete every single one of him. Fuck him. If he doesn’t want me, then I won’t want him either.

God, why am I not good enough for him? I hate him for doing this to me. I stand up and pace the floor in my room, anger rising, my chest burning with it. I grab a sketchbook and start tearing pages out, ripping them to shreds. Then I grab another. Blinded by rage and grief, my fingers destroy months’ worth of work. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him. I tear the pages faster, my chest heaving.

I look around the floor at the tiny pieces of Roman scattered around. The anger fades, and the chasm of grief swallows me whole again.

God, what have I done?

I drop to my knees, fingers sifting through tiny pieces of paper, sobs tearing from my throat. Oh God. Why did I do that?

He’s gone.

He’s really fucking gone.

That was all I had left.

Panic sets in as I stare at the mess I made. My heart feels ripped to shreds, exactly like my sketchbooks. I fall to the ground, curl myself into a ball, and cry.