CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ASPEN
My body feels wrecked as I slowly wake up, feeling the warmth around me. My eyes flutter open just enough to see that I’m in my bed, wrapped in blankets.
I’ve no idea how long I’ve been asleep or what time it is. I reach a hand out and search for my phone, but it’s not in my usual spot on the nightstand.
I shift, trying to feel around for it on the floor, but an arm pulls me back, and as I inhale his scent, I know Morgan is laying with me here.
“What are you looking for?” he asks, his voice deep and hoarse.
“My phone. What time is it?”
“It’s the middle of the night. You fell asleep in my lap.”
I feel my breathing staggering as I remember everything from last night. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”
“Aspen…” He grabs my jaw and tilts it upward. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that again, you understand? If anything, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m sorry I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing, but I’ll do anything to help you.”
I close my eyes as tears begin to fill up. “You’re doing it. Just having you here is all I need.”
Feeling my chest tighten, I press my body against his and inhale. His strong arms capture me in a tight grip, molding our bodies together.
We lay there until my breathing steadies, but I still don’t feel right.
“I think I’m going to take a shower.”
“Are you sure? I’ll hold you all night if you need me.” He looks down at me under his long lashes as the corner of his lips tilt slightly.
“Yeah, I think it’ll help me feel better.”
He leans down and presses a soft kiss on my lips. “Just holler if you need me, okay?”
I nod. “I will. I won’t be long.” I shift and throw the covers off. I grab a change of clothes before walking out of the room.
Needing to soothe my dry throat, I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. It feels as if I’ve been crying for hours and that my body is drained of every ounce of energy possible. Setting the glass down in the sink, I walk out and glance to where my studio is. Notebooks are spread out on the floor, my easel and canvas are still out, paint tubes scattered alongside.
I take a step and shiver as memories of reading over her journals smack me right in between the eyes. The words she wrote, the pain she felt, the secret she took to her grave—all these things that’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.
Feeling my throat burn with acid, I cover my mouth and run to the bathroom as the water comes right back up. As I lean over the toilet, dry heaving, and crying, I can’t focus on anything but the emptiness I feel inside.
Anticipating another attack, I brace myself for what’s to come.
That’s the one thing people never tell you about anxiety—people like me know it’s an irrational state of mind, but we can’t stop it from happening. Everything in my logical brain screams that it’s going to be okay, I’m fine, that this is ridiculous, but that other piece of me can’t see that logic and refuses to listen. The dichotomy of it all is overwhelming and completely frustrating.
Splashing cold water on my face, I look down into the sink, watching the water swirl down the drain while my mind shatters my walls and leaves me helpless. I don’t know how long I stare into the water, but my eyes burn with tears and my chest aches heavily with guilt.
Pushing off the vanity, I start the shower and undress, needing to cleanse my body. Thoughts of her consume my mind, images of that day take over, and soon, I’m curled up into a ball as the water streams over me.
I hear Morgan’s muffled voice above me as he grabs me and pulls me up. “Aspen!” My body goes limp as the emotional exhaustion cripples me. I feel my body against his chest as he holds me tight and walks me out.
“Sweetheart, open your eyes. Please.” I hear the desperation in his tone as he places me down on the bed.
I try, but they close the second I get them to open.
“Can you hear me?”
I nod.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I’m just so tired,” I manage to say.
“I’m going to get you dressed, okay?”
I nod, lying helplessly as he dries me off with a towel and dresses me like a two-year-old. It’s mortifying, but my body is so drained, moving seems like an impossibility right now.
“I know what I need to do,” I finally say as he tucks me back in.
“Shh, baby. You need rest.” He soothes me with his hand over my head and pushes the hair back. “Let’s talk when you’re feeling better.”
With no energy to argue, I nod my head and let sleep take over.
MORGAN
I don’t sleep the entire time I lay with Aspen. I watch.
I watch and make sure she’s breathing. I watch her chest move up and down in steady rhythms. I watch her body calmly sleep as I tuck her inside my arm.
I wish I knew what to say or even do for her. I know when I first returned home and I’d run into friends or friends of my parents, they’d give me that look. The look of pity. They’d tell me how sorry they were, and if there was anything that they could do to just let them know.
But there’s never a right thing to say to anyone who loses a sister or brother. Even with the circumstances, the emptiness still exists. But she’s been fighting this battle for six years. Six long years with no answers or closure, and now it’s all come surfacing at once.
I can’t blame her for handling it the way she is. I just wish I knew how to help her through it.
“Aspen, sweetheart,” I whisper as I kneel next to the bed. She’s still in a deep sleep, but I don’t want her to think I just left her. “Baby, I have to pick Natalia up from my mom’s and take her to school. I’ll be right back, okay?” I set a glass of water down on the nightstand. “I brought you some water.”
She shifts slightly, moaning as I rub a hand alongside her arm. I kiss her temple and stand up.
After dropping Natalia off at school, I make a quick coffee run before heading back to Aspen’s apartment. I expected her to still be sleeping or at least in her bed, drinking the water and relaxing.
But that’s not the scene I walk into at all. Hardly.
When I walk in with our cups of coffee, I hear music blaring from her studio again, and I immediately begin panicking that she’s right back where she was last night. I set the coffees down on the kitchen counter and walk to the studio, anticipating the same scene as I walked into the night before.
There’s paint everywhere, her brushes strewn on the floor haphazardly, and she’s standing there in the middle of a mini-tornado.
“Aspen?” I call out slowly walking up behind her in hopes I don’t scare her. “Sweetheart?” She’s standing in front of her easel, painting with harsh, aggressive strokes. I can feel her anger seething from the back of her head, smoke blowing out of her ears.
I watch as she furiously attacks the canvas with her brush, making stroke after stroke, no real concept of what she’s painting. I notice the finger marks along her jeans where she’s wiped the paint from her fingers. Her beautiful golden hair is in a tangled mess on top of her head.
I stand next to her and see the tight lines on her face as she focuses on the canvas in front of her. I call her name again, but she doesn’t move.
Walking over to the iPod dock, I turn the music off. The silence is deafening, and the moment the sound ceases, Aspen turns towards me, her arms collapsing at her sides, paintbrush falling to the floor. I’ve never seen someone look more devastated than she looks at this moment. Her normally bright eyes are swollen and bloodshot. Her lips are puffy, but not in the sexy way after she’s been thoroughly kissed. It’s the kind of puffy a person gets when they’ve been crying. And by the looks of it, she’s been crying a lot.