Like He Never Left

Chapter 8: Distance

So it's me, your troubled writer gal. The comments I've been getting on my book are awesome lol, and they're really making me rethink the plot of the book, so now I have confusion. 

I also just want to point out that although WE know that Brooke is essentially the 'other woman,' she doesn't. She thinks Colt is just going back home for some innocent family business, which we know is definitely not the case, nor particularly 'innocent.'  Writing Colt is also hard not only because I've never been a boy lol, but also because I want you all to see that he has flaws. I refuse to write about the typical cookie cutter  guy who is virtually perfect because the writer's ovaries need a hit, but I don't want him to be hated either lmao, and that's on me. I hope in this chapter you get to see the story truly through his eyes and maybe see where he was when the miscarriage happened. 

I enjoy the comments, so keep putting them up (shoutout to the only reader who has commented thus far lmao XD)!

Quick Recap:

I drop the letter and back away.

What did I do to her? I broke her.

I broke her.

I'm going to be sick. The ground sways beneath my feet, and I can feel my throat pushing up the bile. Somehow, I manage to swallow it back down. I lean against the wall, staring at the letter like it committed a vile crime.

How could I have done this to her?

I am so ashamed of myself.

"Cole? I brought up the. . .what are you doing?"

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There comes a time where the emotions that you've fought long and hard to suppress come back and bite you in the ass, and you end up feeling them all at once. 

I felt like I was reliving my mother's death all over again. Guilt, shame, sadness—all because someone in my life was hurting, and all I end up doing is making it worse. With my mom, she craved her cigarettes something awful during her attempts to quit, and she would go into awful episodes of panic and numbness. I didn't recognize her as my mom like that, nor did I like seeing her like that. It got to the point where sometimes I saw no other option than to run to my father's secret stash and give her what she wanted. When she died, I knew it was my fault because I was always the one who took her resolve and smothered it in her cigarette smoke. I couldn't bear to see her in pain, and I just wanted to help my mom come back out of her smoky, numb shell when she had her episodes.  If I hadn't broken down at her temptation first, she might still be here with my dad, where she belonged. Not in the ground.

Now, I feel all those emotions rising back up. Guilt because I know I'm the cause of this. Sadness because I thought I was helping when I left. After we lost the baby, all Josie talked about was how I should be ashamed to be with her when it was her fault, how I needed to find someone else who could have kids. The more I tried to be there for her, the more she pushed me away. 

And now shame, because all I ever do is make the situation worse because I wasn't honest with her from the beginning. 

"Josie!" I exclaim, eyes snapping over to her, but she isn't looking at me. Her gaze was on that foul letter on the bed. There's no way that she doesn't know what it is, but I can stop her from seeing which one I read.

She sets the tea on the nightstand, still looking at it, and I see my chance to grab it before she sees which one it was.

I lunge for it, but she beats me by a second.

I watch her scan the letter, and I can't stop the zoo from bouncing around in my stomach from nerves.

"I. . .how did you find this?" she whispers. Her eyes flit up to mine, and I know I'm screwed, so I just decide to tell her the truth straight up.