The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 148

Garrison buried his face in the steering wheel, his broad shoulders trembling violently.

He made no sound, but the violent shaking of his back and the death grip his white-knuckled hands maintained on the wheel betrayed his total collapse.

...

He had no idea how much time passed before his phone buzzed again.

He picked it up and stared at the caller ID. It was Quinn.

He aggressively rubbed his temples, dragged in a ragged breath, and answered the call.

"Garrison!" Quinn's voice carried a cautious, desperate hope. "It's past eight o'clock. Are you still at work? When are you coming home? The cake arrived, I got your absolute favorite, the dark chocolate mousse—"

Garrison finally looked out the window, realizing the sky had completely faded to pitch black.

"I'm not coming home tonight," he replied, his voice hoarse and thoroughly exhausted. "Eat without me."

"What? Garrison? Did something happen?"

"You're seriously not coming home?!"

Garrison didn't say another word and immediately ended the call.

Then he powered the phone off entirely.

He tossed the silent device onto the passenger seat, slammed his foot on the gas, and the engine roared to life.

*

Half an hour later, the sleek luxury car pulled up to the entrance of a dilapidated alleyway.

The alley was incredibly narrow, the streetlights flickering and broken, casting long, eerie shadows across the cracked pavement.

Garrison stood in front of the rundown apartment complex, looking up at the pitch-black window on the third floor.

He had been here before.

Three months ago, after they ran into each other at the mall, he had tailed her car all the way back here, watching her carry her cheap grocery bags into this very alley. Back then, he hadn't understood a single thing going through her mind. He had just stared at her cold, unyielding back, his chest tight with unbearable frustration.

And then... he had gone to a bar, drank himself into a stupor, and eventually stumbled back here to pound on that exact door.

Today was the second time.

Garrison forced himself up the crumbling staircase, step by heavy step, until he reached the third-floor apartment. The next second, his chest seized—

The door was slightly ajar.

A sliver of warm, dim light spilled out into the dark hallway.

Garrison took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The living room was incredibly cramped, the lighting incredibly poor, and the air smelled faintly of cheap cat food. A young woman was crouching on the floor with her back to the door, pouring kibble into a bowl for a small tortoiseshell cat.

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