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Sometimes he forgets that she’s not really there.
Forgets the fact that the cold spot on the left side of his bed was never warm in the first place.
That the hand he reaches out for is never there to take.
That the second cup of coffee he makes in the morning will sit there untouched until he pours it down the sink. She’s not real, just a deep pit of his mind making a very long drawn out and cruel joke at its own expense.
She’s there when he catches his fingers in drawers to laugh at him and to reign him in when the urge to send the foreman’s face into the garish glass tree on his desk hits him with great force.
Her insults and quips feel hollow but then he never did quite have her talent for creative linguistics. Her talk downs sound less like her and more like Harry.
His musing is interrupted by Tom, one of the other guys from the logging camp, sitting opposite him.
He fucking hates him.
Tom is all smiles, jokes and a social butterfly by all definitions and as he sets his lunch down on the table opposite Dexter at the table he ruefully remembers that he chews loudly. Very, very loudly.
“You got family Jim?” Tom asks around his sandwich.
‘One more reason to hate you’ he notes internally, but keeps his face blank.
“Uh, Mom, Dad and sister.” He answers.
“They still back in- uh, well, wherever you’re from?” He laughs and frees a hand to lift his mug with.
‘Stop talking’ fights to claw out of his mouth but he holds it back. “No, they died.”
Tom’s cup of coffee stops halfway to his mouth as he freezes and a wince drags onto his face.
“I’m so sorry man.” He sets the mug back down. “I get it lost my mom a few years back, really fucked me up.”
Way to make it about you asshole he thinks but Deb chimes in his head ‘No Dex, this is how normal people interact, they fucking empathise.’
“Yeah.” He agrees. “Fucks you up.”
Tom gives him a half smile and they dip into silence. The rest of the day passes without any more digs at his very much still open wounds and he goes home only hoping that the earlier awkward interaction doesn’t spark a one-sided kinship.
He drives back in silence not bothering with the radio, there’s enough noise rattling around his head as is. He arrives back home feeling as empty as he felt when he left in the morning, the cold air making him shiver as he steps out of the truck.
“Missing Miami?” She wanders up to the porch as he trails behind her.
He cups his hands up to his mouth and blows into them.
“I’m just not used to the cold.” He utters as he unlocks the door shifting to the side to let her through.
“Buy gloves then asshole.” She scoffs and slinks out of view, gone again.
Gone but never quiet.
“Surprised that beard doesn’t keep you nice and warm.” She mocks from the table as he steps past the threshold, the creak of the door shutting behind him does little to hide his chuckle.
“You don’t like it?”
She laughs. “Look like a fucking lumberjack.”
“I am.”
“That’s just-” She laughs even harder. “Wow Dex.”
He laughs as well. “Want me to shave?”
“Please.”
She doesn’t so much follow him to the bathroom as she does appear over his shoulder when he glances in the mirror. Staring him down as he neatly arranges everything on the edge of the sink.
Her chin rests on his shoulder but there's no sensation. “You’re so anal.”
He works shaving foam onto his cheeks. “It’s called organisation Deb.”
“No, it’s called being fucking anal.” She chuckles, aiming a punch at his shoulder.
His brain tricks him into believing the jab is real and he bows his arm away, grazing his cheek with the razor. A drop of blood bubbles up and starts a slow track down his face and he watches it fall silently.
The ghost of a finger drags across the line of blood but when he looks in the mirror the trail is undisturbed. “Remember that time when we were kids, I opened the bathroom door on you and made you cut yourself shaving?”
“More like kicked the door into me, but yeah.” He chuckles, scraping away the last of his beard.
“You were what, fourteen?” She asks aloud. “The fuck were you even shaving off anyway?”
“It was more about practice.” He answers while wiping strays dots of shaving foam from his face.
“Look at me, I'm Mr Practice.” She drops her tone lower as she mocks him. “Such a dork.”
He runs the razor under the tap and sets about returning everything to its rightful place. “That’s just childish Deb.”
“It’s not my fault you live like a monk, well, apart from the morals.”
“Brother Morgan.” He tries aloud. “Has a nice ring to it.”
“Beats Jim the hermit.” She remarks. “Why Jim of all names by the way?”
“Because he had no one around to notice the stolen identity.” He responds, settling into the kitchen.
She hums and jumps up to sit on the counter. “Wearing a dead man's skin, not all that surprising from you.”
“Just his name Deb, not his skin.” He mutters. “Jim Lindsay died for a good cause.”
“I can name a few people who might disagree.” She deadpans and the conversation dries up as he goes through the silent routine of cooking.
By the time he finishes dinner, his cut has scabbed over into a thin line that he can’t help but run a finger over constantly as he sets the table, two glasses, two plates, two forks, two knives.
“Looks good Dex.” She stares him dead in the eye. “Not hungry though, sorry big brother.”
“Full up? Must be good food in heaven.” He remarks trying to avoid her gaze.
She scoffs. “Even if you believed in heaven, I definitely didn’t go there.”
He ignores her and takes the plate away, setting it on the counter before turning back. “I’ll take it for lunch tomorrow.”
The rest of dinner is a quiet one sided affair, spent with Deb’s eyes boring into him, not that he minds. She’s no help when cleaning up, but it’s not that she ever was before.
Their banter is a hollow mirror of a night that happened years ago and when she follows him off to the bedroom the lack of a warm body behind him is all too noticeable.
They face each other on the bed and he reaches out a hand letting it rest just shy of her arm, not wanting to shatter the illusion.
“In bed by nine thirty what are you fifty?”
“Only eight more years.” He responds, fingers stretching out to linger just millimetres over her wrist.
She gives an almost genuine smile. “God you’re fucking old.”
“Wish I got to get old.” She announces, smile never wavering.
“I don’t wanna do this, not tonight Deb.” His voice cracks as he speaks.
The smile drops from her face and she sits up. “Night Dex.”
“Stay.” He begs but she doesn’t relent.
She rises from the bed and he can’t even find it in himself to lift his head to follow her as she walks around and out the door.
“It doesn’t work that way Dex.” He hears from the doorway.
“I-“ He pauses waiting for a jab that never comes.
“I miss you.” He whispers, laying his hand where Deb had just been laying.
The sheet is cold under his fingers.