Regret Read Online Free

sounds of the refrigerator humming and the clock ticking in the hall.
    The headquarters provided me with a sense of safety, so I stood and made my way through the sparsely furnished living room and down the hall. Two doors led into two bedrooms on the right side, and one door opened into a bathroom on the left. The kitchen took up the back end of the small house, and that’s where I went.
    I found a dirty cup in the sink and rinsed it out in the semi-darkness. Then I filled it with cool water and gulped it. The chill sliding down my throat calmed me further, and I managed to flip on the light.
    The kitchen sat dormant, complete in its normalcy. The faucet dripped, and the fridge housed only the most meager of supplies. Jag never was one for cooking, and he almost always ate at my house or at another Resistance member’s table.
    I turned on the lights in every room, my fear easing out with the shadows. I entered Jag’s room last, knowing it wouldhurt the most. And it did. I couldn’t help but breathe in the piney scent of his hair gel.
    I’d been in his room before. Many times. Jag didn’t own a lot, and what he did, he kept organized. His bed was made; his clothes had been draped over a desk chair; a bare bulb already burned in the closet. Some called him a neat freak. I’d once called him OCD as he’d consulted a list of equipment we needed for a mission to Seaside. He’d been there countless times and didn’t need a list. We’d laughed, and he’d pulled me close and planted a kiss near the corner of my eye.
    My chest constricted with the memory as I moved to the brightly lit closet. Two pairs of jeans sat in a pristine stack. Four semitattered shirts hung on black hangers. An extra pair of boots lingered on the floor. Typical Jag.
    The spare bedroom where I’d spent more than one night had been empty as well. The only piece of furniture in the living room—a couch—didn’t even have garbage under the cushions. I sat down on the floor in Jag’s room and did the only thing I could think of.
    I cried.
    Ten minutes later, I limped toward the door as the blood rushed back into my legs. I flipped the light off and was halfway into the hall before I realized the light from thecloset still shone.
    I hadn’t turned it on, but I wondered if I ought to turn it off. As I took the few steps to the closet, I had the thought that it was odd for Jag to leave the light on at all. What with his OCD and all. Unfailingly meticulous about details, Jag didn’t do anything without a reason.
    You’ll know what to do.
    Without thinking, I slid into the closet and swung the door around to seal myself inside. From this vantage point, I discovered a shelf nailed on the back side of the door. It rattled when I pushed the door shut, drawing my attention to a stack of notebooks and a smattering of writing utensils.
    I almost laughed. Jag and his stupid notebooks. He was forever writing something down, but I’d never seen him show anything to anyone. Not even me. There had been many barriers I’d tried to get him to break, and he had refused. I sympathized—no, empathized—with him on many things, but I didn’t know the pain of losing both parents, or of losing one brother and living apart from another.
    Jag’s feelings and inner thoughts weren’t high on his list of things to share. He didn’t let anyone all the way into his life. I’d hoped to be the first, and I’d been very disappointed.
    Now I ran my fingertips along the spines of his journals, almost afraid to touch them in case he suddenly burst intothe closet with that knowing glare on his face. Somehow, though, I felt as though he’d left this light on just for me. Maybe he did trust me. I immediately chastised myself. Of course he trusted me—with Resistance information. I was the second-in-command.
    That’s when I knew these weren’t his personal journals. I gathered them into my arms, desperately hoping they’d provide some insight into what I should do