Hearing someone say they want to love you but they can’t is worse than hearing them say they don’t.
Without saying another word, I dig my suitcase out of his closet and start packing.
“What are you doing?” he asks, coming over to me.
“When we first agreed to this arrangement, I made you a promise,” I say. My hair curtains the side of my face, and I’m grateful he can’t see the tears welling in my eyes. “I told you that if this started to feel real, I’d walk away.”
He’s quiet.
I swipe the tears from my cheek before turning to him. “It got real a long time ago. And I think it did for both of us. Only you were too scared to admit it, and I was too foolish to say anything because I kept thinking one day you’d wake up and change your mind.”
I zip my suitcase and slide it off his bed.
“Where are you going?” His question breaks my heart, not because he’s showing concern, but because he’s not trying to stop me.
I lift my hand to his cheek, ignoring his question. “Thank you for everything. I mean that. You’ve completely changed my life in more ways than you could ever know.”
He studies me in silence, and I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking right now or if he’s letting himself feel any of this.
Or maybe he feels nothing.
I don’t know.
“You know how you told me no one’s ever loved you before?” I ask before I go. “Well, I did. So … there you go. You were loved. You still are.”
I walk to the door, leaving him standing in the middle of his apartment, frozen like the heart I’m certain no longer beats in his chest, and when I get outside, I order an Uber and return to Park Terrace, tail tucked.
The security code to the front gate and the back door are unchanged, so I show myself in that night, wheeling my suitcase through a dark, quiet house. My parents’ cars are here, but the house is lifeless.
I texted my mom on the way here to give her a head’s up.
I figured she’d be waiting by the door with bells on, but alas, no Temple Karrington in sight. But it’s a good thing. I fought tears the whole ride here, losing the battle a time or two, and as a result, I’m sure it’s glaringly obvious. If my mother sees me like this, she’ll blame him for hurting me, for breaking my heart, but the truth is, I did this to myself.
I got attached when I knew damn well not to.
And honestly, as painful as this is, I don’t blame him.
He was honest from the start.
I was the deceitful one, pretending to go along with the original terms of our arrangement while secretly enjoying every minute of being with him and making dandelion wishes that one of those days he’d change his mind and give us a shot.
I head up to my room and unpack my things.
I told my mother this would only be temporary, that I’m looking into renting a place near my job. She seemed fine about it over text, but I’m sure she’ll have something to say about it when she sees me in person.
As soon as I get into my room, I click on the bedside lamp and find a fluffy robe waiting on my bed as well as a bath bomb and a note.
* * *
My dearest Brighton,
We’re glad you’re home. Have a soak. Get some rest. And we’ll talk in the morning.
Love,
Mom
* * *
Oh, joy. Another talk. I’m sure she’ll feed me full of all kinds of positive reinforcement. I can already hear her saying, “I’m so glad you came to your senses” and “education before boys” and “you were too good for him from the start.”
She means well … in her own way.
I tiptoe into the bathroom and start filling the tub with hot water, dropping in the lavender chamomile bath bomb as I undress. Heading back out to my suitcase, I grab my toiletry bag and begin to unpack everything, placing my hair, makeup, and skincare products back in their original drawers.
My birth control pills are at the bottom of the bag. I’ve been on the pill since I was sixteen and desperate to regulate my cycle and calm the acne maelstrom that was happening on my face. I was shocked when my mother agreed, though looking back, sometimes I wonder if it had more to do with vanity than anything else. Perhaps she couldn’t stand to see her precious daughter’s face marred with ugly red zits.
But I digress.
I unsnap the compact and click it to today’s date so I don’t forget to take one tonight … only there’s one small problem.
Today’s the seventh sugar pill …
I should have started my period six days ago.
I’m late.
Forty
Madden
* * *
The place feels empty without her even though all she took was her suitcase and a few things from the bathroom. I guess I never realized how much ‘life’ she brought to this tiny little apartment.
And ironically enough, it’s so quiet I can’t sleep.
Grabbing my phone, I stream some music to my Bluetooth speakers and lie back down, tonight’s conversation playing in my head for the fiftieth time since she left. While she had a string of extremely valid points, the one thing that sticks out in my mind is what she said before she finally walked out the door …
She loves me.
Veronica said it a few times over the years, but she never meant it. She thought she did at the time, but we were kids. We didn’t know a thing about love. And I never could bring myself to say it back.
But I’ve been that way my whole life, one foot out the door, ready to jump at any time because the things I’ve cared about most in the world have been ripped from me when I least expected it.
And if there’s anything I’ve learned in this life, it’s that when people are in love, they make plans.
But you can’t break plans if you never make them.
I roll to my side, staring at the empty half of the mattress where just twenty-four hours ago she slept beside me.
Maybe I should’ve stopped her from leaving. Maybe I shouldn’t have stood there like a schmuck, letting her walk away, but I’m a selfish bastard and that’s exactly the kind of thing selfish bastards do. I figured if I allowed myself to be with her, sooner or later she’d realize I’m not all that great, and she’d leave and it’d be the worst hell I could ever imagine.
So yeah. I let her go.
This way no one gets hurt.
Someone told me once that the way a heart breaks depends on how hard it was dropped. Some breaks are clean—and some shatter, sending millions of shards everywhere, shards so small you can’t see them …
…but you always feel them.
My god, do you feel them.
I can only hope—for her sake—this was a clean break.
Forty-One
Brighton
* * *
I keep my eye on my bathroom door Saturday morning as the timer on my phone counts down from two minutes. The pregnancy test I bought at the pharmacy on the drive home from the gym earlier today is still processing …
I’m convinced my mother’s going to barge in here at any second for some random reason and see the Dixie cup and white stick and start freaking out.