I thought things were different. That we were different.
I thought I was okay with my destiny.
No, I was.
Until Leigh.
Until she showed me every scar.
Until she made me realize how badly I wanted to let my walls down.
To love somebody and let them love me.
I love you.
The words still feel like a weapon. They're poison in the humid air.
I can't say it.
Can't think it.
I certainly can't feel it.
How the fuck do you love somebody?
I don't know.
Will I ever?
Will I ever be enough for someone?
For her?
Questions bounce around my head as I walk the winding concrete path.
The hotels are alive. Bright. Romantic.
The world is couples. Two people sharing mai tais at the bar, leaning over the candlelight, staring into each other's eyes.
Jumping in the pool.
Kissing under the moonlight.
I walk until the trail ends.
A cliff hangs over the beach in imposing browns. It screams climb me, I dare you. You won't survive. I'll throw you into the ocean, drown you, smash your body to pieces against the rocks.
It's gorgeous.
Dangerous.
Intoxicating.
The shining stars promise hope.
But they're bullshit.
It's all bullshit.
It's not enough that she loves me.
It's not enough unless I love her back.
I want to.
Fuck, maybe I do.
But that word…
It's still a knife in my chest.
Penny and I traded I love yous every day, without fail. That last year, when she was done with me, she still stared into my eyes and cooed I love you.
And I whispered it back.
But it was bullshit.
She didn't love me.
And I… did I still love her?
I know what that feels like, that twisted, rote I love you, but the real thing?
I don't have a fucking clue.
Is it the couple walking hand in hand along the beach, laughing as they dip their toes in the surf, kissing under the moonlight?
Is turning over every little detail? The berry shade she wears on her lips. Her purple hair twirling around her finger. The chipped silver polish on her nails.
The sound of my name on her lips.
The sound of hers on mine.
Is it the hole in my gut, thinking about waking up without her tomorrow and every day after?
Love is supposed to be a good thing.
But it feels more like a weapon.
I'm sorry, but I don't love you anymore.
I'm sorry. I love you. I need more.
I love you.
I loved you.
That's why I'm hurting you.
I'm sorry, but I have to twist that knife.
I have to pry your heart open.
And tear it to shreds.
I love you too much to leave it alone.
None of it makes sense.
The walk back to the hotel fails to help.
Leighton is gone. There's no sign of her in the room. Nothing but the smell of her coconut shampoo on the sheets.
It goes right to my bones.
It tears a hole in my gut.
Is that love—the aching feeling in my chest that begs for her?
I don't know. But I know love shouldn't be defined in negatives.
I'm on a fucking cloud when she's here.
I want to wake up next to her.
I want to fucking dream about her.
I practice the words in my head. I love you, Leighton.
They're not toxic when they're about her.
They're effervescent.
It takes forever, but they find a way to my lips.
I love you, Leighton.
They dissolve into the air.
They hit me someplace deep.
It feels good on my tongue. Like a dirty demand.
Like her name.
But I'm still not sure what the fuck that means.
I pull out my cell and text her.
Ryan: Let me know you're okay.
She texts back immediately.
Leighton: I'm safe.
Ryan: Where are you?
Leighton: Safe.
She isn't gonna tell me. I know her that well.
Or maybe I don't. Maybe Leighton wants me to ignore her boundaries. To fight her no. Plead for a yes. Beg her to change her mind.
But I respect her too much for that.
Ryan: I'll be here if you want to talk. All night.
Nothing.
I stare at my cell for ten minutes, but it fails to blink with a notification. The humid air—the AC is off—gets warmer.
My suit sticks to my skin. My tie strangles my throat.
Layer by layer, I shed my suit.
I leave it a mess on the floor—what does it matter how I look tomorrow?—and step into the shower.
The hot water washing away the sand and the salt, but it does nothing to erase the day.
When I close my eyes, I see her. The hurt in her blue-green eyes. The tremble of her lip. The heave of her chest as she mustered up the courage to spill those three little words.
My eyes get itchy. Tired. I shampoo, condition, soap, scrub, rinse.
When I'm done, I step out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel, take out my contacts.
My eyes relax behind my thick lenses. The world isn't quite as sharp. But then it's not like I can see any of the shit in front of me.
She left because I wasn't enough.
How the fuck do I deal with that?
Leigh is my best friend. My silver lining. My favorite part of every day.
Losing her as a partner is one thing. But this…
She doesn't want to see me again.
She wants to run a million miles away.
That's what she does when someone hurts her. She burns the bridge to the ground.
Unless—
There's a knock on the door.
My heart thuds against my chest.
My veins buzz with nervous energy.
I close my eyes. Please be here, Leigh. Please come back. Please be mine.
I need a little more time to put the pieces together.
That's all.
I pull the door open, but Leighton isn't the person standing in the frame.
It's Penny.
Chapter Forty-Five
Leighton
Palm trees and storefronts blur into the deep blue sky.
Dean stops at a red light. He taps his fingers against the dash in time with the song.
Hawaii's local rock station is fond of grunge. Eddie Vedder mumbles agonizing poetry over a heavy guitar riff.
Does Ryan hate Pearl Jam as much as he hates Nirvana? Not that Ryan really hates Nirvana. He taps his toe along to Smells Like Teen Spirit whenever it comes on at Inked Hearts.
Which is whenever Dean has say over the music. He's Mr. Guitar Rock. It's a bit much for me—how can anyone who did this much heroin be this miserable?—but it's better than Walker with the metal.
Only I'm not going to stroll into Inked Hearts Tuesday and torture Ryan (and Brendon, if I'm really lucky) with my favorite pop-punk albums.
He isn't going to tease me about how I can find all these pathetic guys appealing. I know that song was popular when you were in middle school. Not like I missed it. But come on. The guy is begging his ex-girlfriend to fuck him like it's an insult. It's pathetic. Does he really think that lowly of his sexual abilities?
I'm not going to say anything about how he should understand how men are always obsessed with who their ex is fucking. Because isn't he?