Honestly, I can’t believe my door hasn’t been knocked down by my family demanding answers.
I know they know we broke up.
I know they know why we broke up.
I love her. I know for a fact I do. Yes, I mean in the present tense.
But…
I don’t deserve her. I let her go before she figured it out for herself.
What is it they say? Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
If walking away then ignoring her didn’t make me lose her, the shit I just said will.
“Jesus Christ, Jason.” I wince; that’s the third time JD’s used my full name. “I don’t understand.”
Join the club.
“I thought you giving up was bad, but that?” She again thrusts an arm at the door, wincing when the IV pulls from the aggressiveness of the action. “What you just did here…”
I want to tell her. I want to be able to lay out all my fears, my insecurities, let her take them away and make me feel whole the way only she can because she’s my other half and always has been. When one of us falls, the other is there to lift them up.
It’s our motto, an unspoken oath since we shared a womb.
How am I supposed to tell her I broke our vow to each other by keeping this from her?
And if I can’t tell Jordan, how the fuck do I explain it to Mels?
I can’t.
So I don’t.
Instead, I run, and when that doesn’t work, I push.
“This isn’t you, Jason.” Another use of the full name. “You’re a fighter, a protector. It’s who you are. Why else do you think you became a defender?”
Because I would never be good enough to compete with Ryan on offense.
The thought is ugly and not what I need right now.
“You push, and you prod, and you make sure everyone else goes after what makes them happy, and yet you do nothing when it comes to your own happiness.”
My gaze slides to the floor, studying the scuff marks on the linoleum. I may not have told Mels about my hang-ups, but I sure as shit knew hers—the information about Nate notwithstanding. After maliciously using them against her, I know it will be a while before I can look at myself in the mirror. And JD? Our eyes are the same, and whatever I might see in them would be a million times worse than any reflection.
My phone is out of my pocket and in my hands without me even realizing I reached for it. My thumbs fly across the screen, typing out a message, begging Mels to come back.
I hover over the send button, the blue arrow mocking me, daring me to tap it.
I shift an inch, and like the thousand or so that came before this one, I keep my finger on the delete button until this message is gone, just like its predecessors.
I made my bed. Time for me to lie in the emptiness of it.
Chapter Forty-Nine
April
Dropping my bag to the floor with a thud, I fall back on the bed, spread out like a starfish. There’s a sense of relief that comes with being out of the city, away from the island that is home to both my heartbreak and my heartbreaker.
I keep waiting for the day when it won’t hurt so much. Don’t they say time heals all wounds? Well, whoever they are can go fuck themselves, because they are full of shit. The breakup happened a month ago—it’s been two weeks since the smackdown in the hospital—and the cracks in my heart have not gotten any smaller. No, those bitches are as deep as the Grand Canyon.
The worst part? I can’t even blame Jase for the mean things he said to me. I lied. For months.
I could have told the truth—should have told the truth.
My phone sits on the nightstand, mocking me with its silence.
Zero texts from Jase. Not that I’ve sent any since that day.
No response from my parents about going to dinner now that we are in the same city.
Silence, silence, silence.
Like the creeper I’ve become, I grab my phone, pulling up Jase’s Instagram and scrolling through his posts.
Hockey.
Hockey.
More hockey.
Baby Logan.
Hockey again.
Mario Kart meme.
Hockey.
Hockey.
Not a potato reference in sight.
The other thing lacking from his feed? A single taunt to Nate.
When I come to about the dozenth post about hockey, I toss my phone to the bed, wincing when it bounces off the mattress and hits the floor with a smack.
I don’t have time to wallow in self-pity. I need to be at the theater in half an hour for our final rehearsal before tomorrow night’s previews begin. It’s the final push before opening night, the last opportunity to test out material before we debut the show back in New York.
Seven days.
Nine performances.
One potentially awkward, needs-to-happen conversation with my older brother.
Good times, Boston. Real good times.
Rolling from the bed, I hoist my bag up to start unpacking. I hate living out of a suitcase, so this is always the first thing I do.
The alarm on my phone dings, telling me it’s time to go or I’ll be late.
There’s only one thing left to unpack.
Unwrapping it from the hoodie I used to protect it during transport, I pull out Mr. Potato Head and set him on the bedside table.
Yes, I brought him with me. Yes, I know it makes me pathetic, but whatever. At least I’ve stopped texting him.
Once all his pieces are back in place, I kiss the spud on the top of his little plastic hat and leave.
The show must go on, after all.
Honey, honey, honey. Where the hell did I put the honey?
I scan the counter in my dressing room for the little plastic bear filled with golden nectar.
Preview number five is in the books, and my throat needs the relief only a giant cup of hot chamomile tea with honey can offer. I’ve had to cut the wine out of my diet completely for the sake of my vocal cords—something my heart is still picketing in protest.
There you are. I spot the sucker peeking out from underneath my brown Norma Jean wig from act one.
I place it on top of the mannequin head I’m supposed to store my wigs on.
A check of the time confirms what I already knew—Nate is late.
Or he’s not coming.
I do my best to ignore how much the idea of that particular scenario hurts and instead focus on preparing my tea.
My thumbnail traces over the tragedy and comedy masks engraved on the wooden tea box Jamie gifted me when he learned we like the same tea to soothe the throat.
Unfortunately, all it does is make me think of Jase—again.
Jase who is gone.
Jase who hates me.
Jase who I still love.
The friends I can no longer contact because it hurts too much to have a connection to the one who broke my heart and not have him in my life.
The same friends who had planned on coming to my show to support me because that’s what they do and my own family—except Nate—can’t be bothered.
Nate who always comes.
Except…
Nate’s not here.
Chapter Fifty
I flip my phone in my hand.
Screen up.
Push with my thumb.
Screen down.
Another roll of my thumb.
Over and over it rotates, screen side up then screen side down. Each time the screen faces me, it lights up with the picture of Melody kissing her Mr. Potato Head and a fresh arrow of pain hits my heart.