by Blair, E. K.
After a while, a knock sounds, and I call out, “It’s open.”
“I could’ve been a crazed killer,” Ady scolds when she lets herself in. “You didn’t even ask who it was.”
“At least they would’ve put me out of my misery.”
“Ha ha. Not funny.” She walks over to where I’m lying on the couch and stares down at me. “Open your eyes.”
“They are open,” I tell her.
“Is this what you’ve been doing all afternoon? Getting high?”
Slowly, I sit up with a groan. “No.”
“Uh-huh. So, who’s this girl?”
I stand and drag myself into the bedroom as she follows. Flopping down on my bed, I hand over the laptop. “Open it and see for yourself.”
She sits next to me, lifts the lid, and after a second, she asks, “Why are you trolling his social media?”
Cocking my head, I confess, “Because I’m a loser.”
“Do you know who she is?”
I shake my head. “She’s pretty.”
“No, I’m not going to let you do this to yourself.” She closes the laptop and sets it aside.
“You think he loves her?”
“Kate, stop.”
“Do you know he deleted all of our pictures?”
“You can’t do this,” she says gently but firmly. “You can’t live in the past.”
“I know it’s been a year, but I can’t believe he’s already with someone else.”
“What does it even matter? she stresses. “You’re moving on.”
“Am I? Because to me, it feels like I’m stuck.”
“I know it feels like you are. It might even feel like you’re drowning, but I assure you, you aren’t.”
A sadness so deeply rooted inside me exposes itself, and my throat tightens in its presence.
“You’re doing exactly what you should be doing,” she says, adding on the sly, “Aside from stalking him on the internet. But that’s beside the point.”
“I don’t feel like I’m doing anything.”
“You came back,” she states firmly. “That’s a huge step, but you need to start letting go of him.”
The thought doesn’t sit well with me.
“I’m not sure I know who I am without him,” I reveal, my voice softening under the weight of gloom.
“I think you do. I think you’re just scared.”
I am. I’m terrified, and I’m not even sure of what, but the fear is there. There’s a mountain of emotions I need to work through, but I don’t know where to start or how to begin.
“I still love him,” I confess shamefully because I shouldn’t care about him at all after what he did to me.
“I know you do, but this won’t last forever.”
Rolling my head back with a heavy sigh, I breathe, “I hate this.”
“Come on,” she says, taking me by the arms to get my attention. “Look at yourself. You don’t see him hiding away, and I seriously doubt he’s moping around like this, so you shouldn’t be either.”
I lean to the side and tip over. Lying on the bed, I drape my arm over my forehead with a whiny, “Why did I even get involved with a guy? I knew better.”
“We all do things we know better than to do. That’s life. But, if you really want to start moving past this, the first thing you need to do is unfollow him and, if you haven’t already deleted his number from your phone, you need to do that as well.”
Slipping my arm off my face, I give her a look that screams are you crazy?
“I’m serious. I had to do the same thing when it came to my ex. I held on to him for far too long, but if I hadn’t let him go, I never would’ve fallen in love with Micah.”
“Micah loves you so much,” I mumble. “It makes me sick.”
Ady rolls her eyes. “You’re blasted.”
“I know.” I giggle as I reach out for her hand so she can pull me up. “It’s better than sitting around crying, right?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never tried it.”
My mouth falls. “Are you serious? You’ve never gotten high?”
She shakes her head.
“But you live with two stoners. Hell, you’re dating one.”
“Doesn’t mean I partake.”
“Like, never?” I ask, shocked that she’s more straitlaced than I thought.
“I’m too scared of not being in control,” she reveals, and there’s something in her expression that tells me this most likely stems from whatever it was she went through.
The last thing I want to do is make her feel uncomfortable, so I let it drop. I have no clue what she’s suffered, but if it’s anything like what I’m coming out of, she doesn’t need my judgment.
Plus, I know what it feels like not to have control. How quickly I would lose it when Caleb got angry. There wasn’t a thing I could do or say to stop his rage once he lost his temper. I’ve never felt a greater love than when I was with him, but at the same time, I’ve never felt as much terror. My fear ran rampant, but I still stayed, and I’ve spent a lot of time trying to make sense of that. Logic tells me I should’ve left the first time he put his hands on me in anger, but I didn’t—I cared for Caleb too much to turn my back on him.
But eventually, I did.
Maybe the reason seeing that picture hurts so much is because it’s proof that he has finally turned his back on me as well—on our love.
“I can’t do it,” I say when I pick up the laptop and hand it over.
“You want me to?”
I nod and then sit and watch as she removes him from my friend’s list, and when I say, “The phone too,” she grabs my cell and deletes his contact information. If it weren’t for the pot, I’d be in tears, but I remind myself that I still have the picture of Caleb and me tucked in the drawer of my nightstand. If I need him, he’s still there.
KATE
“What the hell was I thinking?” I mutter under my breath as I stare at Caleb’s profile screen that shows nothing but a message box that reads: This account is private.
If I had been straight that night, I never would have given her permission to delete him from my friend’s list. I can’t take it back and send him another request because then I would look like a psycho ex-girlfriend. He doesn’t need to know my craving to cyber-stalk him and his new girlfriend.
It’s the weekend, and I have nothing to do. I would hit the beach and kill time in the water, but that would put me at risk of running into old friends and their curious eyes. Instead, I sit around my condo as the walls slowly close in on me.
A month has passed since I moved back, and although Ady has been a huge source of support, I worry my neediness for her company might start to annoy her, so I try to keep an appropriate distance. It’s difficult to be alone, the space grants freedom for my mind to roam into dark territories.
All I have is time.
Time to think, time to dissect, time to question.
Time to examine my own judgment.
Lately, I’ve been asking myself why I didn’t leave him and why I was okay with him putting his hands on me. The answer comes quickly and is wholly unsatisfying: I loved him. It makes me wonder if it comes so quickly because it’s the easiest answer. And if it’s the easiest answer, does that mean it’s the shallowest, and if it’s the shallowest, is it meaningless?
It’s a turnstile of questions that cause my head to spin so rapidly that it’s impossible for me to think straight.
I’m going insane.
Loving Caleb was tumultuous—extraordinary on the hips of a hurricane. We could’ve devastated worlds with the way we loved each other, churning and bursting inside vicious winds—like a disaster.
And then another question reveals itself: Am I confusing disaster with love?
Shoving my laptop to the side, I crawl out of bed and exchange it for the couch. I find the remote and turn the television on to some random daytime movie I’m not the least bit interested in, but it serves to numb my thoughts, and I zo
ne out.
Halfway paying attention, I’m yanked out of my reverie when someone knocks. I shut the television off before walking over to the door and pushing onto my tiptoes to see through the peephole. Trent is on the other side.
I draw back as my heart pounds loudly in the silence of the room.
Another round of knocking needles my anxiety, and with my hands pressed against the door, I slowly lean in and take another look, noticing the scruff he now wears on his face. I wait for him to leave, but he isn’t budging.
“Kate,” he says, his voice puncturing through the delicate fibers of my heart. “I know you’re home, I heard the TV.”
Shit!
“You can’t keep avoiding me.”
Resting my forehead against the door, I stare at the floor as my stomach knots.
I’m not ready to face him.
Opening my mouth, I hope to inhale courage, but there isn’t any to be found, and when I speak, my voice trembles. “I can’t do this right now.”
I look through the peephole again and find his head is down and his hands are braced on either side of the door. He appears to be angry, but when he looks up, there are lines of sadness etched across his forehead.
“How did you even find where I live?”
“I stole the address from Ady’s phone,” he reveals.
She should really put a password on her cell.
“Come on, Kate. Let me in.”
His words plead gently, tugging on my emotions. There’s a desperation in his tone that moves my hand to the lock. I hesitate and then turn it. The click is loud enough for him to hear, and when his arms drop at the invitation I cowardly gave him, I take a few steps back.
A second passes, and when he opens the door and comes inside, a swarm of chaos combusts inside my chest. The door closes, and all I can do is stare at him. It’s funny how a year can change someone. Along with the scruff, his hair now hangs below his ears, and the muscles roped along his shoulders and arms are more defined. But the one constant are his distinctive dual-colored eyes—one hazel, one blue.
They’re soft as they scan over my face, eliciting everything I felt from the last time I saw him. Flashes of horror from that night cripple my heart: Caleb slamming his knuckles into my face, Micah and Brody attacking him, Trent rushing me out of the house as everyone stares in horror. It’s a night I force myself not to think about, a memory I’ve fought hard to bury but haven’t been able to.
Trent takes a step toward me, and fear causes me to take a step away. He takes another; so do I. Panic has me turning my back to him as my feet stumble beneath me, but before I can get away, he wraps his arms around me from behind, hugging me close to his chest. The touch is profound and too much for me to handle. Out of nowhere, all the walls I’ve worked carefully to construct around me start to crack.
The pressure mounting inside me becomes too much, and I grip tightly on to his forearms that are bound against my chest. His head falls to the side of mine, and no matter how hard I fight to keep myself from crying, I choke on my pent-up anguish and break. Tears fall, and when I slump over, he holds me tighter. His chest vibrates against my back with such intensity it scares me. I don’t know what it is he’s feeling—anger would be my best guess.
I’m not ready to face the consequences of my actions, but I don’t have a choice when he softly asks, “Why did you leave my bed that night?”
My head shakes because I know he won’t understand.
“Where did you go?” he continues, the strain in his voice cutting through old wounds.
“Trent, please.”
“You went back to him, didn’t you?” His heavy breaths mingle with my soft whimpers. “Just put it to rest for me and tell me the truth.”
I shake my head, and when he sighs in relief, I jerk from within his hold. His arms release me, and I quickly step away.
“Talk to me, Kate.”
I run my hands along my cheeks, collecting tears before I finally turn to face him. My shoulders sink in humiliation, but I take a second to look into his eyes, to really look into them, and when I do, I can’t find a glint of anger or judgment or condemnation over this whole situation. “Aren’t you mad at me?”
“Mad? Why would I be mad at you?”
I’m stunned because I assumed his reaction to be completely different from what he’s giving me. “Because I ran from you.”
“I’ve been fucking worried,” he admits as he steps closer, but this time, I don’t move away or try to escape. “You vanished on me.”
Tears resurface, weakening my cheap façade and spinning him into swirls of watercolor. “I’m sorry,” I weep, and when he gathers me into his arms again, I go freely.
His hand cups the back of my head, pressing me close to his heart, which beats fiercely against my ear, and I cry. We stand in the center of my living room as I try to make sense of it all, but there’s no sense to be made out of this.
His touch is too much, too forgiving and too understanding, and I can’t take it. I step out of his arms before walking over to the sofa and taking a seat. Trent remains standing, looking at me as if he’s waiting for me to speak.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Running a hand through his hair, he asks. “Why were you ever with him?”
The air I breathe thickens with the stench of shame while a tear slips between my lips, its bitterness swallowing me whole.
“Because,” is all I give, my voice trembling in meekness. Perhaps there will come a day when I’ll be able to trust him with my truth, but I’m not ready. I may never be ready.
And yet, there’s a part of me that wants to confess everything just to free myself of it.
He walks over and sits next to me, imploring, “Because why?”
Doubting he’ll drop this, I go ahead and break off a piece of the truth. “Because I loved him.”
He exposes the anger I knew existed. His eyes burn with it, and his jaw flexes before he grits out, “He fucking hit you, Kate. He had you pinned to the ground with his knee jammed into your spine—”
“Stop.”
“He hit you in the face—”
“Stop!” I beg, my hands fist against the tingling spikes of anxiety as he throws haunting reminders at me. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Are you seriously going to defend that dickfuck?” he fumes. “And you’re right, I don’t know what I’m talking about because I know that what I saw that night was only a fraction of what he put you through.”
My head falls into my hands as painful memories carve their existence down my cheeks, leaving me with scars that won’t ever let me forget the nightmare I lived. But those nightmares were embedded between moments of pure love.
His hand presses softly against my back. “I’m sorry.”
“You act like you know everything,” I accuse when I raise my head. “Like you’re so perfect.”
“I never claimed to be perfect.”
Sadness hits steel and recoils into anger. It’s a shift so sudden that there’s no time to second-guess myself before I’m lashing out and telling him, “Then why are you sitting here, acting as if you didn’t have a hand in any of this?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You knew you were provoking him, even when I told you to back off, you kept pushing. You made everything worse!”
“Fuck that,” he counters. “Are you seriously blaming me for what that bastard did?”
“I’m just sick of you acting like you have all the answers when you don’t have a clue!” I yell and then stand because I need distance from him. “You think you’re so much better?”
Trent lurches off the couch, heated and defending, “Do I think I’m better than the guy who beat the shit out of you? Yes! Yes, I think that. No fucking question about it. He’s a pussy and can lick my nine for all I fucking care!”
“Get out!” I shout. With my emotions running on high, overflowing and spewing out in animo
sity, I stalk over to the door, open it, and yell, “I’m done.”
He stands, as if to test me, but I’m too tired for his games.
“Leave!”
This time, he sees the ferocity in my eyes and can hear it in my voice—hell, it’s so overpowering he can probably taste it. With no more to say, he stalks across the room, right past me, and out of my condo. When he slams the door behind him, all I’m left with are more crumbled pieces and a pounding heart that sends me straight to the floor.
KATE
“So, I talked to Micah, and he offered to let us use the reservations he made for tonight,” Ady tells me over the phone.
“What are you talking about?”
“Girls’ night!”
Looking down at my mismatched sweats, I shake my head. “No way.” My hair is in a ratty bun, and I’m already halfway through the red heart-shaped box of chocolates that I picked up from the drug store last night. No joke, there are tiny paper wrappers everywhere.
It’s utterly pathetic.
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m busy,” I tell her, not bothering to come up with a better excuse because there’s no way in hell am I going out tonight.
“No, you’re not.”
“I have to clean my condo.”
“You’re a neat freak.”
“Ady, no!” I stress, pushing the nearly empty box of Valentine’s chocolates off my lap. “This is not the night I want to go out.”
“This is the perfect night to go out,” she counters with too much pep in her tone. “It’ll be fun! No boys at all,” she adds as if that will be enough to tempt me. It isn’t. “You can’t leave me hanging, girl. I just let my boyfriend off the Valentine’s Day hook tonight. He’s already made other plans with his friends.”
“Tell him you changed your mind. He loves you; he’ll drop his plans in a heartbeat to take you out.”
“No.” She’s stern and demanding now. “You’re going out, so be ready by seven. I’ll pick you up. Reservations are at eight,” she states and then hangs up before I can argue.
I rush to call her back.
One ring is all it takes for her to answer. “You better look fierce,” is the only thing she says before hanging up on me once more.
