by Cassia Leo
The Way We Break
The Story of Us: Book Two
Cassia Leo
Contents
Copyright
About the book
Dedication
Part 3: Bargaining
1. Rory
2. Houston
3. Rory
4. Houston
5. Rory
6. Houston
7. Rory
8. Rory
9. Houston
10. Rory
11. Houston
12. Rory
13. Houston
14. Rory
Part 4: Depression
15. Rory
16. Houston
17. Rory
18. Houston
19. Rory
20. Houston
21. Rory
22. Houston
23. Rory
24. Houston
25. Rory
26. Houston
27. Rory
Thank you!
Acknowledgments
Also by Cassia Leo
About the Author
THE WAY WE BREAK
The Story of Us: Book Two
by Cassia Leo
cassialeo.com
Copyright © 2015 by Cassia Leo
First Edition. All rights reserved.
Cover art by Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations.
Editing by Red Adept Publishing.
Copyediting by Marianne Tatom.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without expressed written permission from the author; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
All characters and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The stunning continuation of the USA Today bestselling Story of Us series.
The truth about Hallie has torn Houston and Rory apart for a second time. Houston is finally unburdened of the secret his sister confided in him, but now he must deal with the aftermath.
He has vowed to set things right for Rory, and he's determined to get her back. But the destruction left in the wake of Hallie's letter is not the only obstacle he must face. Houston must find a way to win Rory back by showing her their story isn't over yet.
In her desperation to move past the anguish of Hallie's secret and Houston’s lies, Rory seeks solace in Liam. When Liam is transferred to another tech company in California, Rory jumps at his invitation to leave Portland, and her broken heart, behind. In California, Rory finds a friend who opens new doors for her in the literary world. But does this new friend have ulterior motives?
For my father.
December 4, 2014
The French have a phrase I’ve become quite familiar with: la douleur exquise. Translated to English, it literally means exquisite pain. But the French use this phrase to refer to the excruciating pain of wanting something—or someone—you cannot have.
For me, la douleur exquise refers to the friendship I lost when my best friend Hallie Cavanaugh took her own life exactly six years ago today. The friendship I so desperately want back.
La douleur exquise also alludes to Hallie’s older brother, Houston Cavanaugh. Everything about him. From the magical moment I first laid eyes on him when I was eleven years old, to the disenchanting moment when his wife attacked me just over three months ago. Houston is the one wish I’ve held on to for more than half my life. You can’t hold onto a wish for that long without incurring the agony of deprivation. And the pain of wanting Houston has been the most excruciating anguish I’ve ever endured, until he showed up on my doorstep three months ago and completely obliterated my heart.
The tattoo artist holds my wrist steady as he focuses on the design he’s carving into the delicate skin on the inside of my left forearm. Each stroke of his tattoo gun delivers microdroplets of ink deep beneath the surface of my skin. I try to focus on the shades of blue and green hair sticking out the sides of his baseball cap as he leans over my arm, to block out the sharp burning sensation, but it doesn’t help.
“I’m almost done,” he says, lifting his head to flash me a sparkling smile. “Just relax your hand.”
I glance at my left hand, where I have a white-knuckled grip on his pinky. I quickly relax my fingers and he shakes out his hand. Then he grabs my wrist again.
“Sorry. It’s my first time,” I reply. “It…”
“Hurts? No worries. I’ll try and make it quick.” He winks at me then bows his head to get back to work.
I can’t help but blush at the innuendo in our conversation. Biting my lip, I close my eyes and try not to flinch as he retraces the lines of my tattoo. Yes, it hurts, but not as bad as the pain of losing my best friend, my parents, and the only man I’ve ever loved.
My mind draws back to August 27th, the day Houston handed me Hallie’s suicide note. The words Hallie never intended for me to see. In that note, my best friend confessed to having had an affair with my father the summer before our freshman year at the University of Oregon. She took her own life just one week after my father made it clear the affair was over. Hallie couldn’t live knowing she had betrayed me. And Houston held on to that note for more than five years, trying desperately not to betray Hallie.
After Houston left my apartment, I called my mother, crying hysterically. My world as I knew it was falling apart. I needed someone to hold me and tell me everything would be okay. That this was as bad as it would get. I wanted her to stroke my hair, tell me I had hit bottom and there was nowhere to go but up.
I was so wrong.
My mother arrived at my apartment and immediately took me in her arms the moment I opened the front door. I buried my face in her silver shoulder-length hair and wept even harder when I recalled how her hair, once naturally auburn like mine, had turned almost completely gray during the seven-month period after she divorced my father five years earlier. She had also suffered. But… did that mean she knew about the affair?
She stroked my hair, just like I wanted her to, and squeezed me tightly. “Oh, honey. I knew Houston would hurt you again. I hate that you had to find out this way.”
A flash of anger sparks inside me and I push her away. “This way? What do you mean by that? How long have you known about the affair?”
Her eyes are wide as her mouth drops open slightly, her mind grasping for the right words, which seem to be just out of her reach.
“How long?” I shout at her and she flinches.
“I didn’t know. I… I had my suspicions, but your father denied it. Kept on denying it, even after she…”
“Is that why you divorced him?”
She swallows hard, but she doesn’t answer me.
“You’ve suspected it all this time and you never told me?”
Her eyebrows furrow beneath her silver fringe. “I’m sorry, Rory, but I didn’t want to hurt you. Not if there were even the slightest chance that I could be wrong.”
I shake my head in dismay. “Everyone is so busy trying not to hurt me. No one stops to think about how much it hurt for me to be in the dark all those years.”
“I’m so sorry, honey.” She reaches for my hair and I push her hand away. Her mouth tightens into a hard line as she clasps her hands in front of her. Her disappointed-teacher stance. “Rory, please try and understand this from my point of view.”
“Your point of view is that you didn’t want to hurt me. I get that, Mom. What I don’t get is why you felt you had the right to decide what pain was too great for me to face. Because I lost my best friend and, somehow, I got through that. I even managed to build a small semblance of a life for myself. When did I ever give you the impression that I couldn’t handle pain?”
She presses her
lips together as her eyes well up with tears. “You’re right,” she whispers. “I should have told you. You’re stronger than I gave you credit for.” She lets out a soft sigh as she looks me in the eye. “I’m sorry for underestimating you.”
It’s been three months and eight days since that conversation with my mother and I don’t know what hurts more: not knowing if I can ever trust my parents again or not knowing if they were right. What if I’m not strong enough to handle this level of pain? What if I’ve fallen too far, without Houston to catch me this time?
Zack, the tattoo artist, begins wiping away the excess ink and blood from my left arm, then he sits up and smiles. “Want to take a look and tell me if there’s anything you want me to go over again before you leave? Anything you want changed or detailed?”
I hold up my arm, but the tattoo is upside down from my vantage point. I smile at the beautifully scripted words. Looking up at him, I shake my head. “No, it’s perfect the way it is. Thank you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine.”
My stomach flutters a bit at the warm expression in his green eyes, but I flinch when I hear Liam’s voice.
“You’re all set?” Liam asks from the doorway of the private tattoo suite.
Zack’s face gets serious. “Hey, you gotta stay outside until we’re done. Shop policy, to avoid contamination.”
I smile at Liam over my shoulder. “All set.”
Liam glares at Zack. “Can I come in now?”
Zack responds with a wave of his hand, as if to say, Be my guest. As he rolls away on his stool to grab a bandage kit off the supply counter behind him, Liam makes his approach.
He leans over my chair to get a better look at the tattoo, letting out a soft puff of laughter. “What does it mean?”
I didn’t tell Liam what I was getting tattooed on my arm. I was afraid he would know what la douleur exquise means, both in French and to me. I stare at the tattoo as I try to think of how to answer Liam. It’s a heart with a banner underneath bearing the phrase la douleur exquise. Above the heart is the date December 4, 2008. Inside the heart is the phrase “No friendship, no love.”
“It means I miss my friend.”
Liam flashes me a tight-lipped smile then heads back outside while Zack cleans and bandages my new tattoo. Zack sends me off with a plastic bag filled with a packet of gauze, antiseptic cream, and saline wash.
Once we’re outside, Liam and I keep our heads down, and I keep my arm tucked into my coat, braced against the sudden onslaught of rain. We walk quickly to the truck, where Liam opens the passenger door for me to climb inside, but he doesn’t say anything. I can sense some tension, though I’m not sure if it’s because of the tattoo or because he’s as nervous as I am right now.
I wipe away the cool droplets of rain on my forehead as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “Are you okay?” I ask.
He chuckles as he slides the key into the ignition. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”
I should probably explain the tattoo in more detail, but I’m afraid it might disturb the delicate balance Liam and I have established between friendship and… I don’t even know how I would characterize our relationship. Some days, I feel as if Liam came into my life at just the right moment. Almost as if it were fate. Other days, I feel as if we were thrust together by extenuating circumstances, and now we’re just riding comfortably on the inertia of that initial push.
“I’m good,” I reply with a smile I hope hides the way my nerves are buzzing beneath my skin, making my skin itch.
“You don’t look so good. Are you sure you want to do this?”
There could be two meanings to this question, since there are two terrifying things Liam and I are doing today. The first is something I’ve been putting off for years and the second is something I should probably put off for a few years. I decide to answer his question as if he’s referring to the first thing.
“One hundred percent sure. It’s not that I want to do it. I need to.”
“Right,” he replies, pulling out of the parking space outside the tattoo studio. “Needing something and wanting something are two very different things.”
I’m not sure if this is a jab at the meaning of my tattoo, so I decide to ignore that possibility. Instead, I carefully slide the sleeve of my jacket up to my elbow and pull off three of the four pieces of tape holding the bandage in place over my tattoo. Then I slip my phone out of my pocket to text Kenny a picture of it. I replace the tape and wait anxiously for his response, which comes less than a minute later.
Kenny: Ooh, la la. French. What does it mean?
Me: The exquisite pain of wanting something you cannot have.
Kenny: You should just start wearing turtlenecks and move to France already. You’ve got that tortured artist thing down.
Me: I don’t think I’ve graduated to that level of artiste yet, but I’m working on it.
Kenny: What does Liam the lumbersexual think of your new badge?
I glance at Liam to make sure he can’t see my phone screen, then I type my response.
Me: Not sure he knows what it means. Not even sure I do.
Kenny: Sweetheart, you can pretend with him and you can pretend with yourself, but you cannot pretend with me.
Me: I have to go. I’ll call you later.
Kenny: Oh, yes you will. And don’t forget who you’re spending New Year’s Eve with. Hint: He doesn’t have a luxurious beard.
I look at Liam and he’s wearing that soft smile that always makes me feel as if he knows something I don’t know. “What?”
“Nothing. What did Kenny think of your new tat?”
“How do you know it was Kenny?”
He shakes his head as he turns onto the highway toward Salem. “Who else would it be?”
“He thinks it makes me a tortured artist.”
He chuckles as he looks over his shoulder to change lanes. “No comment.”
“What does that mean? Do you agree with him?”
“Are we really going to argue over whether or not you’re a tortured artist?”
I turn my attention back to the rain pounding on the windshield. “Sorry. Automatic response.”
“We’ve gone over this, Rory. I respect you. You don’t have anything to prove to me.”
I let out a deep sigh. “I know. I’m sorry.”
I’ve been picking fights with Liam a lot lately and I think it’s just a way for me to prove I’m not weak. I can stand up for myself. But it’s a stupid way to prove myself to him, especially when he’s made it clear I have nothing to prove. It’s my parents and Houston who didn’t think I was strong enough, not Liam.
My stomach clenches as I think of the last time I saw my parents, five weeks ago, October 24th. It had been eight and a half weeks since Houston handed me Hallie’s suicide note. My mom had come to my apartment to try to talk to me again. After two years of almost-daily visits from my mom, not talking to her for eight weeks was taking a toll on both of us. But when I saw her, the anger over her betrayal came flooding back to me and I demanded she leave.
“You can’t keep shutting me out, Rory. It’s not healthy.”
“You want to know what’s not healthy? That my father hasn’t returned a single one of my calls in eight weeks. Eight weeks! You want to see me, then next time you come, bring him with you.”
She pursed her lips the way only a former schoolteacher could. “That’s not fair. I have no control over what your father does. I never have. You have to stop punishing me for his mistakes.”
I looked her in the eye and gritted my teeth. “You’re right. You have no control over him… But maybe I do.”
I slid my phone out of my pocket and dialed my father’s office number, anxiously tapping my foot as I waited for an answer.
“Talbert, Charles, and Associates, may I help you?” the receptionist said, her voice husky with boredom.
“James Charles, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Mrs. Le
iderbach,” I replied coolly.
“Just a moment, Mrs. Leiderbach.”
My mom’s eyes widened at my fake name. She knew I was serious. There would be no more hiding. This was all going to come to a head now.
“James speaking.”
My dad’s voice knocked the breath out of me, and suddenly I couldn’t speak. We hadn’t spoken in months. Though I knew his voice hadn’t changed, he sounded different. Just hearing him speak brought up memories of the times he’d carry me to bed after I’d fall asleep on the sofa. I remembered the crisp scent of his aftershave and wondered if Hallie had loved that smell.
This thought brought my voice back. “You inconceivable asshole.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Dad.”
“Rory? What—what’s going on here?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb with me. You’ve been avoiding me for eight weeks. You know exactly what’s going on. But I’m through being ignored.”
“Rory, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been working a death row appeal for months. I don’t have any messages from you.”
“Stop lying! I’m tired of being lied to.” I took a moment to unclench my fist, rubbing my hand over my jeans to soothe the nail marks. “You’re coming to my apartment right now and you’re going to tell me everything or, I swear to God, I will come down there and tell everyone in that office what you did to Hallie.”
“Jesus Christ, Rory. You can’t call my office and do this. I’m in the middle of a very important case.”
“Yeah, well, I think the story of you seducing an underage girl is going to make a very important case with the Disciplinary Board. Don’t you?”
Every seething breath he took rustled loud and clear through my phone speaker. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
My mother busied herself making coffee while I checked my phone obsessively, waiting for him to arrive. I expected to get a text message from him saying he couldn’t make it. He’d been called away to a meeting, or some other excuse. But no text messages came through and thirty-two minutes later, the knock at the door made me jump.
