Jagged Heart (Broken Bottles Series Book 3)

by Taeuffer, Pamela

  There was no tangling of bodies, luscious stretching against his belly, or rubbing my foot on his hairy, masculine legs.

  He dismissed me quickly by kissing my forehead and patting my back. Lifting me off him, he rolled out of bed with the finality of our failed evening.

  That’s the friendly pat on the back that says goodbye.

  I had more than six hours to contemplate the oncoming loss and prepare myself. Even so, I wasn’t ready. There was no lingering or hugging that morning. Ryan seemed far away and never looked back at me as he headed for the bathroom. I dared not move. I tried to gather my thoughts while Ryan showered. I knew everything would completely break apart if even one finger twitched.

  Wasn't he already moving on with his life?

  “Don’t wait too long,” his sister-in-law, Frances, had said.

  “You’ll regret it forever,” my sister, Jenise had warned.

  “Bathroom’s ready if you want to shower.” Ryan stood with a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair wasn’t even dry.

  “Okay, I won’t be long.” I fought hard to hold in my emotions. Showering with water and tears, I grieved over my failed relationship. I knew I wasn't ready. I shouldn't have taken the risk.

  Would I be able to find anyone who could endure my need for constant reassurances? Was I so much work that I might never find love? Perhaps I already had the answer: Ryan was ready to give up on me after he'd tried to fix me and make me all better.

  When would I be able to make the jump into a secure woman who knew she was worthy of being loved? I was young, I knew I needed to mature, but how long would it take?

  I had believed the gentle promises from this man, a man who'd taken me in his arms and told me he loved me. If I couldn't trust him, and I had dared to share some of my family's secrets with him, was it possible to believe the promises from anyone? Was there a man who would be my friend without judging and rejecting me because of the things I wasn’t able to give?

  Even though I didn’t want to have sex before marriage—at least that was the belief to which I kept returning—I was aggravated Ryan couldn’t respect that part of me.

  Could any relationship last if I didn't give in with sex?

  Was Ryan’s promise to wait for me only guaranteed for three dates? After that, I expected to go all the way? Was this typical of the way men and of women got together?

  Just as my heart felt open and ready, the possibility of love ended. The ugly face of betrayal from another person—and also myself—had been revealed.

  It hurt like hell.

  My fear of another bad thing coming had arrived right on time.

  Ryan obviously expected me to open my body, even though I had repeatedly told him I wasn’t ready for sex. Maybe in his mind, whatever signals he’d interpreted overrode my actual words.

  I just needed time. Why couldn’t he understand that? I never tried to hide that part of me. Didn't he hear me?

  Feeling like a hypocrite, I quickly pulled on the pink sports outfit Ryan had given me. My hair was back in a ponytail. I didn’t take the time to dry it.

  Time had run out.

  When I came out of the bathroom, he was dressed in sweats and a T-shirt. He stood in the doorway with his back turned to me.

  Why won’t you look at me? Have I done something so terrible?

  “I’m ready,” I said timidly.

  When he turned, it was as if he’d given a forced smile to some invisible woman standing in the shadows behind me.

  Once outside, I stood at the passenger door to his car, waiting for him to open it as he had each time we’d been together. Instead, he used his remote to unlock it. Perhaps to avoid even more rejection, he walked to his side of the car and got in.

  There was no opening of any door for us that day.

  They had slammed closed and locked.

  Everything sweet had vanished right before my eyes. Our relationship, our intimacy, our friendship . . . they were suddenly broken into pieces.

  When we pulled up to Veterans' Hospital, I didn't wait for Ryan to open my door. In fact, I almost jumped out before he came to a stop. Quickly walking through the entrance, I put as much distance as I could between us.

  As soon as I got my first smile from Queenie, a divorced woman with two children and diagnosed with breast cancer, I worked hard to stay in the moment, concentrating on the veterans who needed our attention.

  Because I was able to focus, our day there was wonderful. The joy of being around the men and women of our military were experiences unlike any I'd ever had.

  Vincent was a man in his thirties who had three tours of duty and was now in a wheelchair. Although he could have dwelled in the dark parts of his life, his stories were positive and uplifting. He was focused on moving forward.

  Brandon was newly admitted and only nineteen. I gripped his remaining hand and listened to his story of how he’d lost the other to a roadside bomb. He never said so, but I knew by the Medal of Honor that hung around his neck, he had probably saved other lives because of his action.

  The bright eyes, honest smiles, and sometimes tears that accompanied their stories, almost made me forget about the twisting and writhing sickness possessing my body.

  Come on, Nick. Look at the challenges you see all around you. What these men and women wouldn't give to be in the turmoil you are. Stay focused this morning!

  Even as I walked around in the cute, pink sports outfit Ryan had bought for me, I felt him pulling away.

  Temporarily pushing down my feelings, we entered the room of my favorite vet, Johnny Mantle. He and his mother embraced us. Our conversation quickly focused on the call from Lieutenant Governor Del Sol and the invitation they'd received to attend the upcoming charity event in Los Angeles.

  I had gone to LA with Alex a few weeks earlier. Alexandra Flowers was the fiancé of Darrell Sweet, a pitcher on the Goliaths. Along with her friend, Tara Summers, wife of Matt Summers, also a pitcher on team, the three of us had gotten close. She'd invited me, actually demanded, that I go with her on a modeling shoot knowing her agency had arranged for me to do an interview with Mr. Del Sol. It highlighted Traumatic Brain Injury, aka TBI.

  We were invited to a dinner with executives and some of the head designers in the fashion world after the photo shoot. Mr. Del Sol had discussed openly to those at the table how I’d inserted several important questions into an already formatted interview. Partially because I’d taken such a bold action, he'd reached out to Paul at the Veteran's Hospital asking him if there were any vets I saw, which might benefit from the planned winter charity gala. As a result, he extended an invitation to Johnny and his mom.

  “It all happened because of the things I’ve learned from coming here and visiting with you, Johnny.” I turned to Samantha, his mother. “Were you surprised when the Lieutenant Governor called you?”

  "Shocked!" she almost shouted. Both of them sped up as they talked about their reaction.

  Suddenly, I wondered . . . was I was taking something precious away from Ryan? On this visit, my successes were acknowledged instead of his fame.

  The expression on his face seemed woven in fear.

  He’d carefully shared this rewarding place with me. It was the first part of his private life that he’d shared. Was I stealing it, making it my own? It was the first time since I’d been dating him that no mention was made about the Goliaths or Ryan’s pitching.

  I feel so sorry for him. Even though we were only volunteering together last year, visiting here was like our first date. It’s his passion. Oh, God. I feel sick taking away the attention that should be his. What a mess we’ve made.

  We wore the smiles of clowns: wide, happy, and false in almost every way.

  Avoiding each other as if we had a contagious disease, I wondered if there was anything left between us. Were we dead to each other now?

  We carefully circled in hallways and the hospital rooms, making sure not to touch hands and arms, or brush a thigh or bump a hip against each
other. We made big, wide circles whenever we maneuvered in the rooms and hallways. Even though we spent several hours there, I looked away from his face and he from mine.

  He finally turned to address me.

  Looked directly in my eyes.

  My heart jumped in excitement.

  I thought our morning of silence might be over and we could go back to how we were before the cold night fell on us.

  “I need to leave," was the only thing he said. Those four words put an end to our day at the Veterans' Hospital.

  After his announcement, he immediately looked off into the distance.

  My stomach churned in acid.

  I thought I might throw up on the spot.

  We got into his car the same way that we did when we left the motel—in complete and deafening silence.

  Before I had agreed to stay the night with Ryan, when he had reassured me that I could trust him, when our promises and love meant something, he held nothing back.

  Hands that previously made sure I was settled were nowhere to be found. The remote control to open both car doors was enough. He had made a decision that he didn’t have to take care of me any longer.

  Maybe he felt relief.

  Maybe I was more of a burden than he had realized.

  Maybe he was thankful a weight had been lifted off him.

  This time on our drive home, we didn't stop for lunch.

  We did not talk.

  The only thing I had to keep me company was my terrible thoughts and his stony expression.

  It was as if we were back to our beginning—people who weren’t sure if they had anything in common or were anything more than friends, exploring the possibilities of a relationship, hunting and pecking with small bits of conversation, quickly answering the meaningless questions that hung in the air.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” he said after pulling up to my house.

  “Please don’t be angry, Ryan. I thought I was ready. I’m sorry. No one feels worse than I do.”

  First Jerry, now Ryan . . . what’s wrong with me? Am I so weird because I want to wait? Do I want to wait?

  “I’m not angry.” He kissed me on the cheek. “I’m just rethinking things. I’ll see you tomorrow at the game.”

  What kind of statement is that? Rethinking what? Everything you promised? All the sweet things you said? How do my feelings fit into your thoughts? I’m left out of the decision process and if you decide we’re still okay, I’m supposed to gladly go along with you? I drop everything because you choose me? Is that fair?

  Ryan once said, "I won’t leave you or let you go." Those were words I’d longed to hear all my life. I wanted to believe wholehearted they were true. I believed they were true when he said them.

  "Bye," I whispered, hoping he'd hear, hoping he'd respond and tell me we were okay. I closed the door in silence. I stood at the curb, holding my dress, coat, and shoes from our romantic evening. I took a deep breath and dared to watch him turn the corner, hoping he’d wave goodbye. No muscular arm that I loved showed itself to reassure me I’d see him again.

  A child of alcoholism knows these fears well: something bad is coming—it always does; I'm too ashamed to ask for help; I can't talk about our secrets—no one understands; I can't trust anyone—they always leave.

  The last fear—of being abandoned—was the one I was most afraid of and now it had happened to me with new love.

  Once upon a time, I saw my relationship with Ryan as the glowing, red heat from the burning embers of a fire. It seemed to simmer inside our hearts, waiting to explode into joy.

  After his car disappeared from sight, I watched those same ashes scatter into the air, searching for another moment in time, another friend, and almost certainly another love.

  I knew something sweet was gone forever.

  Chapter 3

  The Next Step

  With my head down, I walked inside my house. The only things holding me together were imaginary staples and paper clips.

  My mother passed me as she was coming down the stairs. She started to say something but stopped when I turned away from her.

  I locked my bedroom door and spent the next few hours crying into my royal blue, Adrianna Papell lacy sheath dress. Cast off, impossible, untouchable—I knew those were among the words that now defined me when it came to an intimate relationship. The man who I thought was so special made me feel like I was less of a human being. Good enough for him? I wasn't even fit to spend an evening with him unless I "put out."

  Ryan said he'd wait for me to get comfortable with sex and not push my boundaries. As he caressed my body, he reassured me that everything was possible and we were meant to be together.

  What I found out at the Yountville Inn?

  I was disposable.

  What happened made me realize how physical, fast, and intolerant his world was. It was obvious now: If I didn’t go along with his plans, I was no longer welcome in his life.

  I knew he didn’t expect to date me forever without having sex, but how soon was normal? Was intimacy in a relationship impossible without sex? Even though we'd known each other for over a year, was there was no other way to move into deeper levels of intimacy without intercourse?

  I guessed I was to blame for our disaster because I hadn’t given in. If I had, wouldn't we still have ended in this broken place for some other reason?

  Did my words mean anything at Half Moon Bay when I’d said we could be there for each other no matter what happened romantically?

  Maybe I was naive to think he had been speaking from his heart when he said he wouldn’t push or pressure me. Even if he was out of patience and changed his mind, didn’t I deserve more than a pat on the back? Did the gesture mean I wasn't worth the effort? And what did, “I’m rethinking things,” mean?

  On the other hand, what did he know about my feelings? I never told him anything more than I liked him a lot. Maybe he’d decided I wasn’t ready for anything he had to offer and in his heart he should just leave me alone. If that were true, I wished he'd have said so. I might have understood, instead of feeling so empty and gutted. I was devastated and left hopeless.

  “But it doesn’t matter now,” I said out aloud.

  The shadows fell as I repeated my mantra, the one I knew to be true, even when I was five-years-old: Don’t let people get close, they’ll hurt you and then abandon you.

  I’d only just begun to build my foundation of trust.

  Before I could even raise the frame of my house, it had crumbled to the ground.

  “Nicky?” Mom knocked on my door.

  “Yeah?” She'd obviously noticed the look of turmoil on my face when I passed her on the stairway.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah," I whimpered.

  Even on the rare occasion when one of my parents reached out to help me, I found it difficult to accept. I didn't dare depend on them. It would only be a matter of time before I was left waiting on another promise, believing in changes, when nothing had.

  In grade school I had to wait for parents who were so embroiled in their alcoholic battle they didn't remember I was waiting for them to take me home, but no more. I didn't want to stand alone to face another failure because of their empty words.

  Everything could fall apart if I didn’t take care of what I needed.

  It was only a matter of time.

  “You don’t sound okay.” Mom's worried tone rattled me. “Let me in.” She kept knocking on my door.

  “Just,” I sniffed. “Just a minute.” I put a cold washcloth on my eyes, blew my nose, opened my door and then faced my mother.

  “Why have you been crying?” Her face turned red. “What did he do to you?”

  “Nothing,” I grieved. “We had an argument.”

  “Over sex?” she demanded an answer.

  “No." I’m not telling you anything. "Stupid stuff. It's just, I’m not used to any of this and my emotions are all over the place.”

  “I told you it woul
dn’t be easy with him,” she chastised.

  “I know you did.” I wasn’t in any mood to argue. “I’m okay. It’s only . . . I’m all stirred up. I was just getting ready to take a walk.”

  “Why don’t you stay home for a change?” Mom looked at the crumpled dress on my bed. “Is that the dress Jenise helped you pick out?”

  “Yes." I started sobbing. "Isn’t it pretty?”

  “What did he do?” she repeated. "I have half a mind to go to the ballpark and . . ." She took one step closer and put her hand on my shoulder. It was the first time she’d made an affectionate move in months. Sure, there was the cursory hug for a special event like graduation, a birthday, and Christmas.

  This was different.

  I saw the changed look on her face.

  Perhaps her protective instincts were rising to the surface. Maybe the mama bear in front of me was barely able to contain her anger. The wash of hurt that crossed her face immediately softened as if she understood I was suffering.

  I wasn't ready for that.

  I didn't know how to reach back to her—the distance had been so wide for so long.

  “It’s both of us. We’re not ready and . . .” I wiped the tears from my cheeks. “I told him he needed someone more experienced. When I reacted in a way he hadn’t expected, he didn’t understand. I probably should stay home, but I’m restless. I can’t sit still, Mom. I need to . . . I don’t know what—do something. Maybe if I walk this off I’ll calm down.”

  “Why won’t you tell me what happened?” she insisted. I knew underlying her inquiry was the hope that I’d share more with her.

  "Can you understand that it's hard to be with someone who has already done so much? I don't know why I do, but . . ." I grabbed for her hand. "I feel secondary. I'm not ready to date, that's all. Or maybe I'm just not right—for anyone."

  "It's not you, it's him. He’s too old for—”

  “It’s not his age,” I interrupted. “Not like you mean. It’s . . . his world is . . . I’m not ready for him.”

  “I can’t tell you what to do.” She took her hand away. Perhaps the intensity of my sadness was too much for her. “Take some time and write in your journal. I think you understand the battle you're facing. Being with boys your age is definitely easier. In any case, I'm sure the answer will present itself to you.”