by E. S. Maria
I think I’m going to be sick.
“Atticus? Atticus!” I cry out from the top of my lungs, trying to hear any kind of sound to convince me that he hasn’t done it to me again.
But I don’t hear him calling back to me in response. I can’t even hear any footsteps approaching. In fact, I can’t hear anything outside of this bedroom.
Suddenly I feel a cold chill run down my spine.
I can’t believe it.
I fell for this again.
Atticus sings me a song, and like a fucking rat to the Pied Piper, I become overemotional and gullible, offering myself again to the one person who I should know by now will never deserve it.
I’m such a damn fool!
My eyes are now pooling with hot tears as I stumble out of this unfamiliar bed, trying to get my bearings in this unfamiliar room so I can find my clothes, as well as my purse, which has my phone and my walking stick. But in my panicked state, I can’t picture how this room looks like in my head, and I can’t remember where I placed any of my things.
This is so humiliating―I’m stark naked, crawling around the floor trying to find my clothes and possessions because the man who I thought bravely poured all of his feelings for me in a song is still not brave enough to face me the next day. So he walked out and left me here … again.
All alone.
What did I do in my nineteen years to deserve this from Atticus Foster? What did I ever do to him to make him hurt me like this? Haven’t I gone through enough already?
“I’m such an idiot. Such a naïve, stupid, fucking idiot!” I scream out through gritted teeth.
Tears are spilling down my face and blood is pumping in my ears, but I don’t give a shit anymore. All I know is that I need to get the hell out of here and out of Atticus’s life forever.
And this time I mean it. I’m done.
I’m just. Done.
There is nothing left of my heart to break and yet Atticus still manages to scavenge whatever pieces he can find and break those ones as well.
After several attempts at feeling my way around the room to look for my things, I finally manage to find what feels like my jeans and a top, then my underwear soon after that. I hastily dress up, not caring anymore if the clothing is inside out.
Where the hell is my purse?
I remember dropping it next to the door. And I think my shoes are in that vicinity too.
Now standing up, I stretch my hands out so I can figure out where to go. But just when I thought I’m almost there, something on the floor stubs my toes and I trip, my whole body flying forward.
But that’s not enough, oh no. The universe decides to one-up me again because as I’m sprawled on the floor, I hear the bedroom door opening, which by the way, I’m only inches away from.
“Hannah? What happened?”
Atticus.
What?
He hasn’t left me.
The tidal wave of anxiety, anger, and relief becomes too much, and I completely fall apart. I curl into a ball on the floor, sobbing, unable to stop no matter how much I want to.
I hear him coming closer, and soon after, he’s carrying me back on the bed, my head on the same pillow I was just laying on several minutes ago.
“Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, as he brushes away strands of hair stuck on my wet face. But I swipe his hand off me.
“Where were you, Atticus? I was calling for you,” I ask him in between snivels. “I thought you left me again.”
Damn it, saying those words out loud becomes my undoing. I fucking hate this. I turn away from him, trying to muffle the sobs with the pillow.
“I just got us some breakfast and coffee from the café close by. I didn’t leave you, Hannah.” Atticus lies down behind me and wraps me in his arms, holding me tightly. “I’m never going to do that to you again. I’m so sorry,” he whispers against my ear trying to comfort me.
But I break from his embrace, unwilling to surrender to how amazing this truly feels. I try to find the furthest side of the bed, and I sit up from there, knees up to my chest in an effort to block him off.
“Then why did you leave me before then? What did I do to make you leave me without even talking to me about it? Was I that awful?”
I feel him shifting positions, but I flinch as soon as I feel his hand on my leg. “Please don’t do this. It was never about you, Han.”
“I wanted to hate you when you left me, Atticus. I really did … so badly. What you did cut me so fucking deep.”
He whispers my name, and I wish I could see his reaction.
Blindness disadvantage number thirty-three.
“I don’t know if you’ll believe me or not, but as overused as this reason was, I never wanted to hurt you. That was the last thing I wanted to do. But after that night … after you … you gave yourself to me, I felt like I’ve become this greedy son of a bitch. You were this beautiful, funny, smart girl with top honours in school, coming from a well-to-do family. You had your future paved nicely before you. I was from fucking Roscoe, who went to a rough school, and the only way I got to eat was if I busked or ate at your place because my father was a drunk who thought parenting involved a good belting—”
His voice is becoming shaky, broken―just like I knew his childhood was. I saw it for myself back then when I followed him to his home that day.
The need to touch him … to comfort him … is too great, and I find his shoulder, leaving my hand there, unsure of what to do next. My heart jumps when he takes my hand and gently presses his lips over the palm of my hand.
But that’s all he does. He doesn’t do anything further. He just tangles his fingers with mine, and lays them on his lap.
He continues, “I just knew that night that I didn’t want to be the one holding you back from who you wanted to be. So I took the coward’s route, Hannah. I knew that then, but I had to do it. I know that I left you in the worst possible way, and that I hurt you deeply because of it.”
“I woke up and you were gone, Atticus. And the measly note you left, telling me how I’m better off was a load of crap. Just admit it. You left me, not because of my dream, but because of yours. It has always been because of your dream. And once you’d taken what you wanted from me, you probably thought I wasn’t worth hanging around for anymore. There was nothing else of me that you wanted. And now, I know for sure I have nothing more to give you.”
“Stop. Just. Stop.” I feel him shifting positions, and he takes my other hand and holds them both so tightly, and he continues on with a voice full of conviction, “You had and still have so much to offer, Hannah. And if that was what you thought this whole time after I left, then that was on me. I’m sorry.”
“But Paul came and turned things around,” I reply back bluntly. “He loved me more than I could ever dream of.”
“Yes … I know. And the last time I was here, he made pretty damn sure that in no uncertain terms should I ever go near you again.”
My head inclines to the side, and my heart starts to beat out of my chest. Did Paul know what happened back then? Is that why Paul never told me any of this. “He confronted you? How come I never knew about this until now?”
“I mean I can’t blame him anyway. His reasons for confronting me were valid. So I told him he had nothing to worry about.”
“But we kissed that time, Atticus,” I whisper harshly at him. “Or have you forgotten? Maybe you just didn’t care. You were telling me how it was going to be different between us, and I believed you. Then you up and left me again. And now this!” I pull both hands away, “God, Atticus, you played me for a fool the second time around and that was on me. That was my fucking fault! Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep that from Paul? I didn’t want to keep secrets from him, but I had no choice. I loved him, but I betrayed him by not only kissing you, but also believing that we had another chance!”
“Hannah …”
“What was your excuse the second time around, Tic? What was it? Did yo
u have another girlfriend waiting for you in the city? Was it the promise of more money from the record company? Or was it because you just love to play me?”
“It was none of those. Please, you have to believe me when I tell you that I left for the right reasons,” he pleads.
This is hurting so bad. Why did I think it’s a good idea to talk and reopen old wounds, and relive how awful I was to Paul … and how awful I allowed Atticus to treat me?
“Then what is it? What’s your reason leaving me the second time around?” I ask, my voice shaking.
“Because I knew that Paul had more to offer. I was a musician who was just starting out, going out on the road all the time to promote a then little-known debut album. I couldn’t offer you stability. He did. He told me about his plans, and he was ready to offer you more than I could ever give back then. I promised myself that the next time you’d see me, I would have to be the successful musician that you always encouraged me to be. I wanted you to be proud of me.”
I scoff, “I hear your words, but all they do is spell out how selfish you were.”
“I was being selfish? I sacrificed how I felt for you so you could fulfil your dreams. How was that a bad thing to do?”
“You were selfish because you decided that you knew what was best for me … what was best for us, without even talking to me about it. This wasn’t just about you and what you thought was best. It’s my life, Atticus. I get to decide what I think is best for my life! And all I wanted was you in my life.”
He sighs, “I know, Hannah. I fucked up. I fucked up badly. But I saw how much Paul made you happy. I witnessed it for myself. You loved each other.”
“See … that’s the thing, Atticus,” I say with a shaky breath, “as much as I loved Paul, and as much as I appreciate how incredible he was with me, I hated myself a little bit more, every single day I was with him, because no matter how I tried, my heart couldn’t love him the way he deserved. I gave you my heart, Tic, all of it. But it broke when you left me, and it never healed the way it should have. So I loved Paul with whatever fragments I had left. And he loved me with everything he got. And yet, I could only manage to give him pieces of myself. It hardly seemed fair to him, but he never realised it because whatever love I managed to give him was true, and pure, and unconditional. Those little fragments of my heart were his.”
“God, Hannah. I'm so sorry. I never knew ...”
“How could you have known? You were living it up with your fame ... money ... women. I’m not naïve, Atticus. I know how it all works.”
I gasp when I feel his hands cupping my jaw, “But that wasn’t true, Hannah. And even if it was, I didn’t give a shit because I wasn’t sharing the experience with you. I would give up everything if it meant having a tiny piece of that love back.”
“You owned the majority of my heart, Atticus. But it’s still broken, and I don’t know if it will ever heal or if I’m prepared to risk getting it broken again. And from the way I reacted just now, maybe I’m just not ready yet.”
“Then I’ll wait. And I’ll even help you pick up the broken pieces so you can be whole again. Please Hannah ... give me another chance.”
I tilt my head downwards. “Why the hell would you give up everything for me? Isn’t that why you up and left me in the first place ... because you wanted to have everything?”
“Hannah, I left because I wanted you to have everything,” he insists, with both hands now cradling my cheeks.
I swat his hands off my face, “Bullshit. Don’t twist this around on me.”
“I’m not twisting anything. I was dragging you down. Me. I wanted you to be with someone you can be proud of … someone you can introduce to your family as your man.”
Oh God.
All this time, I thought he was happy to keep our relationship a secret. But all this time, it hurt him.
He thought I wasn’t proud of him.
Oh, Atticus … if you only knew what I had planned the day after my sixteenth birthday.
“I’ve always been proud of you, Atticus. And I only ever wanted you. Not the fame, not the money. None of those shit. Just. You. And I was going to come clean to my parents and Brodie the day after my birthday party. I was going to tell them that we’re together, and I didn’t care anymore if they approved it or not, or if you were leaving eventually. But you never gave me a chance.”
“Shit, Hannah ... I … I didn’t know. I thought … Will you ever forgive me for hurting you like this?”
Forgiveness.
It’s an act I can barely do to myself.
“How can I forgive you when I can’t even forgive myself?” I ask him quietly.
“Han—”
“Do you want to know why Paul and I got into an accident in the first place … the real reason why?”
I hear him exhale, “All I know was that Paul lost control of the car and slammed against the truck.”
I tilt my head towards the part of the room that emitted the brightest light. “There was more to it than that, but you’re the only person I’m telling the whole story to. I couldn’t bring myself to tell everyone else because ...” I trail off, unable to finish.
I breathe deeply before beginning, “We were actually coming from a friend’s graduation party. Paul wasn’t really drunk, at least he didn’t seem like he was. But I was pretty tipsy, borderline smashed. Anyway, Paul was driving me home, but I didn’t wanna go home yet. I wanted to party some more. I mean, I aced the HSCs, I blitzed through high school … and so did Paul. And you know how I get when I drink; I get pretty touchy feely”
I hear him suck in his breath.
“Sorry, I’m sure you didn’t want to ... Anyway, the music was pumping in Paul’s car, and just the fact that everything felt so freaking perfect, made me want to do something risqué with Paul.”
“I really don’t feel comfortable hearing this, Hannah,” Atticus tells me, sighing.
“But I need to continue with the story Atticus. Please ...”
“I know, I know. It just feels like a punch in the guts to hear it, that’s all. But you’re right,” he squeezes my hand, “please continue.”
My breathing becomes shaky as I recall the next events, “Paul found a spot that was discreet enough. And since this was already in the late hours, there weren’t many cars about. But by this time, I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted him. We started getting into it, like clothes off and shit,” I hear him exhale deeply again, and I start second-guessing if I should continue on or not.
But he needs to know.
Atticus needs to know the whole, ugly truth.
“Things got pretty heated up between us real quick, and I was so into it that I started calling out his name …” My lips start to tremble, and fresh tears seem to gather in my eyes. “But … but it wasn’t Paul’s name I was calling out. I don’t know, maybe I was too drunk. But Paul stopped because he said that I … he said that I was calling for you.”
“What? Wait … what?” even in a whisper, Atticus sounds incredulous.
And my stomach dips, knowing I have to repeat myself, “Paul and I were having sex, and I was calling your name. I mean how fucked up was that? How fucked up was I?”
Reliving that fateful night, no matter how necessary it is, hurts like a motherfucker because the guilt feels like razorblades cutting through my insides.
“Hannah,” Atticus tries to wrap his arms around me, but I shake my head and push him away.
“And you know what? That wasn’t the first time. He said that I called for you in my sleep too. And he said that on a couple of occasions when we were messing around, I said your name, and I didn’t even know it. You know why? Because Paul just let it go. He let it go because he loved me, and he thought I just needed time to heal. That eventually I’ll forget about you. But how many chances was he going to give me? We all have our thresholds. So on that night, while we were parked on the side of the road, practically undressed, he broke up with me. I was shocked. I never expected that
he’d ever break up with me. But I guess that subconsciously, I knew this was inevitable. I was just too afraid to let him go and that I couldn’t break things off with him myself. He was such a gentleman that he offered to take me home. He could’ve just left me on that side of the road, but he didn’t. He wasn’t built like that. But I don’t know, maybe it was because we just broke up and we were still emotional, or maybe because he was drunker than he thought, but Paul lost control on the curved side of the road and hit that truck. Maybe if we stayed at that rest stop just a little bit longer, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if I didn’t seduce him, he could’ve just driven me straight home. Maybe if I called his name instead of yours …” I’m choking on the words as memories of that terrible night begin to engulf me. “I felt so much guilt, and I felt so awful at the way I treated Paul. He didn’t deserve a half-assed love, but that was all I could manage to give him. And I tried. I tried so hard to give him more. But do you know what was even more fucked-up? Just before the accident, I remember feeling so relieved. Can you believe that? Relieved! Relieved, even though I broke an amazing person’s heart because I was still pining for the guy who shattered my own.” I start clawing at my own chest, my body shaking, as I become hysterical, bawling like a mad woman.
“Stop, Hannah. No more, please. Stop beating yourself up,” Atticus begs me, holding me against his chest, rocking me back and forth like a child in distress.
“I hate that even after Paul died, you’re the one who continues to haunt my thoughts. It’s my fault that he died. And now I can’t even respect his death enough to stop myself from thinking about you,” my words are muffled against Atticus’s chest, but I’m sure that he heard every word.
He doesn’t say anything, but he continues to rock me back and forth in his attempt to soothe me. The only sound in the room is my muffled sobs and the faint crashing of the waves from the beach just beyond the walls of this house.
I know that I should feel comforted by Atticus’s arms around me. I should feel some form of relief because I’m finally letting everything out, no holds barred. Atticus finally knows what really happened the night of the accident, and yet he’s not upset, he’s not despising me. In fact, he’s trying to make me feel better.
