One and Only Boxed Set

by Melanie Harlow

  I wasn’t worth it.

  Fourteen

  Maren

  “He’s really cute, Maren,” Stella said to me in the restaurant bathroom where the three of us stood in front of the mirror. “But he’s so quiet. Not at all what I was imagining.”

  “Same,” said Emme, pulling the cap off her red lipstick. “I thought he was more outgoing.”

  “He normally is.” I shook my head. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. He’s not acting like himself at all.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t feel good,” Stella suggested, fussing with her hair. “Does he have a headache today?”

  “He did this morning. Maybe that’s it.” My eyes filled with tears. “But there’s something he’s not telling me, you guys. I can feel it.”

  “Like what?” Stella turned to me, concern in her eyes.

  “I don’t know.” I took a shaky breath. “But I think it might be what you said—epilepsy.”

  She blinked. “Really?”

  “I mean, I’m not sure, but I looked up some of the symptoms online, and—”

  Stella groaned. “Don’t do that. The Internet is a cesspool of misinformation.”

  “I’d have done the same thing,” said Emme, putting her lipstick in her purse. “Can you ask him directly?”

  I bit my lip. “I could, but I don’t want to. I want him to tell me. I want him to trust me.”

  “Trust takes time,” said Stella, squeezing my shoulder. “It’s only been a couple days.”

  “I know, but we have history. It doesn’t feel like it’s only been two days.”

  “Well, then ask him, if it will make you feel better.” Stella shrugged. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “Would it bother you if it were true?” Emme asked.

  “No! Not at all.” I shook my head. “I’m only bothered by the thought that he feels like he can’t tell me.”

  “I get it.” Emme gave me a sympathetic look.

  “We should get back to the table,” Stella said. “Are you okay?”

  I took a deep breath, and then another. “Yes. Maybe I’m imagining this whole thing. He could just have a headache or be thinking about seeing his brother. That relationship is complicated.”

  “Okay. Call me tomorrow if you want to talk more.”

  I smiled at her. “Thanks.”

  On the walk to the car, Dallas didn’t hold my hand.

  “Thanks for coming out tonight. I probably shouldn’t have asked you to. I knew you weren’t feeling well.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “It’s okay.”

  I glanced at him. “Are you sure about that? You didn’t seem to enjoy it too much.”

  He kept his eyes on the ground. “Sorry.”

  Great. Now I’d made him feel bad for feeling bad. “Does your head hurt?”

  “Yeah.”

  I pressed my lips together. “Can I do anything for you?”

  “No.”

  We reached the car, and he opened the passenger door for me, waited for me to get in, and closed it. Then he walked around to the driver’s side and got in, but he didn’t start the engine right away. He gripped the wheel with both hands and exhaled audibly.

  “What’s going on, Dallas?”

  “Nothing. I’m just tired.” He paused. Reached out and put a hand on my leg. “I’m sorry, Maren.”

  “For what?”

  “I wasn’t much fun tonight.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. I just wish you’d talk to me.”

  He closed his eyes. “I know.”

  But without saying anything else, he started the car.

  Neither of us said anything on the drive to my house, although my heart was pounding so loud, I was hardly aware of the silence. What the hell was going on with him? When we reached my house, he pulled into the driveway and put the car in park.

  But he didn’t turn it off.

  “Are you coming in?” I asked, afraid of his answer.

  “I don’t think I should.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” He rubbed his face with both hands before grasping the wheel again. “I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

  I shifted in the seat to face him. “Excuse me?”

  He kept his eyes on his hands. “This. Us. It’s not going to work.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No.”

  I stared at him, too shocked to cry. Then I switched on the car’s interior lights. “Look at me, Dallas.”

  His jaw twitched, but he turned his face toward me. It was stony and cold.

  “You’re serious?” I demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m leaving. And a long-distance relationship isn’t what I want.”

  The tears were coming, I could feel the sobs building in my chest, but I did my best to stave them off. “Since when? Last night, you said you loved me. You promised to give us another chance. Was that all bullshit?”

  He swallowed. Opened his mouth and closed it again.

  “Answer me! Tell me you were lying. Tell me you didn’t mean a word you said.”

  “I was lying,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I started to cry. “You said those words and you meant them. I know you did. You had to this time. You had to.”

  “Look, I know it’s hard to understand, but—”

  “You’re right, I don’t understand,” I cried. “Give me one good reason why we can’t give this a shot.”

  “Look, Maren. I thought coming here was the right thing, and I was trying to do the right thing for once in my life, but I fucked it up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I was only supposed to see you and apologize. None of this other stuff was supposed to happen.”

  “So why did it?” I demanded. “Why ask me to dinner? Why ask me to spend the night with you? Why tell me you love me? You could have made your apology and left without hurting me again.”

  “I made a mistake, okay? At least this time you got your goodbye.”

  “Fuck you, Dallas,” I wept. “How could you do this to me?”

  “Because I’m a selfish asshole, okay? And you’re better off without me, so just go in the house and forget this weekend ever happened.”

  I tipped my face into my hands. Feelings churned and swelled in me like boiling lava. Sorrow. Frustration. Hurt. Anger. Humiliation. Was he really just a selfish asshole incapable of an adult relationship? Should I have seen this coming? It had felt so right, and now he was saying it was all a mistake. I didn’t want to believe it, but what other reason would he have for breaking this off?

  Unless he was doing it to avoid telling me his secret.

  Sniffling, I picked up my head. “I don’t believe you.”

  “What?” He looked at me.

  “I don’t think you’re selfish. I think you’re stubborn. I think there’s something you don’t want me to know, and you’re shutting me out rather than telling me what it is.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  I took a risk. “I know about the seizure, Dallas.”

  He stared at me. Seconds ticked by. “What seizure?”

  “The one you had yesterday morning at the hotel.”

  He looked away again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do.” Suddenly I was convinced I had it right.

  “I had a bad headache. I got dizzy.”

  “It was a focal seizure, wasn’t it? I saw the pills you take.” I took a deep breath, reminded myself to be kind and patient. “If you have epilepsy, you can tell me.”

  His head turned sharply toward me, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Dallas, it’s okay.” I wanted to touch him, but I didn’t. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white. He was breathing hard through his nose. “I don’t care what … conditions you might have. I just want to b
e with you.”

  “But you would care,” he said bitterly. “You’d feel sorry for me. You’d have to take care of me, and I don’t want that. I don’t want anyone’s pity.”

  His words were familiar. He’d just used them last night, hadn’t he? When he was talking about—

  It hit me.

  “Oh, Dallas.” I covered my mouth with both hands.

  He still hadn’t moved, but I could see how taut the muscles in his neck were.

  I spoke softly. “It’s not your dad with the brain tumor, is it?”

  “Get out of the car, Maren.”

  “Dallas, don’t do this.” I put my hands on his arm. “Don’t push me away because of your pride. Let me be here for you. Let me—”

  “No!” he roared, shaking me off. “No. I’m sorry I hurt you, okay? I’m sorry for what I did then, I’m sorry for what I’m doing now, I’m sorry about my entire fucking existence on this earth, but this ends here. Now.”

  “Don’t say that,” I begged, crying again. “Please, can’t we talk about this? I want to know what—”

  “No, Maren. No. I don’t want to talk about it with you. Now go inside and forget about me.”

  “What if I can’t?” I sobbed. “What if you’re the only man I’ll ever love?”

  He closed his eyes and swallowed. “You’ll find someone better.”

  “But I love you!”

  “No, you don’t.” His voice had gone wooden. “You love the idea of me. And I loved the idea of you. We were trying to recapture something from the past when life was simpler.”

  “You don’t mean that.” I cried harder, wiping my nose with my hand.

  “Yes, I do. I didn’t want to say these things to you, but you’re not giving me any choice.” He was looking at me with hard eyes. I barely recognized him. “I don’t love you, Maren. I don’t love anyone.”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  He didn’t answer me right away. Then he looked out the windshield again. “I wanted you off my conscience.”

  I sat there crying, trying to let it sink in that this was it—he didn’t want to see me again. He didn’t love me. As it turns out, I was just an item on his bucket list.

  And he had a brain tumor.

  Panic eclipsed my broken heart for a moment. My mind raced, desperately trying to recall what he’d told me about his father. “The surgery, Dallas. Everything you told me about your dad’s treatment options. That was all about you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Please. Please have the operation.” I put my hands on his arm again, and he let me. “If you don’t want me, fine, but don’t throw your life away because you don’t want anyone’s pity. Please, Dallas, if you ever loved me. Listen to the doctor. Have the surgery.”

  He swallowed and spoke quietly. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Will you … will you let me know what you decide?”

  “No. A clean break is better, Maren. For both of us. Now go.”

  Fresh tears spilled over. He was rejecting me. Again. My heart was crushed, my soul shattered.

  “Okay, Dallas. You win. I’ll go.” I put my hand on the door handle and pulled.

  Stop me. Tell me you’re lying. Wake me up from this nightmare.

  But he let me go without saying another word, and I got out of the car, slammed the door, and ran inside my house.

  I locked the front door behind me and ran back to my bedroom in the dark, where I threw myself on my bed and cried into my pillow.

  This couldn’t be happening, I kept telling myself. There was no way. How could anyone’s life take as many zig-zag turns as mine had in the last two days? I didn’t know which end was up.

  I sobbed and sobbed, my body shuddering, my eyes burning, my voice going hoarse. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried so hard—probably when Dallas had disappeared the first time. After that, I swore I’d never let anyone hurt me that way again.

  And here I was. Heartbroken and alone and desperately afraid for Dallas. Would he be okay? Would he have the operation? Would I ever see him again?

  And why didn’t he love me like I loved him?

  I screamed into my pillow, pounded my fists into the mattress, kicked my feet like a child throwing a tantrum. Anger worked its way beneath my sorrow.

  Fuck him! Fuck his lies and his careless words and his broken promises! Fuck him for kissing me like he meant it! Fuck him for making me think we had a chance! Fuck him for making me love him again and then breaking my heart! And fuck me for trusting him again—what was wrong with me?

  I was so furious I wanted to smash something. I sat up and looked around. What could I throw? What could I shatter? What could I destroy so that I wouldn’t feel so fucking helpless and feeble? I quickly untied one of my shoes and threw it as hard as I could at the wall. It felt good, so I did the same thing with the other one, too, grunting as I hurled it with all my might.

  “Fuck you!” I yelled. Then I put my hands over my ears and screamed as loud as I could, trying to drown out all the voices in my head telling me I was stupid, gullible, weak, insignificant, not deserving of real love.

  Then I flopped onto my back, squeezed my eyes shut and tried to calm myself with some deep breaths. It took a while.

  When I was in control again, I got out of bed, found my laptop in the kitchen and took it back to my bedroom. Sitting up against the headboard, I opened it up and googled Finn Shepherd, Harvard University.

  I found an email address easily enough, and immediately began composing a message. Dallas might be a selfish asshole, but I would care about him forever. I had to know he was going to be okay.

  Dear Dr. Shepherd,

  We have only met once or twice, a long time ago, but I am a friend of your brother Dallas. We went to school together and dated seriously, but lost touch in the years between then and now.

  I was surprised to see him on my doorstep two days ago, but we spent the weekend getting reacquainted, and I was very upset to learn about his medical condition.

  I couldn’t write brain tumor. I just couldn’t.

  We parted ways earlier this evening under difficult terms.

  I stopped and took a breath as my eyes filled again.

  I know about the surgery. I begged him to have it, but he says he hasn’t decided yet and won’t tell me what he decides. He wants a clean break.

  I’m writing you tonight for several reasons. One, PLEASE do whatever it takes to convince him to have the surgery if that is the best option to save his life. I’m begging you.

  I choked back a sob and kept going, although the screen was blurry.

  Two, please be kind to him. I know he can be stubborn and difficult, but he won’t respond well to insults or demands.

  Three, could you please let me know what he decides? He doesn’t want any contact with me, but I don’t think I will be able to sleep peacefully until I know what he has chosen. I need to know he will be okay.

  I did not tell him I was reaching out to you. Of course, I understand if you feel you have to tell him about this email, but I would still ask that you consider my requests. He will probably be very angry about what I’ve done, but in all honesty, I love him too much to do nothing.

  Feel free to reply to me at this address. I wish you luck with him, and I wish you well.

  Sincerely,

  Maren Devine

  I hesitated for only a moment, during which I closed my eyes and searched my soul. Was this what I wanted to do? I risked alienating Dallas even further by going behind his back and contacting his brother when I knew there was tension between them. In the end, I decided I had no choice. I loved him, and I wanted to save him even more than I wanted him to love me back. If he never forgave me, so be it. I hit send and felt no guilt.

  Setting my laptop on my nightstand, I opened the drawer and took out the sketch he’d made of me at seventeen. The sight of it and the memory of what he’d said to me last night brought fresh tears. After tucking it away again,
I dragged myself from bed, undressed, and put on my pajamas. In the bathroom, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and frowned at my puffy eyes. Back in my room, I took off the necklace he’d given me earlier, hid it at the bottom of my underwear drawer, crawled beneath the covers and curled up in a ball. My sheets smelled like him.

  I closed my eyes and inhaled, wondering if he was lying in his hotel bed missing me as much as I missed him. I thought of his body beneath the sheets, pictured the warm bare skin, the firm muscles of his chest, the ink on his arms and shoulders and back. I thought of his blue eyes and the dimple in his chin. I thought of his hands. The sound of his laugh. The taste of him. How was it possible I’d never see him again? Or touch him or kiss him or hold him or feel him inside me? The ache of loneliness spread from my heart throughout my entire body.

  I cried myself to sleep.

  Fifteen

  Dallas

  On the drive back to the hotel, I turned the radio on, putting the volume up as loud as it would go. I already had a headache, and the blasting rock music made it worse, but as long as I was distracted by the noise and the physical pain, I wouldn’t have to deal with the emotional upheaval I’d just caused—mine or Maren’s—or the voices in my head telling me I’d just walked away from the best thing that had ever happened to me.

  Back at my hotel, I threw all my shit in my suitcase and crashed on the bed, slamming my eyes shut and praying sleep would come quickly.

  It didn’t, of course.

  All I could do was picture the look on Maren’s face when I’d told her I didn’t love her. Hear her sobbing. She’d been devastated, as I knew she would be. Goddammit, it wasn’t supposed to happen!

  But I wanted her to be happy, and the only way that could happen was without me in her life. She’d realize that in time. She was smart—smart enough to put everything together about what was going on with me. Groaning, I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. It was exactly as I’d suspected—the tears and sadness, the pity and fear. Why the hell would she want any of that in her life?