by Alexis James
“Well, Mama, you should open your eyes. Because none of us are who you think we are.” I’m not making a lick of sense, and the fact that I couldn’t care less nags uneasily at me. “Did they tell you how they behaved? Did they tell you what they said to Caleb and how shitty they treated him?” I ignore her look of disapproval at my colorful language. “Did they tell you that it didn’t matter to them that he makes me happy or that I love him, only that he’s not the cookie-cutter man they’d somehow believed they had a right to choose for me?”
“Honey, they meant well,” Amita offers, though I can see on her face that she’s as disappointed in her husband and his brother as I am.
“No, they didn’t. They wanted to control my life. I guess, they have succeeded.” The sound of the cackling laughter that exits my mouth causes all their eyes to widen. “I’m here to tell all of you that starting right here, right now, my life is none of your damn business. I will see who I want. I’ll love who I want.” More laughter from the crazy lady. “Of course, the only man I want to love just walked away. But … you know … a girl can hope.”
I turn my gaze to Emerson, Roman’s adopted daughter. The nineteen year old has always been wiser than most of us combined, but I can’t resist offering a bit of advice amidst all my anger. “Em, do yourself a favor. As soon as you graduate, move far, far away. Never, ever let anyone tell you who you should be allowed to love.”
“Sophia, enough,” Cruz warns and his eyes narrow when I offer him an eye roll.
With a shaky breath, I shrug. “You know what, you’re right. I’ve had enough. I’ve said my piece. You know how I feel. I just hope you’re happy.”
“Happy?” Marco frowns.
I sneer at him in all my psycho-lady craziness. “Yes, happy … that you’ve managed to reinforce what I’ve known all along. No one can be trusted, least of all family.”
“You don’t mean that,” Bella says softly. “You know you can trust us. You’re just angry with the boys.”
More cackling as I avoid looking at my teary-eyed mother. “Oh, angry doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about them.” I leave my words hanging in the air and turn to leave.
Bella follows after me, right on my heels as I stroll down the hall toward the front door. The tiny bit of my heart that up until now has remained unbroken shatters into tiny shards, stabbing my insides and ripping me open even further.
“Please, Soph, I know you’re upset. Come home with me and we’ll talk.”
“I don’t want to talk anymore. Just leave me alone.”
“You can’t do this, you know,” she snaps, following me out through the front door. “You can’t just walk away. We love you. We worry about you. I know you worry about us, so don’t try to deny it.”
Pivoting on my foot, I glare at her. “Yeah, well, as I’ve learned all too well, love doesn’t make you stay. You have to want to.” I see Marco and Cruz barreling down the hall toward where we’re standing on the porch. “I have no desire to surround myself with people who cannot trust my judgement. So please, Bella, do me a favor and leave me alone.”
I hear them calling after me as I get behind the wheel and lock the doors of the compact rental. I see their shattered expressions, the anger that remains because I won’t stick around and take more of their crap. And yeah, maybe I’m acting like an immature little girl, but I don’t care. They have cost me my happiness and that, as far as I’m concerned, is unforgivable.
Teaching, at times, is something I loathe. Of course, there are days when the students are all engaged in whatever lecture I’m giving, days when the class conversation is flurried and energetic, days when I’m grateful that I’m able to inspire young minds to grow and question the world around them.
Today is not going to be one of those days.
The beginning of the school year is always one big pain in the ass. New students, new rules, the assorted crap that the board likes to pile on us at the last minute. Usually by the end of the first week, I’ve got a good idea of how the rest of my year will go.
So far that’s yet to happen.
Granted, I’m pulling twelve-plus hours every day, running on limited sleep and almost always nursing a nasty hangover. For the record, alcohol does not help when you’re trying to deal with the loss of someone in your life. It might numb you for a bit, but as I’ve found out in the weeks since walking away from Sophia, all it does is make me miss her more.
I’ve not heard from her, not that I particularly expected to. She’s a stubborn young thing—a trait I’ve admired right up until she used that stubbornness on me. I told her goodbye, so what the fuck did I expect? She’s not like other women. She’s not about to come crawling back to me, begging for me to be with her. Frankly, this silence is not unexpected. And damn if I don’t admire her for it.
Granted, I didn’t exactly leave her feeling like she had any right to track me down and get me to go another round. But I can hope. I can look out into the sea of students and make myself believe she’s out there somewhere, even though my rational brain will remind me she’s now at another college … and I gave her many, many reasons to stay gone.
I can walk down the street, imagine her wavy light brown hair dancing over her shoulders. I can lie in the dark in my bed at night, slide my hands across the sheets, and pretend like she’s right there.
If I was a bastard before I met her, I’m an even more miserable one now. My snapping and growling is at an all-time high, and already many students have dropped my class simply because I’m so unreasonable. I’ve refused a TA because the thought of anyone else sitting at her desk makes me want to pull my nails out with pliers. It’s hard to breathe or focus when I’m working because all I can think about are the times she was here with me.
I hate myself for how I ended things, though that’s not to say any other way would have been easier for either of us. I shouldn’t have made love to her that last time, and I’m haunted by the memories of our bodies silently joining. There is a sick part of me that is grateful I have that memory to hang on to.
Jesus, I never imagined I could miss her like this—with an emptiness and a weariness that I fear will remain for a long, long time. How ironic. I spent years married to Rianne and not once did I feel even a bit of the desolation that I feel over losing Sophia.
You didn’t lose her, asshole. You walked away.
With a muttered curse, I stuff my lectures into the briefcase, grab my keys out of the drawer, and head for the door.
Ten minutes later I stroll into the restaurant, slightly annoyed that I can’t just go home and drown my sorrows in yet another bottle of whiskey. But I owe it to my father to at least make an attempt to be social.
Pop is waiting at the table, nursing a cocktail and greeting me with a smile. “Hello, Son. Glad you could make it.”
I settle in the seat across from him, bark out a request for a double shot, then lace my fingers together and force my general annoyance with everything aside. “Hey, Pop. What’s new?”
He peruses the menu and looks at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Not much. You?”
“Nothing.” Tossing back the shot, I throw my hand in the air. Once I have the waiter’s attention, I hold up my glass for a refill.
“You shouldn’t drink so much.”
I glare at him. “I’m a grown man, Pop. I can handle my liquor.”
“Doesn’t appear that way,” he grumbles under his breath.
I wait until another shot is sitting front and center then circle the glass with my fingers and ask, “What’s your point?”
He sighs, closes the menu, and slides it to the edge of the table. “You’re drinking too much. You’re like a bear with a sore head half the time.” He lifts one bushy brow. “You broke up with her, didn’t you?”
Sighing heavily, I nod. “Yeah, Pop, I did.”
He shakes his head. “You’re a fool.”
“Agreed.”
He seems shocked by my statement, eyes widenin
g as he sets his glass back down. “Well, if you agree with me, why don’t you fix it? Go make things right with your girl.”
“Can’t.” I don’t want to do this, now or anytime in the near future. Hell, I don’t want to talk about it, or her, at all … ever. I don’t want to explain to him that I walked away to allow her to have the future she deserved.
I don’t want to admit that I made a grave mistake that will haunt me forever.
The waiter reappears, takes our orders, and scurries away before I can demand another shot. Probably better that way. I do my best drinking at home, staring at the walls, allowing myself to think about everything I walked away from.
Pop doesn’t speak again until we’re working our way through our salads. “I really liked her.”
“I know. I did too.”
Tossing down his fork, he glares at me. “You know what, Caleb, your mom and I didn’t raise you to run when you’re scared. Why are doing that now?”
“Pop, just leave it alone. It’s over and done with and she’s moved on.”
He snorts doubtfully. “If you say so.”
I leave the restaurant that night with my father’s words in my head and my car pointed in the direction of her apartment. I can’t go there. Can’t see her. I know I can’t. I just need to drive by and get whatever connection to her I can, even it’s merely driving down the street and idling in front of the building.
Her blue Jetta is parked next to the curb, and when I turn the corner I can see lights on in her apartment. Pulling over, I kill the engine and lights and stare up at the windows that are covered with mini-blinds.
It would be so damn easy to go to her, let her scream and yell and do whatever she needs to make herself feel better. I’d sit there and take it all: her pain, the accusations, the truth. I’d welcome it all just to be in her presence again.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I consider how pathetic I’ve become in the weeks since our split. She’s moved on, like the adult she is. Wish I could say the same. So many times during the day, I pull her number up in my phone, my finger hovering over the call button. Then I remind myself that I did this. I left her. I said goodbye, so I sure as hell have no right to go crawling back. Especially when I have nothing to offer. She’ll still have a beautiful future ahead of her and still be too young for me. She still has a family that’s hell-bent on ensuring I stay far away.
The light in her front room goes out and a moment later her bedroom light clicks on. I have to consider she might not be alone—that she’s easily replaced me for a younger model. As fixated on me as she once admitted to being, blushed cheeks and all, I sure as hell couldn’t blame her if she needed to make some new memories. Some happy memories.
We were happy together. Granted, it’s not like we spent years together or anything, but I do feel like I knew her true self. Her heart.
Bet she can’t say the same thing about me.
I see her shadow appear. The blinds ease open as she peeks out. For a moment I wonder if she can sense me sitting here, watching her, wondering. But with a snap of her fingers, the blinds are once more closed and less than a minute later the lights go out in that room as well.
My head flops against the seat and my eyes close on a groan. I wish I could make things right with her, make her understand that I loved her enough to set her free. I know she probably believes I never loved her, that I was only in it for the cheap thrill. That’s my fault as well for not sharing with her all that was—all that still is in my heart.
Lowering my guard has always been a struggle. My heart was pretty walled up when I met her. It took time before I felt free enough to tell her how I felt. But I never did tell her the truth, never said those words out loud as easily as she did. I alluded to them a time or two, but I cheated her out of the truth. That I will always regret.
She deserved to know I loved her, that I love her still. She deserved to be told how happy she made me and that even at those moments when my doubts were in control, I always believed we had a shot at forever.
My forever is now a filled auditorium and an office piled high with memories. My forever is the occasional lunch with my father. My forever is no longer spent wondering about “what if?” It is now filled with regrets and a whole slew of “I should have.” My forever is a lonely apartment, a bottle of whiskey, and a cold, empty, lavender-scented bed.
The engine purrs to life, and I slowly pull away from the curb and drive away. I need to concentrate on the good I’ve done for her. I’ve given her freedom, no longer tying her down to a city or state. I’ve given her the chance to find happiness with someone her age, someone not hesitant about marriage or uncertain about having children. I’ve given her wings, and now all I can do is sit back and watch her soar high above, off into the beautiful life she was destined to live.
I am a coward … and a bastard, and yes, I’m also the martyr she accused me of being. I sacrificed my happiness for hers. I did it for no other reason than because I love her. Though I might never be able to say the words to her face, I have to hope that she knows how much I cared for her. I have to hope for that because it’s really all I have left to hope for anymore.
My eyes open to a brightly lit bedroom, the early morning sun streaming in through the cracks in the blinds. There’s always that brief second when I come awake and pray the last month has been nothing more than a bad dream. But then my hand snakes across the empty pillow next to me, and I’m suddenly jolted by the knowledge that my bad dream was nothing imagined and simply something I’m destined to live with every single day.
Starting school has been a blessing. It gets me out of the apartment and has forced me to move on with my life, even though I was doing a pretty good job of pretending like I wasn’t. The hours at school keep me from having to push the decline button on the numerous calls I receive from my family. My voicemail inbox is overloaded with messages I’ve yet to listen to. Why bother? Nothing my family can say will change the fact that I’m alone. And for the foreseeable future, I plan on staying that way.
I have called my parents because I do believe they were innocent bystanders in all this. Papa doesn’t say much, just tells me he misses me and that he understands. I wish I could say the same. I wonder if he really does understand how betrayed I feel and how completely turned inside out I am. He tries, but he’s never been a huge talker. He leaves that to Mama, who alternates between flurried words in Spanish to harsh words in English. And there are always tears. Hers occasionally, but mostly mine. I cry when I try not think about him. Though, it’s fair to say just the thought of what we could have had fills my eyes with tears each and every time. There are so many tears that I’ve slowly become numb to all of it. What’s the point of crying? Crying won’t bring Caleb back. It won’t erase what my brothers have done. It won’t change the fact that my life has been altered forever.
Sloughing off the crushing weight of despair, I toss the covers aside and get to my feet, padding down the hall to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. While the handy one-cup machine spews out my brew, I scroll through my phone. There’s the usual daily call from Mia, a text from Amita that I trash without reading, and five missed calls from Marco. Bella is more patient than the others. She calls once a week, usually Sunday mornings, leaving long voicemails I never listen to. Roman has reached out too, as have a few of the others, all in an attempt to include me in the family I walked away from.
I hate what I’ve done. I hate that I was so driven to inflict my pain on someone else that I never considered the fallout. I’ve effectively split my family in two. Them versus me. I did that. Just me. I’ve taken the uber close-knit family I used to feel blessed to be a part of and have divided them into two camps.
I don’t regret calling my brothers out for thinking they had any right to have opinions about my love life, but I do regret doing it in front of all the others. None of the girls were at fault in this, and frankly neither was Roman. Then there’s Jace, sweet guy that he is, who has reached ou
t to me in a way only he could have by sending me cards and letters, notes and books, insuring our connection remains even though I strive daily to keep it severed.
I add a dash of vanilla creamer to my cup and head back into the bedroom to dress. I have some research to do and a paper to write, plus hours of reading that I’ve neglected. Trying to concentrate in my apartment is impossible with all the lingering memories, so I throw my books and laptop into my backpack and quickly make myself presentable for the outside world.
After scrubbing my face raw and slathering on some moisturizer, I twist my hair on top of my head and brush my teeth. Makeup won’t help cover the cracks of pain that seem forever imbedded into my skin, so I save that for another time. Dropping my pajamas down onto the floor, I pull on a ratty pair of shorts and tank top. I’m not dressing to impress, obviously. And I no longer dress to hide, as I did those first few weeks after it happened. Clothes, as most things in my life now, are purely for functionality and basic need. How pathetic is that?
How pathetic am I?
Twenty minutes later, I’ve got a to-go cup of coffee in hand, my backpack slung over my shoulder, and I’m headed toward the library on campus. It’s a decent space filled with neatly lined shelves of books and plenty of tables to work at. This place offers me a quiet retreat from the loud, screaming memories that bounce off the walls of my apartment. I prefer the library at my old school, and though I’ve briefly considered doing my studying there, I don’t trust myself to be anywhere remotely close to where Caleb might be.
The good thing about heartache is that it forces you to put all your concentration toward a task that’s guaranteed to keep your mind occupied. I’ve never been this driven about school, but now I’m on a hell-bent mission to do well and maybe finish early. That is what keeps me focused. My end game is still unwritten, but I plan on rectifying it soon. I need to get a plan in place, start exploring my options, start researching places to live and school districts with open teaching positions.
