Eli nods in agreement. “In case you two forgot, I’m the one taking care of your asses. So I don’t need . . .”
“You need your ass kicked,” Eli says. “If Mom or Dad were still alive, they’d . . .”
“Well, they’re not!” I yell. “They’re dead like . . .”
They both look over their shoulders at Annalyse, ignoring my mood. Guess they are used to me. “She’s not dead.”
I look over at Annalyse, who’s ripping the remaining branches with her hands. At least she’s got gloves on. A little protection and helping to keep her warm, since she’s always cold. Guess this is therapeutic for her, destroying any future, any hope for us.
My brothers are right. I can’t let that happen.
A truck pulls up, dropping a man off right in front of Meg’s house. Annalyse stops her assault on the tree, letting him wrap his arms around her. “Who’s that?” Ethan asks.
“That’s Grant,” I say, watching her hand him some keys. “She’s really doing it.”
“Doing what?” Ethan asks.
“She’s getting rid of the Harley,” I say.
“She rides a HOG?” Eli says. “She’s the perfect woman.”
My stupid brothers are right again.
They both push me a little towards her house, but I pull them into a huge hug before sending them back off to school, making them promise to drive safely and call me when they get there. They won’t, but I say it anyway. They pull out of my driveway a few seconds after Grant takes off on the Harley, leaving Annalyse staring down the road.
I should leave her alone. I can tell she’s having a moment with Logan, but instead, I cross our lawns. “You got rid of the motorcycle?” Her head nods a little, but she’s glaring at me, a few tears rolling down her cheeks and clearly in no mood for my lame ass attempt at communication. “Things got out of control the other night,” I say. “And . . .”
“What do you want?” she asks, picking up her saw.
“This isn’t over,” I say, motioning between us. “I don’t care how much you mutilate our Christmas tree. Put it in a wood chipper if you want, but you and I are not done.”
“You’re right,” she says, tossing her saw down on the ground, marching towards my house. “I need to get my laptop from your house, then we are done.”
I follow her in as she searches around. “It’s in my bedroom where you left it.” I leave out that I couldn’t sleep in there without her. It’s too fucking cold without her.
“Of course,” she mumbles, walking that way. As soon as she opens the door, flashes of us naked play in my mind. But it’s the emotions running through me that are worse, knowing we both played a game we’re terrible at, and I hurt her.
She reaches for her laptop but stops, her eyes on my dresser drawer. She walks over, placing her hands on the handles. Immediately, my chest starts to pound so hard, I feel it all over my body. At this point, I’m not sure what to do—stop her or not. And I can tell she’s debating that herself, her hands trembling slightly. Ultimately, she steps away; either she doesn’t care anymore, or she’s just too good a person to invade my privacy.
She grabs her computer, locking eyes with me. I love how she never tucks tail or cowers. She sees pain and stares it down like the devil himself. I admire that about her. Gently, I step in front of her, placing my hands on the computer. “If you leave with that, I’m never going to see you again, am I?”
She yanks it away. “You can’t hold it hostage.”
“I’ve been writing. It’s on there. Not all of it, but . . .” I step closer. “I can’t talk about it. It hurts too much. I know if anyone knows how deep my pain is, how hard my fight has been—it’s you.”
“You have to feel things that hurt,” she says. “You literally put your pain in a drawer, take it out, then look at it for five minutes a day. It doesn’t work that way. You have to live with it.” She walks right past me. “Goodbye, Holt.”
*
ANNALYSE
I made it five days before I broke down and read Holt’s letter to me. The first day, I moved it to my trash. The second day, I dragged it out of trash. The third day, I opened it, then closed it immediately. The fourth day, I moved it back to trash but couldn’t empty the trash. The fifth day, I finally read it.
It started off talking about his buddies from medical school. I read all about how he slowly fell in love with his friend’s girlfriend. He explained how he and his friends were all a bunch of male whores, but I could tell he really loved this girl. It was physically painful to read about how in love he was with her. He thankfully glossed over any sex, but it was obvious he wanted to marry her and be a father to that baby. I cried when I read about him losing a patient and the parts when he talked about his mom being sick.
Still, none of that made me want to forgive him, and I only had a few pages left to go.
*
HOLT
I should’ve known something was up when she was in her last few weeks of pregnancy, and we still hadn’t told Brent that we were together. But love makes us blind. And not reading glasses blind, or even coke bottle lenses. No, it makes us legally blind, so we have no idea what’s coming.
Once my parents got over the shock, I knew my mom was holding on to life, hoping to meet her granddaughter. I hated they didn’t know the whole truth, but I wanted my mom’s last memories to be happy. Eventually, I’d let the rest of the family know the truth. Celeste hadn’t met them, but she took part in our weekly phone calls, and they loved her already. Her place was bigger than mine, with a room for the baby, so the plan was for me to move in with her once the baby was born. We were together all the time, anyway, and my lease was coming due before hers. We were signed up for Lamaze classes and had her birth plan ready. Everything was finally perfect. The happiest two months of my life.
Until.
I opened up the door to my apartment after the end of a long day, finding Celeste waiting for me, a bag at her feet. She’d already brought back my things from her place and packed the things she’d left in my apartment. There’s no need to get into every last detail. Brent wanted her back, and she felt obligated to try to make things work with the father of her child. Funny thing is, I actually thought that was me.
Wish I could say I handled it well, but I didn’t. I wish I could take back all the horrible things I said—especially the one where I called her stupid for going back to him. And the thing that really breaks my heart is that she just stood there and took it, every insult, every curse, every rant. She stood there, pregnant, tears rolling down her face, and took it. It was as if she believed she deserved it.
Her last words to me were that she loved me.
My last to her were . . .
*
ANNALYSE
That’s it? What the hell happened? What were the damn last words? Am I missing a page? I hate cliffhangers. I hate he got his heart broken, I do. It’s sad, but it doesn’t make up for all the rest of the crap. It doesn’t change the fact that I needed more from him. More than I think he’s ready to give.
I open up my blog and begin to type, to let it all come out. I don’t hold things in anymore, so I just let it flow, like my tears. Then I close my laptop and let my heart break. There’s nothing else left to do.
The Dirty Truth Blog
December 1
The Ugly Cry
Here’s some dirty truth for you. You know you really care for someone or about something if you cry over them. Otherwise, you just move on without missing a beat. I shed so many tears over Logan, I’m an expert on crying, the ugly cry in particular. You know the one—you’ve lost complete control. Your face is making all kinds of weird shapes; you’ve got snot coming out your nose, drool coming out your mouth, and your hair is tangled in all that mess. Yep, that’s the one.
So here’s my expert advice on crying.
The first thing is, don’t hold it in. Just surrender to it. Otherwise, your face just continues to scrunch up more until you look like s
omething the cat dragged in. And personally, I think crying can be a beautiful thing, cathartic. So when you need a good cry, have it. But a good ugly cry does take its toll. The best advice I have is to breathe deeply. Yeah, you can dab cold water under your eyes and blow your stuffed-up nose, but breathing deeply is the best medicine. One of the best tips I’ve ever seen was on some website, and it said when you want to not look like you’ve been crying, you should fake a sneeze. That way people assume it’s the sneeze causing the watery eyes. Brilliant!
But I digress. The real truth behind tears lies in what’s causing them. Like I said, it must be something you care deeply about; otherwise, who gives a fuck? I don’t know about you, but when I cry, I feel exposed. And my natural response is to run from that feeling, but I’m trying not to do that anymore. I’m trying to remind myself that I will not drown in my own tears. That my inner fire is brighter than any flames around me, lighting up the darkness.
Darkness.
I lived in the dark places for a long time, the ashes, the ruins. I could’ve stayed stuck there. There’s an addiction to the darkness. You get used to it. Like when you’ve been in a dark theater and step into the light? It hurts your eyes a little. So sometimes we stay stuck in the dark places to avoid the pain. Just like any other addict, it’s easier to stay there, to numb out, than it is to feel the pain we need to feel. And it’s very difficult for two addicts to have a healthy relationship; the risk they could pull each other back into the darkness is so much greater.
I never thought I’d cry for a man again. That would mean I had to care for a man again. I never thought that would happen. But it did. And now I lost him. I told him the pain wasn’t worth the pleasure, but I lied. I knew going in we weren’t going to last, but I did it anyway. Because it was worth this pain, these tears. I just wish he thought I was worth the pain. I wish he’d step out of the darkness, even though it hurts. I wish he knew:
Sometimes you’ve got to go through the pain to get to the pleasure.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HOLT
Okay, so I know I’m an asshole, but you should at least hear my side of things.
Annalyse changed my life with one kiss. She brought me to my knees, and every wall I built, every defense I thought I had, fell apart in that one moment. But I’m not used to all these damn feelings, and she’s refusing to talk to me. I’ve done nothing but call, text, and knock on her door.
It’s been a week and nothing—not one word from her. I’ve lived alone for years and never has it felt like this. The house is so quiet. Annalyse isn’t there messing up my closet, my sheets. Her laugh isn’t echoing through the rooms. There’s no extra dirty dishes or laundry. It’s just me again, and nothing about that feels right. I’ve had some big fuck-ups in my life, but this situation with Annalyse definitely makes the top ten list—maybe top five.
Hearing her say goodbye made my whole body hurt. My throat choked up, probably to prevent me from saying goodbye back. I couldn’t do that. In my mind, I know it’s over, but my heart hasn’t gotten the message. I can’t let her go, but I can’t seem to hold on to her, either.
I step out on my patio and start to grill my dinner then look towards Annalyse’s house. But she’s not outside. Stupidly, I’ve grilled out every night. It doesn’t matter that it’s only about forty degrees. If there is even an off chance I can see her, it’s worth it. The wind blows. It’s shriveled-up-dick cold out tonight. What kind of idiot barbecues when it’s forty degrees outside, anyway?
There’s been no sight of her for a week. I’ve been reduced to reading her damn blog posts, and that’s just not cutting it. So far, I’ve learned what was in her purse, which was pretty enlightening. The girl could survive three days in any environment with that thing. I read about the time she got hit on by a woman and about the time she bent over to pick up her pen in tenth grade and accidentally ripped one. All funny and well-written, but there’s only been one that even hints at what she’s feeling.
“Sometimes you’ve got to go through the pain to get to the pleasure.” That’s what she wrote. And I know she wrote that just for me. This girl is the very definition of courage. It takes a fucking brave person to lay your heart on the line like that—on the internet, no less, where it will live forever.
But her fortune cookie sayings aren’t going to cut it this time. I need to know how to get her back. I’ve considered reading her whole blog to look for clues, but I promised her I wouldn’t do that. I know I’m breaking the rules by reading all her current posts, but fuck it. It’s the only way I have to feel close to her. I find myself re-reading a few of those first posts from when we first met. The one about choosing happy, I must read twice a day.
And every time I do, my hands grip my computer so tightly. One of these times, it will break in two. What has she done to me? What would my happy look like?
All I know is that Annalyse is included in that picture. But the pain always takes over any happiness, the darkness flooding the light. Just like Annalyse said. Somehow she understands me. She knows some things hurt too much to show, so instead I lash out—say horrible things, push her away. She calls me on all that bullshit. She knows my game because she’s been a player herself.
Then I see movement in the corner of my eye. Shit, she’s there. Finally! I’d missed her coming out. She’s curled up on the patio sofa, the outdoor fireplace lit, a book in her hand. Please, look my way. Just once. Come on, baby, turn those blue eyes to me.
She doesn’t.
Every few minutes I find myself begging the universe for one glance from her, but disappointment falls over me each time.
Maybe it’s for the best, the universe’s way of telling me to keep myself in check. I’ve lived without a woman in my life for half a decade before Annalyse. And I was just fine—kind of. Clearly, I’m not anymore. All my shit is churning inside me, a constant reminder of how screwed up I am. I can’t give her what I know she deserves. I proved that already. I took more than I gave.
I’m a giver. My cock, my tongue, she can have it all. Everything but the things she demands: my heart, my fucking soul. She opened up her soul to me, her pain. She shared her body, her thoughts, her heart. I took all that and gave her nothing except my dick. Yes, I’m a dick.
I know she’s got her own demons. But she somehow makes broken look beautiful.
Remember when you were a kid, and you broke something, like your favorite toy? So you glue or tape it back together. Ever have that turn into something better? A super ramped-up car or an army man who is now a cyborg! Maybe that’s a bad example. Annalyse is more like mosaic tiles that form a picture. The tiles themselves are broken. But the overall picture is stunning. That’s what I’m hoping happens to my heart one day. That somehow, the shattered pieces will come back together into something stronger than before—like I told Annalyse about her scars.
God, she really is the most beautiful woman. She’s just sitting there twirling her brown hair, reading her book—maybe one I bought her. I can’t help but stare at her, hoping she’ll look up and shoot me that smile of hers. I must space out because I suddenly realize she’s gone.
I glance around the lake, a slow fog rolling over the water. Searching the haze, my eyes find her standing on her sister’s dock, wearing one of my shirts. It’s swallowing her whole. The wind blows up, the air smelling as wild as the wind, her hair swirling around her face.
She turns, her eyes finding mine through the fog. I turn off my grill and start towards her. I don’t hurry or rush because I know Annalyse. She was a runner for the past five years—running from her feelings. She’s bound and determined not to do that anymore. I hope she sticks to that and doesn’t disappear on me.
She doesn’t look away as I approach. I freeze a few feet from her, the distance torture. All I can muster is a lame “Hi.”
“Go away,” she says.
Well, damn. Who would’ve thought saying “hi” would piss her off? That seemed like a safe way to start.
> “I’m not interested in making small talk with you, Holt.”
“I was just warming up,” I say, trying to lighten things up. She doesn’t so much as crack a smile. “What were you thinking? Just now?” I ask.
“How your eyes are the color of the fog,” she says. “Gray and mysterious, like they hold a lot of secrets.” I know she wants to know every last one of them. She waits—perhaps for me to say something, which I don’t—then starts back towards her house. “I’m sorry for whatever kind of hell you’re in.”
I follow her. “Dammit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
“It’s not completely your fault,” she says. “I broke our rules.”
“We only had one rule.”
“Right, but I shared my pain with you. And the moment I let you see that, trusted you with that, I fell in love with you.”
I stop in my tracks. Surely, I didn’t hear her right. She loves me? And she said it first? “You’re in love with me?”
For once, I’m thankful she hates small talk. She doesn’t look away, or blush, and there’s no hesitation. Instead, she holds my gaze, and with the most assured voice I’ve ever heard, says, “I love you.”
Damn, she takes charge of her feelings, really owns them, just like she owns me. Stepping towards her, I open up my arms. “Come here.”
“No! Just because I love you doesn’t mean I’m going to settle.”
Women are so damn confusing. “Why tell me you love me if you don’t want anything to do with me anymore?”
“Because Logan’s death taught me how important it is to say what’s in my heart before it’s too late. Not too late for you. I’m talking about for me. I’m not telling you ‘I love you’ for you. I’m not foolish enough to think that me loving you is going to fix or save you. I said it for me.”
The Reason for Me Page 20
