Torn Hearts (Hearts #1.5)

by Claire Contreras

  “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” I asked in a whisper, closing my eyes as his breath fanned over my face. He smelled of the mint gum he’d been chewing on.

  “You remember how I ended up living with Patty, right?” he asked quietly.

  My eyes popped open again, and I nodded. I would never forget a drunken Jensen spilling his disgust for his father and the way he impregnated his mother and paid her off to keep quiet, or the way his mother abandoned him when she got into a relationship with a man who hated children. He looked away, worrying his lip. My eyes followed his and landed on the sun disappearing into the ocean. I snuggled my body into his, and he tightened his hold on me, his chin resting on top of my head as we watched it go.

  “What about her?” I asked when we could only see the very tip of the sun.

  “I never want to be like my mom. Or him. I won’t let myself be that selfish. I don’t want to be a liar, a cheat,” he said. I frowned, pulling away from him.

  “Okay?”

  Jensen breathed out. “This is so fucked,” he said, looking at the sand between our bodies. The look on his face when he brought his eyes to mine again nearly ripped me apart. “I . . .” He took a deep breath. “I was seeing somebody while we were apart,” he said, the slap of his words leaving a sting behind them. “It wasn’t serious at all, which is why I never told you about her.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, waving him off. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear about her.”

  “Mia,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “She’s pregnant.”

  Chapter Six

  Present

  Jensen

  I NEVER KNEW my father. I knew of him, but never knew him, not even by name. It wasn’t until the eve of my thirteenth birthday that I discovered his first name. That night, when any of the other mothers I knew would have been packing up their kid’s gift into a bag, she was packing up her suitcase. I walked into her room because I heard a noise and thought maybe she’d fallen. She was a heavy drinker, and while most of the kids in my class wore bags under their eyes because they’d stayed up late playing video games, I had them because I was usually holding her auburn hair out of her face while she threw up. Teachers called me irresponsible for forgetting my homework most days, and I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I did it on the bathroom floor most nights, and my mother’s puke often ended up smeared all over it.

  I wasn’t a bright kid like Oliver, or well-to-do like Victor. I didn’t excel in sports like Junior, but I had heart, and that can go a long way. Often times I woke up after two hours of sleep and studied, just to prove to my mom that I, too, could get good grades. I joined the baseball team and mowed the lawn for our neighbors, thinking those things would earn her respect. But that night, when I caught her packing her bags, and she turned to look at me, her gray eyes going wide when she saw me standing by the door, I realized none of those things mattered to her. They never would.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping, Jens?” she asked, her words slightly slurred.

  “What are you doing?” I asked quietly as I watched her hands stop in her bag.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” she replied in a cry. “I can’t stay here and pretend I know how to mother when we both know I don’t. I can’t . . . you look too much like him. The older you get, the more you look like him. I don’t want to . . .” she paused, sniffling. “I don’t want to hate you.”

  “You’re leaving?” My voice cracked. The doorknob was rattling in my shaky grip.

  “Only for a little while. I just need time to clear my head,” she said. “Archer set us up. I’m splitting the account two ways—that way you get what you’re owed too.”

  “Archer?” I whispered, trying to focus on blinking the tears filling my eyes.

  “Your . . . father.”

  “You mean my donor,” I said. “That’s what you call him. My donor.”

  “Well, he isn’t here, is he?” she spat, narrowing her eyes. “He promised me the world, impregnated me, and threw money at me to quiet us. Well . . . I can’t do it anymore. I can’t do it anymore.” She was wailing now, burying her face into her hands as her hair curtained her face. I stared at her, at the bag on the bed, at her room, at the floor.

  “Why are you leaving?” I asked. “Why?”

  She sniffed. “I’ll be back when I get my shit together.”

  “Please don’t leave, Mom. I’ll try to be better,” I pleaded.

  “Patty will be here soon,” she said, zipping up the bag and wiping her face. She walked over to me and cupped my chin with one hand. We were already the same height. She always made jokes about that when I had to help her into bed. “I love you, Jensen. I do, but I’m not well. You have to know that.”

  She kissed my cheek and walked out. I stayed rooted in place until I heard the door close behind her. I kept replaying over her words: ‘I love you, Jensen. I do, but I’m not well. You have to know that.’

  I thought back to that memory often. Probably more often than I should, and I always came to the same conclusion—she loved me, but not enough to stay. Not enough to put me first. I only told three people that story: Oliver, Mia, and now you. I didn’t tell it to gain pity. I chose my own destiny, and whether it was good or bad, I had to accept the consequences of my actions. I told it because I believed history was something we should learn from. We studied it to not repeat the mistakes of the past.

  I wouldn’t say I had a rough childhood. I knew people who had worse. I was never molested or beaten. I was never told I was a piece of shit nor was I undermined. I just wasn’t cared for. I was never nurtured. I never felt love from my biological parents, but I felt it elsewhere. Love was in friends who became brothers. It was in their parents, and Patty, my foster mother, the woman who taught me what a mother was supposed to be like. And it was in a girl—a bite-sized, sassy blonde named Mia.

  Mia was love. She was everything. She loved me, she pushed me, and she inspired me. Leaving her for New York was one of the hardest choices I’d ever made. Being in a huge city by myself wasn’t exciting for me the way it was for the people I met in school. I liked my life back home. I loved my city, I loved my girl, but I saw the way she got wrapped up in me. I saw the way her parents didn’t approve of our relationship, and so I ended things when I left. I figured a break would be good for both of us. I didn’t set out to date anybody, or even have sex with anybody else, really, but somehow it happened. I couldn’t fault the girl for our mistake. It was irresponsible, unforgivable, but it happened. That was life. I couldn’t expect Mia to understand. I didn’t expect her to understand, but as I watched her pack her bag, the way I watched the first woman I loved pack hers all those years ago, I couldn’t help but wonder what I could have done differently.

  Not have sex with that girl from poetry class. I knew that much. Obviously. But even before then, I wished I had held on to this one a little tighter. I wished I had talked to her more. I wished I had begged her to go with me. I wished I could wipe the tears from her face, but she wouldn’t let me go near her.

  “God, you are such an asshole,” she said, sniffling. “I fucking trusted you.”

  And that hurt more than anything, because she was right. I could have stood there and pointed out the semantics of it all: we were on a break, and I knew for a fact she was dating some dude named Max. I knew for a fact they went out every weekend, and that he sometimes drove her home and stayed over. I knew all of it. I could have called her out, but I didn’t, because we were on a break, and we could have done anything we wanted, but at the end of the day, we were supposed to be together and I fucked that up.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, taking a step toward her. Her head snapped up.

  “Don’t. Don’t even try to touch me right now,” she said, her chest heaving in sobs. I’d seen her cry, but never like this. Not even when her family dog died did she cry like this, and it fucking killed me. Her blue eyes were filled with pain that I’d caused. She raised her finge
r and pointed at me. “It should have been me. That’s all I can think about right now.”

  I closed my eyes to try to contain my sorrow, but it was no use. I bit down on the inside of my mouth to keep from crying, which was all I wanted to do, but I wouldn’t do it in front of her. So I bit until I tasted blood.

  “You’re my best friend, Mia,” I said, opening my eyes again. She had her bag slung over her shoulder. “Please don’t go.”

  She shook her head furiously, her wavy hair sticking to the wetness of her face. “Don’t ask me to stay,” she said hoarsely.

  “Please stay,” I whispered anyway.

  “Jensen, I can’t!” she said in a loud sob. “I can’t even look at you right now!”

  “So look away, but please stay. Just for tonight.”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, wiping the tears from her face. “I really hate you right now,” she said once she opened them again. “I really, really hate you.”

  “I know, baby,” I said, stepping toward her and pulling her into my chest. I knew she would push me away, and maybe claw at me, but I needed to feel her. I needed to hold her.

  “Don’t call me that,” she said, wailing into my shirt. “Oh my God. I feel like I can’t breathe.”

  I held her tighter. I didn’t want to let her go. Ever. When she pulled back, she looked up at me. “What will you do now? Move to New York for good?”

  I bit my tongue hard and nodded.

  “And then?” she prompted.

  “Mia,” I started, taking a deep breath. “I have to marry her.”

  If I could erase one thing from my memory for the rest of my life, it wouldn’t be my mom on the floor, or the way she looked at me when she left, or the way Patty looked when she told me that my mother was never coming back. It would be the look on Mia’s face the moment I dropped that bomb.

  “Wh-what?”

  “She got kicked out of her house. She’s young; she has nowhere to go. Her father—”

  Mia’s hands went up before I could finish my statement. “I don’t want to fucking hear it. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Please let me explain.”

  “Don’t.” She was holding on to her stomach as if she was going to heave at any moment. “I have to go. I just. I’m sorry, but I have to go.” She walked to the door and looked back at me one last time, her eyes trailing all over my face and down my body, and I just knew this was goodbye. I don’t know why I expected anything more.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she walked out. “I’m . . . I can’t.”

  I stared at the back of the door for a beat, waiting for the anger to seep in, but it never did. I thought I loved that girl my entire life, and I knew I would for the remainder of it. It didn’t matter that I had to go back to New York and marry somebody who was a virtual stranger to me, or that her father held my future in his hands, or that the baby she carried was mine. Nothing mattered more than the fact that I’d lost the most important thing in my life. I knew I would never get her back. Regardless of what the future held for us, for me, I knew I wouldn’t get her back. I didn’t deserve her.

  I sat on the floor in front of the door until the sun came up, just in case she decided to walk back through that door.

  She never did.

  I called, and I showed up at her house. I emailed. I texted. But nothing ever seemed to get through to her. So I started writing.

  We were dared to kiss, and from the moment her lips met mine, I was a goner . . .

  My Best Friend’s Wedding

  5 YEARS LATER

  Mia

  I WAS CONVINCED that major life events existed for us to measure how fast or slow we were progressing according to society. Weddings were one of them. When all of my friends started getting married, and I was sitting in the corner like, “Don’t mind me. Party for one over here,” I knew that everyone in my life was moving along a little faster than I was willing. From an outside perspective, depending on when you met me, you could say one of two things about me: “Poor girl, she’s been through so much. I wouldn’t be surprised if she ends up buying ten cats and living alone for the rest of her life.” Or, “One of these days she’s got to settle down with one of the men she . . . fools around with.”

  I’d actually heard my mother state the latter of those options to her friends during book club. She used book club as a way of whoring me out to her friends’ eligible sons. It was annoying. The latest book club meeting was held a couple of weeks ago, and the big discussion was whom I would take to my best friend’s wedding. Thankfully, that night I’d agreed to go over there with my brother so we could watch the Clippers game with our dad, and I was able to intervene in the conversation as they handed around an iPhone opened up to the Facebook page of one of their son’s.

  I’d never understood why people associated weddings with dates. Was it because they didn’t want to seem lame for not being in a steady relationship as they watched somebody they loved get married? I was secure enough on my own. I didn’t need a man’s presence to show me my worth, thank you very much. But as I handed my car keys over to the valet of the hotel where my best friend and most of my loved ones would be getting ready for her big day, a wisp of longing hit me, and I kind of wished I did have somebody to share this important event with.

  “You did it!” Estelle said as soon as she saw me walk into the bridal suite. She stood quickly, practically sprinting toward me, long, loose strands of waves bouncing against the white robe she was wrapped in. I stood still as she touched the tips of my now short hair, waiting for her to tell me the truth: she hated it.

  “I feel like I pulled a Britney,” I said with a groan, tugging on the ends as if the movement would make it grow back. I’d had long hair, Rapunzel-length hair, since I was a kid, and this drastic change was way out of character for me.

  Estelle laughed, her big, bluish eyes shooting up to mine. “You’ve been talking about cutting your hair for months, and it’s not that short,” she said, while I tilted my head with raised eyebrows. “Okay, fine, it is that short, but you look great!”

  “Thanks,” I said with a smile. “But enough about me. Are you ready to get married . . . again?”

  She married our longtime friend, Oliver, the guy who’d owned her heart ever since I could remember, a few months back, but today they were having their formal celebration.

  “I am!” she said, smiling. I was glad for the infectious giddiness that radiated off her. I knew the event would be a difficult one for me to get through, not because I wasn’t over the moon excited for my friends, but because all of our mutual friends would be there, and the one I’d been avoiding like the plague for the past five years was one of the groomsmen, and, in turn, walking with me.

  Oliver’s sister, Sophie, joined us as we dressed and sipped on mimosas, laughing at our drunken bachelorette party adventure from a few weeks earlier. I slipped into the soft pink maid of honor dress and scrunched my dirty blonde hair before working on my mascara. From the corner of my eye, I caught movement and dropped the tube of nude lipstick I had in my hand with a gasp, turning to give Estelle my full attention as she walked out of the in-suite bathroom wearing her wedding dress. I’d seen it on her when we went wedding shopping, but seeing her in it now, with her hair and make up done, made it real.

  “My best friend is getting married,” I whispered, smiling as tears pricked my eyes. Estelle laughed lightly, fanning her face with her hands.

  “Don’t. You’re going to make me cry! I’ve been married for four months!” she said, but continued fighting tears nonetheless.

  I gave her another once over and admired the way her dress hugged her body perfectly all the way down to her knees, where it fanned out.

  “You picked out the most perfect dress. I could never pull that off,” I said, referring to the feathers that adorned the bottom half of her dress.

  She smiled at me and walked up to the mirror, holding her veil in her hand. “My mom is supposed to put this on me,
” she said.

  “I’m sure they’ll be here soon. Sophie went to check on Sander and the baby,” I said. “You look incredible, Elle, and I’m not just saying that because it’s you. You really look unbelievable.”

  She took a deep breath, smiling even brighter as her eyes met mine in the mirror. “Thank you. Thank you for everything,” she said, pausing to swallow and blink back tears. “Thank you for my beautiful pictures and just . . . everything. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “You would be. This was inevitable,” I said, leaning in to wrap my arms around her, placing my chin on her shoulder. “But I am so fucking glad I get to share this day with you.” I squeezed her a little. “I think Bean is going to come in his pants when he sees you walking down the aisle,” I said, dropping my hands.

  “I sent his gift with Vic, so maybe he already did,” Estelle said with a laugh. His gift was a custom photo album that included super sexy pictures of her in his doctor’s coat and other things from her boudoir shoot with me.

  “Umm yeah, I think that probably did the trick,” I said, turning toward the door when we heard it unlock. Estelle’s mom and my mom walked in with Sophie trailing behind, all three of them gaping at Estelle in her wedding dress. I stepped away so that they could appreciate it and felt a ball form in my throat when her mom started crying.

  “You look so beautiful,” she kept saying.

  “Mom, please stop, you’re going to make me cry and ruin my make up,” Elle said.

  “Ohmygod, my brother is going to die,” Sophie added.

  “Our little girls are growing up,” my mom said.

  “You guys are impossible to be around!” I said, dabbing the edges of my eyes, trying not to cry again.

  Estelle stayed behind while the rest of us went downstairs and out back to the beach, where the wedding was happening. Anxiety crashed through me like a wave when I saw the groomsmen standing around talking animatedly as they looked out at the beach. I’m ready, I told myself. I’m fine. But when he turned around, and I caught a glimpse of his profile, my legs stopped working.