Must Be Love: (Nicole and Ryan) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 1)

by Claire Kingsley

  I hunker down in my chair, refusing to answer.

  "You know, sometimes a person comes into your life who is worth fighting for," Hunter says. "Even if that fight is with yourself."

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. I want to lash out at Hunter, but I stop myself. I’m angry because he’s right.

  "Okay, man. You'll figure it out," Cody says. He holds out his cup. "In the meantime, answer your fucking phone when we call, and pour me some more whiskey."

  ***

  I wake the next morning hungover as shit. Cody and Hunter are sprawled out, Cody on the couch and Hunter sideways in an armchair. I hardly remember getting back to my house last night. After polishing off the bottle of Jack, we staggered up the beach and collapsed. I roll out of bed and head straight for the shower. I’m pretty sure I managed to get sand in my ass crack. I have faint memories of wrestling Hunter to the ground. Probably not the best idea, but whiskey tends to do that.

  Cody and Hunter are still asleep when I get out of the shower, so I dress quietly to let them sleep. I grab a clean shirt and pull a pocket-sized spiral notebook out of my nightstand drawer. I haven't looked at that battered little notebook in months, but I know it’s time to stop being a jackass and face what’s happening to me. Cody is right. The signs are there. I have the tools to get better, I just need to pick myself up off my couch and start using them.

  Suddenly, that idea feels insurmountable. This stupid notebook can't fix me. What’s the point?

  I think about Nicole and push the thought away. I love her. Fuck me, I love her so much it cuts through the deadness. It makes me feel something, even if it’s mostly a shit load of guilt for being such an asshole. I absolutely hate myself for what did to her, but Hunter was right. She’s worth fighting for.

  But I can’t go back to her like this. I’m right, too—she does deserve better. I don't know if I can give it to her, and the thought is almost too much. But I'll never be able to live with myself if I don't try.

  I walk outside and down to the beach. Our chairs are still around the fire pit, although the fire is nothing but a pile of blackened coals. I sit down and cross an ankle over one knee, and open the notebook.

  It’s a list my therapist and I made. An emergency plan, so to speak. Each page has a single item, so none of them seem too overwhelming. When I feel myself slipping, I’m supposed to follow the notebook. I should have started months ago, when I first started feeling down, but ignoring the problem is a lot easier than facing it. Now it’s time to start clawing my way out of this pit before I find the bottom.

  I already know what the first page says: Twenty minutes of sunlight every day. The breeze is chilly, but the sky is clear, so I take off my shirt and stretch out my legs. I close my eyes and soak in the sun, feeling the rays warm my skin.

  I know what the second page says, too: Go to the gym. I have the list memorized, but the words on the page, written in my own handwriting, help center me. When did I last go to the gym? Weeks ago? No wonder I feel like shit. It isn’t just last night's whiskey.

  After sitting in the sun for a while, I go back inside. I know it would be a mistake to power through the whole list in one day. If I try to do too much too soon, I'll burn out fast and feel like a failure. Then I'll be worse off than before I started. But going to the gym sounds really good. I want to feel my body move, lift, stretch. I'll work out, eat, and call it a day—leave the rest of the list for later. I can do that. I can get through today.

  Every day after, I work the list. I tell Cody to call me at night and ask me what I did to feel better, and apologize in advance for when I'll be a dick about it. But I need the accountability. I start each day with a walk on the beach, even when I don't feel like getting up. I go to the gym. I’m so sore for the first few days, I almost quit going, but Hunter comes over and drags me in with him. I have dinner at my mom's every night for a week, clearing my system of all the shit I've been eating. I start taking my vitamins again. I hang out with my brothers, go out for a beer with my dad. I even text Cody and Hunter when I’m having a particularly bad night. They come over and play XBOX. Just having them there keeps me from sinking too far.

  Mostly, I think about Nicole.

  It takes me a while before I get up the courage to process the photos I took of her. Seeing her on my computer screen, breathtakingly beautiful, makes my chest tight. I want so badly to call her, to tell her I’m doing better, but I know I’m not ready. Months of backsliding into depression won’t go away overnight, and I can't drag her into this too soon. I'll only hurt her again.

  If I have any chance at getting her back, I need to be prepared to be honest with her. To be real. To stop hiding the worst parts of me and let her see them. It’s scary as fuck, but I know it’s the only way. If she can't handle it, I'll have to deal with the consequences, and I’m more than a little convinced she can't. There’s a lot I've kept from her.

  I’m not sure how to approach her when the time comes. I haven’t tried to contact her since the Great Asshole Episode, and I have no idea if she'll even answer my call. This isn't something I can tell her over the phone, anyway. I need to see her in person. I could drive up to Seattle and surprise her, but I realize I don't have the address of where she’s living. I know where she works, so I could probably find her there, but that seems like it could backfire pretty spectacularly.

  She'll be in town for the art festival, but she'll be busy. I’m not sure how to get her alone. Unless I have help.

  I grab my phone and take a deep breath. This is a big risk. There’s no way I’m not on the outs with the best friend. And Melissa kind of scares me.

  I type out a text, deciding to go for it and be as honest as possible.

  Hey. It's Ryan the Asshole. I know you hate me. I deserve it. But fuck me, I love her. I screwed up—a lot. Please help me get her back.

  I wait, my gut churning with nervousness. My phone lights up with a reply.

  Are you fucking serious?

  I blow out another breath.

  Dead fucking serious. I love her like crazy. I'll do anything.

  Minutes pass with no reply. Is she calling Nicole to tell her what a jackass I am? Did I make the right decision to contact Melissa?

  Okay. If you really love her, I'm in. But if you screw this up again I'll punch you in the dick.

  I lean back against the couch cushions, relief washing over me. I do love her. I love her with everything I am. I’m terrified it’s too late and I’ve already lost her. But I can't give up. I'll be honest, and bare my soul, letting her see the demons inside. I just hope she loves me enough to forgive me, and accept me for the mess of a man that I am.

  Jetty Beach is pretty much the last place I want to be. It’s impossible to go anywhere without running into reminders of Ryan. I have thoughts of taking off, driving across country, with no plan or destination in mind. I don't have a job or an apartment tying me down, so why not? Why do I have to shuffle back to the beach with my tail between my legs … again?

  But the truth is, I’m not back with my tail between my legs. Sure, things are uncertain and I have no idea what I’m going to do next, but there’s freedom in that. I have a little money saved, so I'll be okay for a few months while I figure out what to do. And I still have a festival to pull off. If I do nothing else this summer, I am going to throw the best fucking art festival Jetty Beach has ever seen.

  Melissa insisted I come stay with her, although her place is tiny. I don't mind. I can sleep on the couch, and the thought of living with my parents again threatens to ruin what bit of good mood I’m still capable of. Mel chats with me like usual, but doesn't ask too many questions. We talk about how things had ended at my job. I did my two weeks and handed off my responsibilities to others. Sandra assured me she would give me a glowing recommendation when the time came, and wished me well.

  I’m grateful Melissa doesn't talk about Ryan, although I wonder if she’s seen him around town. It’s likely. Jetty Beach isn't the sort
of place people can disappear. Of course, he might still be holed up in his house. Who knows how often he goes out? I haven’t heard a word from him since the day I left. The pain of missing him hasn’t diminished. I’m proud of myself for living through it, for not falling to pieces. But I still cry at night, when I’m sure Melissa won't hear.

  There’s definitely something Melissa isn't telling me though. On the second night I was here, I noticed her texting back and forth with someone, angling the screen so I couldn't see. Little smiles crossed her lips, and once she stopped herself from laughing out loud. I wondered if she’d met someone, and was surprised she wouldn’t tell me—but figured maybe she wasn’t ready to talk about it. I could understand that.

  I don't ask questions, but I hope he’s someone great. One of us deserves to be happy.

  With the festival so close, I have plenty to do. I settle into a routine, working on the festival during the day, hanging out with Melissa at night. She’s finishing up her school year, busy working on report cards. I start going for runs on the beach—I ‘m afraid to join the local gym because I know Ryan works out there. I see Cody's car in the grocery store parking lot once and decide to drive around until he leaves. Maybe that’s childish, but I don't know what to say to him. But as often as I’m out and about in town, I never run into Ryan.

  I wake up early on a Wednesday morning. Melissa is already hunched over her coffee at the little table in the kitchen, and I pour myself a cup. The festival is starting in just two days, and I have a lot of work to do.

  "Hey," she says, looking up from her paperwork.

  "How's it going this morning?" I ask.

  "Oh, you know me and my glamorous life," she says with a smile. "It's going fine, actually. I'm almost done. But teacher burnout in June is a real thing."

  "I bet."

  "Are you going out this morning?" she asks.

  "Yeah, I need to get down to the gallery and start moving some things around for Friday."

  She taps her pen against her lips. "Would you do me a favor?"

  "Sure."

  "I have to be at work in like half an hour, but I'm expecting a package today, and it needs a signature. The tracking email says it's scheduled for delivery by ten. Can you stay here until then and sign for it?"

  I take a sip of my coffee. I want to get started earlier, but it shouldn't matter. Melissa is nice enough to put me up; I can certainly help her out. "Yeah, I'll stay. You're sure it's coming this morning?"

  "Positive," she says.

  "What is it?" I ask.

  She stands and gathers up her papers. "Oh, you know, just something I ordered. I don't know why they won't leave it on the porch. But if someone's not here to get it, they'll hold it at the post office, and then I have to go down there to pick it up. And we both know how much fun Agnes is."

  Agnes has been running the post office since we were kids. She isn't exactly friendly.

  "Yeah, that's no fun," I say. "Don't worry about it. I'll be here."

  "Thanks, Nic."

  I pass the time reading a book on the couch with another cup of coffee. Melissa is at work, and her house is blissfully quiet. Although I intended to get an earlier start on the day, it’s nice to sit by myself and forget my troubles for a while.

  The knock at the door startles me, even though I know to expect it. I set down my mug, put my book aside, and get up to answer the door.

  My heart literally jumps and my stomach does a somersault when I see who it is. Ryan.

  "Please don't slam the door," he says, putting a hand on the door to keep it open.

  I can't move. I just stare at him. He looks good. The dark circles are gone from under his eyes and his jaw is back to the neatly trimmed stubble I love so much. I can just make out the lines of his chest and abs beneath his shirt and his eyes are intense, green and smoldering.

  "Nicole, may I please talk to you?" he says.

  His voice is so sweet. I’m torn between wanting to hit him across the face for hurting me, and throwing my arms around his neck and holding him.

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  I step aside and let him in. My heart won't stop racing. He glances around, as if he isn't sure what to do.

  "Should we sit down?" he asks.

  I sink onto the couch, scooting the blanket and my book out of the way. Ryan sits next to me, close enough I could touch him, but not so near as to intrude on my personal space. He sits looking straight ahead and runs his hands up and down his thighs.

  "I owe you an apology," he says. "I owe you a lot more than that, but first I want you to know how sorry I am. For everything. I hurt you in so many ways and I hate myself for it. I was going through something and I tried to keep it from you. I know that's no excuse for how I acted, and especially not for the things I said. But I am so sorry."

  He pauses, licking his lips, and looks down as if gathering his thoughts. I pull the edges of the blanket closer.

  "I have something I need to tell you, and this isn't easy for me," he says. "I know this is going to seem out of place, but I need to tell you about Elise."

  I nod. Elise? His ex-girlfriend? Where is this going?

  "I met Elise on a shoot in L.A. She was a model. At first we were just friends. Truth be told, I felt bad for her and thought she could use someone to talk to. It seemed like she had a lot of drama in her life. There was never a point when we decided we were together. It just sort of happened. Pretty soon she was crashing at my place so often, she basically lived there. I found out later she'd been evicted from her apartment, but she was pretty good at hiding things from me."

  I listen quietly, not sure what to say.

  "In any case, Elise had problems. After we'd been together for about a year, she confessed to using prescription pain killers. A lot. I was pissed. I'd been driving her to doctor's appointments, believing her story that she had some sort of autoimmune disease and the doctors were all idiots who didn't know how to help her. The truth was, she would come up with a story for every new doctor, until they would quit prescribing for her. Then she'd move on to another one. When she told me, I was ready to ask her to leave. Our relationship was a disaster. But she told me about her addiction, and asked for my help.

  "What was I supposed to say to that?" he continues. "I felt like I couldn't leave her. Her family was out in Ohio and she didn't have any other friends. Not real friends anyway. So I put all my energy into helping her. She refused to go to rehab, but I thought I could do it. I nursed her through withdrawal. I drove her to meetings and sat in the back while people talked about their addictions. I canceled shoots so I didn't have to travel. I even tried to convince her to move up here. I didn't think L.A. was the best place for her to make a good recovery. She was still surrounded by all the same pressures. Still, after a while, she got better. She started working again. Her career really took off. She got some high profile gigs. It was good."

  "Until?" I ask, my voice quiet.

  "Until it wasn't, I guess," he says. "Our relationship wasn't any better, even with her sober. Later, I spent way too much time trying to get my therapist to help me analyze what went wrong, but the truth was, I didn't love her. I liked her. I wanted her to be happy. But I didn't want to be with her. I don't know if she sensed that and it contributed to her relapse, or what. But she did relapse. Hard. I should have seen it coming, but it took me by surprise. I found a discarded pill bottle next to the dumpster outside our apartment building. She'd been throwing the bottles away outside so I wouldn't see them, but she'd dropped one. I confronted her and she broke down, sobbing. She'd been using again for weeks. So I got back to work. I took her to a meeting. I fed her soup. I rented light-hearted movies to get her mind off things. I thought it was just a bump in the road, and I could get her through it. Unfortunately, I was wrong."

  Ryan takes a shaking breath. I want to reach out and put my hands on his. He looks down at the floor and keeps talking.

  "I'd been sleeping on the couch for a long time by then. We'd never t
alked about it; I just quit sleeping in the bedroom. I got up one morning and made her breakfast. It was a Monday. I was supposed to have a shoot that day, but it wasn't until three, so I figured I could take my time. By noon, she hadn't come out, so I went in to check on her."

  I gasp and put my hands to my mouth. I know what he’s going to say.

  "I could tell she was dead as soon as I opened the door. One arm was falling off the bed at a weird angle and her skin looked blue. Half a bottle of Vicodin and another bottle without a label were on the nightstand. The authorities determined it probably wasn’t on purpose. She left a lot of pills sitting there. If she meant to commit suicide, she would have taken more. Her body just couldn't take it. She took those pills one time too many, and it killed her."

  "Oh, Ryan," I say through my fingers.

  "Nicole, that's not even the worst of it," he says. "I had to tell you about Elise so you'll understand what happened next."

  Ryan pauses, covering his mouth with his hand. He takes another deep breath.

  "I told her family, of course, but I didn't really talk about it to anyone else. I kept to myself those years I lived in L.A., and my parents hadn't even met her. It was the weirdest thing. Whether I'd been in love with her or not, she'd been a part of my life for two years. I found her body in my bed. But I didn't feel anything. I wasn't mad, I wasn't upset. I was numb. I started to wonder if there was something wrong with me. I took a tearful phone call from her sister, and I felt nothing. I helped arrange to have her remains sent to her family, and it was no different from going to the fucking post office."

  "After a while, I quit doing things," he says. "It happened so gradually, I almost didn't notice. I cancelled shoots, turned down jobs. I didn't go out much. I stopped calling home, didn't answer my phone. I sat around a lot. I started to feel like maybe I died when Elise did, only my body hadn't caught on yet. I felt like a ghost, just drifting through the world. I didn't care. I should have known something was wrong when I was supposed to go to the Caribbean for a shoot, and I just didn't go. I got up that day, knew I had a flight to catch, sat down on the couch, and didn't move. Later, when a therapist told me it was clinical depression it made a lot of sense. But at the time, I thought I would just fade into nothingness. And maybe the world would be better off."