by Olivia Evans
“Maybe you should,” Grace said, helpful as ever. “I can’t seem to talk any sense into you. Might as well see if your mom has better luck.”
Grace had made no secret of her feelings about my situation with Brennan. As far as she was concerned, Brennan and Matt could eat shit and die. Her words, not mine. I knew she was scared for me, and I appreciated her ferocious support, but sometimes it was a bit much. We’d agreed to not talk about Brennan while in Austin, but apparently the tequila in her system had other plans.
Mom’s lip twitched, and it reminded me so much of Dad, it made my chest ache a little. Even after being divorced for almost two decades, they still showed some of the mannerisms couples developed after years and years of being together. “Is this about that boy, Brennan?”
I narrowed my eyes at Grace. “You didn’t.”
Grace shook her head, eyes wide. “I really didn’t!”
Mom took a sip of her drink and shrugged. “I might have spoken to your father before you came here. Apparently he’s not as opposed to forgiveness as Grace. Which is shocking, to say the least.” There was a hint of resentment laced with a touch of regret in her voice. I knew she was thinking about her own relationship with Dad, but I could only deal with one fucked-up relationship at a time. And since mine was front and center, I decided, whether I wanted to or not, it was the safer bet.
“He did something really shitty, and I don’t know if I can forgive him.” There was no point in beating around the bush. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Do you want to?”
“I think so,” I answered before I could stop myself. I froze, shocked at how quickly the answer rolled off my tongue.
“Skylar, you can’t be serious!” Grace yelled, her face colored with disbelief. “He used you.” She emphasized every word, making each one hurt more than the last. I didn’t need the reminder. It was seared in my brain.
“Maybe you should calm down, Grace,” Aunt Gina said, her tone gentle but firm. My eyes stung, and I wiped the back of my hand across my cheek quickly.
“Look, I can’t explain it.” I took a deep breath and downed the rest of my drink. “I know I should hate him. I should want him to hurt in unimaginable ways, and sometimes I do, but more often than not, I’m just sad and I miss him.” The last few words were barely above a whisper.
“It makes me feel weak and pathetic. Why the fuck should I forgive someone for hurting me so badly? Why would I want to?” I sat up in my chair, my hands flying around like a crazy person. I felt like one, if I was honest.
“I knew better. From the moment we met, I knew he was trouble. He said all the right things, but there was something behind his eyes, something dark and a little scary, and for whatever crazy reason, I was drawn to it. I thought there was no way in hell I would ever allow myself to fall for a guy like him. I wanted to have a little fun, and let’s be real, he’s hot as fuck. In the beginning, it was fine. I played the game just as much as he did. Something was off, but I ignored it because as long as I was on my toes, he couldn’t hurt me, get close to me. Then something changed. It was so gradual, I didn’t even realize until it was too late. The mystery had faded. That darkness behind his eyes wasn’t there anymore. He still said all the right things, but the way he made me feel when he said them was different. He was different.”
“How about you start from the beginning?” Aunt Gina said, placing another margarita and a half-full bottle of tequila on the table in front of me, her expression sympathetic. I opted for a shot straight from the bottle, wincing as it set my throat ablaze. Then, with as much strength as I could muster, I told them everything. I started with the first meeting at the coffee shop and didn’t leave out a single detail, completely wiped out by the time I finished with the day he left for Virginia.
“Jesus,” Aunt Gina exhaled. “I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with this dating bullshit. What a clusterfuck.”
“Tell me about it,” I groaned. I was exhausted. Emotionally and physically.
“I don’t understand what’s so hard about this. He was a complete douche canoe and should have his balls in a vise and his ass whipped from one coast to the other.” The tequila had hit Grace full force.
“Has Preston ever done anything that you had to forgive him for?” Mom challenged, her nostrils flared. I jerked back a little, surprised by her tone.
“Of course—” Grace sputtered.
“And you forgave him?” Mom interrupted, apparently on a roll.
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. People make mistakes. It’s up to us who we forgive or don’t forgive. It doesn’t matter what other people think. It’s what we can live with. Maybe what you forgave Preston for would be unforgivable to someone else. Unless you’re in their heart and you know their mind, you have no right to tell someone how to feel. You’re welcome to give your opinion or offer advice, but to demand they feel a certain way because you think it’s how they should is crossing the line. You don’t have to like the situation, but you certainly don’t have to make it worse.”
“Damn, Aunt Elena,” Grace whispered, her voice filled with awe. “That was kind of savage.” Grace took a sip of her drink and, after a beat, nodded. “Point taken, though. This is Skylar’s decision, even if I don’t agree. If she trusts him again, I’ll just have to deal with it.”
“That’s just it.” I shrugged and fell back in my chair. I needed a nap. “I think, with time, I might be able to forgive him, but I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to trust him. And without trust, what’s the point? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life second-guessing everything he says or does, wondering if he’s being truthful. That’s no way to live. I don’t know what to do.”
Mom patted my hand. “Just give it time. Let him prove himself. And if you can’t find it in your heart to trust him, while it might hurt in the beginning, it’ll get better. Enough time can heal even the deepest wounds.”
After a long nap and the best Mexican food on earth, Grace did as promised and didn’t bring up Brennan again. We visited a couple of our favorite local bars, ate way too much food, and I’d bought my dad a new pair of boots. It was exactly what I needed. I didn’t even flinch when we passed the store where my relationship with Jeremy was put on full display, Jerry Springer-style. The truth was, Brennan hurt me far more than Jeremy could have dreamed. It paled in comparison.
I somehow managed to ignore my phone. Mostly. I had several texts and emails from Brennan, but I promised myself I wouldn’t read them until I was back in Seattle. My trip to Austin was going to be as Brennan-free as possible. Taking a step back from my emotions and letting myself have a little fun were exactly what I needed.
When I got home, I settled back into my new normal routine. I made a point to see Dad, Grace, Preston, and Rachel at least a couple nights a week. The last thing I wanted was to wallow in loneliness, but the truth was, I was lonely. In the time I’d lived in Austin and in Seattle before Brennan, that had never been the case. But after experiencing life with him, it became painfully clear how empty my life had been.
I groaned and covered my face with a pillow. I was being a total drama queen. I was frustrated I still hadn’t managed to land even an interview. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could deal with Laura at the coffee shop. Just as I was about to turn off the light and call it a night, my phone dinged with an alert. It was an email from Brennan. I wasn’t going to read it. I hated him being my last thought before I fell asleep; it made for a restless night and vivid dreams. But the subject of the email made me pause: Job Opportunities.
I sat up and opened the email, my mouth hanging open as I read.
Skylar,
I got a call the other day from Dr. Walsh. You remember him, right? He works at the aquarium. Anyway, he called because he’s looking for help with a project and didn’t realize I was in Virginia. He asked if I knew anyone who might be interested, and I started to give him your name but decided I shouldn’t. Not because I don’t think you
’d be great, but because I don’t want you to think I’m pulling strings to keep you in Seattle or that he only offered you a job because I asked him to.
You should call him. Tell him you heard about it from a friend. You don’t need to mention my name. He’ll want you because you’re amazing. I’ve also attached a couple openings I found before I fucked everything up. I never told you, but I’d looked at potential jobs for you to work in areas I might end up after training. I know it was presumptuous, but it never occurred to me that I’d be anywhere you weren’t. Either way, they’re opportunities you should consider. Your happiness is what’s important. Everything else is just noise.
Love,
Brennan
I clicked the attachment, and sure enough, there were links to jobs that had been posted over the last couple months, ranging from California to South Carolina. My chest squeezed a bit when I thought about how hard it must have been for him to tell me about those jobs, knowing it could send us on completely different paths. Some were familiar, a few were not. I would definitely look into them later, but first, the least I could do was thank him. And maybe mess with him a little for fun.
Brennan,
Hey. I got your email. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. But to say I wasn’t grateful would be a complete lie. You really looked at all this stuff? You know, before everything? I don’t really know what to say. Some of the places you found would be amazing, but to be honest, the possibility of staying close to Martin a little longer is really freaking awesome.
Do you promise you didn’t mention me to Dr. Walsh? I’m not saying you were lying or anything, I just… Well, if they hire me, I want it to be because of me, you know?
Anyway, thank you again, I really appreciate it. I hope they aren’t beating you too badly over there, only just a little. And remember, if they take you out for field exercises and you hear banjos, RUN! ;)
-Skylar
His response was immediate.
I promise I didn’t mention you to Dr. Walsh. Also, thanks for the warning about the banjos, unnecessary as it is. Of course I’m fucking running. :)
Night.
Even though I went to sleep with a smile on my face, I woke with the memory of his hateful words seared in my brain and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. So much for progress.
People may doubt what you say, but they will believe what you do. ~Lewis Cass
August 2016
“Come on, Skylar,” Rachel laughed as she grabbed my arms and started dancing in the middle of the bar. I would have felt a lot more comfortable if we were standing near the dart boards. Grace took my other arm, and after a few seconds of protest, I relented. I’d worked two doubles in a row at the coffee shop thanks to Laura’s sudden illness. Which just happened to coincide with a concert she’d scored tickets to. Between work and helping Dad paint his entire house, I’d barely had time to eat, much less sleep. The last thing I’d wanted to do on my day off was go out day-drinking and dancing in a mostly empty bar, but Rachel and Grace were bossy as fuck.
“Last drink, guys,” I warned with a lazy smile. I was beyond buzzed, and the thought of vegging on my couch and watching trash television until I fell asleep sounded like heaven. The two of them let out a whiny groan, but otherwise, let it go. It was nearly six, and if they weren’t home soon, Preston and Drew would likely die of starvation. I tried not to let my thoughts linger on how different my life was from theirs. They would be going home and falling into warm arms, and I would have a frozen dinner and cold sheets.
I shook off the thought and enjoyed the last drink with my friends before promising to call them soon and hopping in a cab. The cool air felt good against my flushed skin as I climbed the steps to my apartment, only stopping to grab my mail from the box. I thumbed through the envelopes, pausing when I spotted a letter from the state of Alaska. My heart jumped in my throat as I ripped open the envelope, and my eyes flew across the page. My excitement quickly morphed into disappointment as I read the familiar thank you for your interest, but at this time, blah, blah, blah. My eyes stung and I stumbled a little, crumpling the paper and tossing it onto the stack of mail when familiar handwriting caught my attention. This time, my heart caught in my throat for a completely different reason.
With tentative fingers, I reached for the envelope like it might burn my skin. That’s how it’d felt the last time I’d touched his words. I looked at the clock, realizing it was still early enough for another glass of wine, and I walked into the kitchen. After a fourth rejection letter, I needed a little extra help with reading anything from Brennan. I fell onto the bed and downed half the glass before flipping on some girl power music and opening the letter. I bobbed along to Taylor Swift, letting the lyrics occupy space in my mind, unwilling to give him my undivided attention.
Skylar,
I hope things are good in Seattle. They’re okay here. I’m getting my ass kicked—and way more than just a little. I thought about you this morning when I was in line for coffee before my first class. There was this girl in front of me, and man, I couldn’t help but smile at how much she reminded me of you. It made me think of the first time we met, or maybe it was the poor fool trying so hard to get her attention and she was giving him hell.
She had that same fire as you, and that guy… Well, he looked just as lost and pathetic as I’m sure I did. But that was where the similarities ended, because she might’ve had your fire, but she couldn’t hold a candle to how fucking beautiful you are.
I know you read the part of my journal—where I said I wasn’t impressed—and I guess at that point, I was just trying to dehumanize you, justify my actions by making you seem unimportant, because the truth is, I didn’t even see your face that day.
Even with all my anger and bitterness, the first time I really laid eyes on you—that day in the coffee shop—I was fucking stunned. For a second, I forgot everything else, and all I saw was you. Granted, some of the things I imagined us doing were less than gentlemanly, but make no mistake; you’re fucking gorgeous, baby.
I’m so sorry for ever making you doubt that.
I could list every single thing that makes you beautiful, and it still wouldn’t come close to explaining how I see you through my eyes.
Like the freckle on the left side of your face—the one that’s a little larger and a little darker than the rest. It’s a special mark that demands my attention, demands that I see it. And I do; I see it. I see all of you.
Did you know up close you have flecks of about six different colors in your eyes? You have gold, burgundy, copper, and so many other tiny sparks of color. I’ve never seen anyone with eyes like yours. They trap me, hold me hostage in the best fucking way.
And when you smile? The way your cheeks lift and cause your eyes to crinkle at the corners? I’m fucking gone.
So, no. I was not being truthful, because everything about you impresses me. I just had to open my fucking eyes.
I miss you. Take care of yourself.
Love,
Brennan
“Fuck,” I said in a quiet exhale. I blinked back the tears gathered in my eyes and downed the rest of my wine. The room started to spin, and I couldn’t decide if it was the wine or the way his words made me dizzy. I felt my cheeks burn, and a fresh round of tears slid down my face. I wasn’t sure why, but I read the letter again. And again. When the words started to blur and my tongue felt soft and full, I put the letter on the nightstand and stood.
I made my way into the bathroom, cringing when I saw my mascara-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. I grabbed a makeup remover towelette and scrubbed it against my skin, leaning closer and closer to the mirror. Before I could stop myself, I slid my finger across the freckle he wrote about. Who the hell looks at freckles like that? And my eyes? I widened them as much as possible, smacking my forehead against the glass in the process.
“What am I doing?” I half groaned, half laughed, still staring at my eyes like a crazy person, before I narrowed them. This
was his fault. And he needed to know how him waxing poetic or whatever you call it about eye flecks and freckles was not cool. I stormed into the bedroom and grabbed my phone, not even considering for a second that drunk-dialing him was a bad idea. It was an excellent idea. The phone rang several times, and I was sure the call was going to voice mail when his voice sank into my skin.
“Skylar?”
“Brennan,” I sang, exaggerating his name. Oh God, did I just slur?
“Hey. Is everything okay?”
“Yup. Everything’s just peachy.” I sounded weird. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“Did you contact Dr. Walsh?”
Crap. After all the hours at the coffee shop, I hadn’t had a chance to do that yet. Which was stupid. “Nope. I have not.” I hiccupped. Uh oh.
“Are you drunk-dialing me?” he chuckled, the smile in his voice evident.
I grabbed the letter and walked back into the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror for a moment before speaking again. “S’your fault,” I mumbled.
“What’s my fault?”
I leaned in close to the mirror and pointed at my reflection in the glass. “That I’m staring at a fucking freckle on my face and trying to see all these colors! How did you see all of that? I can barely see it.”
“You got drunk because of my letter?”
“I was having a perfectly fine day. I saw my dad, went day-drinking with Grace and Rachel, which included a near-death experience with darts, oh and dancing in an empty bar, but that’s a story for another time, then I came home, and BAM! Brennan letter all in my face.” I grabbed the sink to steady myself. That last glass of wine was a horrible idea.
“Skylar, I—”
“What am I supposed to do with this, huh?” I asked, cutting him off.
