by Penny Reid
And he was wrong.
There was one thing I could do, one finite solution that would solve the problem, but that was also going to break my heart. I felt a new, more powerful wave of tears build behind my eyes as I stared at his outward expression of indifference.
A single thought bubbled to the surface of my mind: he’s betrayed me.
I’d flung myself off a cliff, trusting that he’d be there to catch me, but he let me fall. I hadn’t realized until that moment how completely I’d trusted him. I was so stupid.
I felt my heart slow and sputter, thump and crack. The dam broke and gave way to a flood of bitter tears.
I mimicked his stance, crossed my arms over my chest and lifted my chin, hoping the posturing would give me the bravery I needed even as fat drops of saltwater spilled from my eyes.
“You’re wrong, Martin. There is something I can do.”
Martin became very still, quiet. His eyes cut to mine and they were sharp, focused.
“I’m breaking up with you.” I made no move to wipe away the wet tracks because…what was the point?
“Kaitlyn.” My name sounded like a plea and an accusation. I firmed my jaw. He shook his head. “Don’t say that.”
“What other choice do I have?” I was screaming at him, my anger reaching a boiling point. “If we break up then this goes away, there is no bias because we’re not together.”
“But we’d…what?” He searched my face. “We’d see each other in secret?”
I stubbornly shook my head, feeling the physical effects of misery. Yet grim, soothing resolve crept its way up my spine, wrapping my heart and mind in a blanket of numb certainty. He must’ve seen something shift, some change in my expression, because he rushed forward and gripped my arms.
“No…no, no, no. That’s not going to happen. You are not doing this.”
I released a pained breath that sounded more like a sob and looked at the wall over his shoulder, sniffling. Tears fell freely and I barely felt the cold trails they left on my cheeks. This desolation was like bee stings on every surface of my skin, my stomach rolling and clenching. I felt like I was being torn apart.
When I responded, it was without emotion, because I already knew what his answer would be. “I don’t think I really have a choice here, unless you can think of another solution.”
“You’re just going to give up? Just like that?”
I twisted out of his grip, walking backward several steps, and spat at him, “You make it sound like this is easy for me. This isn’t easy. You won’t give up your fancy satellite plans and I can’t let my mother suffer because of your father’s lies. You’re asking me to choose between right and wrong. I have to choose right.”
“That’s bullshit!” I winced because his voice was loud and severe, his eyes flashing, his expression livid as he closed the distance between us and jabbed his finger in my face. “If you don’t want to be with me then own it. Don’t blame it on some higher cause. You own it!”
“I do want to be with you! I lo—” I turned, covered my face before he could see it crumple, and walked three steps away, biting my tongue.
This was madness. I thought we loved each other, and yet…
Reason reared its affable head and politely suggested to me that one does not fall in love with a person over the course of a week. What I was feeling was the infatuation of newness; it was his smile and the way he touched me and the way he looked at me.
Love was lasting. Love finds a way. Love endures.
But we’d had a week. One week. Only a week.
“A beautiful week,” I said through my tears, not immediately realizing I’d spoken out loud.
“What?”
“We had a beautiful week,” I whispered, as I finally wiped the wetness from my face and dropped my hands, reason reminding me that just because I didn’t feel calm, didn’t mean I couldn’t be calm.
I would be calm.
I would not be hysterical.
I would walk out of this room, walk away from him, and never second-guess the decision, because it was the right thing to do.
Therefore, I lifted my chin, mentally preparing myself for what came next, and dug deep for courage. “I’ll always remember it. I’ll always…think of you.”
My vision blurred again. I needed to leave before more tears fell, because once I really started, it was going to be an epic sob fest. Multiple boxes of tissues were going to be used.
He spoke through clenched teeth; I knew he was furious, but he also sounded desperate. “I swear to God, Parker, if you leave, if you do this then that’s it. I swear, I’m done. I can’t forever be trying to prove to you that what I feel for you, what I want from you is real.”
“I believe you,” I said without turning around. I couldn’t look at him. I needed to leave. I wrapped my arms around my middle and after a short pause, walked to the door.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, his voice roughened with an edge of desperation. “Now I am begging, please don’t do this. I love you.” He exhaled this last part, the last word ending abruptly like he’d swallowed it, like it’d cost him.
A shock passed though me, his words were physical, possessed the ability to electrify the air, reach out to me, into my chest and squeeze my numbed heart. My steps faltered, my shoulders curved forward, and my arms held me tighter. I felt as though I was holding myself together. If I moved my hands I might shatter to pieces.
I turned, tried to gather a deep breath but found I couldn’t, the pain was too sharp, too acute. I met his gaze directly; the force of it, the pleading and prideful ferocity nearly knocked me over.
“Then help me,” I begged in return. “Please help me find another way. I don’t want to do this. Help me fight your father.”
His eyes were despairing, tortured as they moved over my face. He pleaded, “We can see each other in secret.”
“No. Someone would find out, and then it would make my mother look even worse.”
“He will cut me off, Parker.” Martin shook his head, pain and frustration and helplessness casting a contorting shadow over his features. “I can’t go against him, not yet.”
I released the breath I’d been holding. My voice was watery but firm. I shrugged, then said, “Then…I guess this is goodbye.”
CHAPTER 14
Atomic Weights
I couldn’t stop crying.
I just physically could not.
I hurt. I hurt so completely. And every time I closed my eyes I saw his face and I hurt more. I was choking on it, asphyxiating, drowning in it.
I was not this person, or at least, I’d never been this person before right now. I was calm and detached; I abhorred drama. I never understood girls who cried about boys. But I did now. I totally freaking got it. I had no control over this agony, I had no choice but to feel it, all of it, and it sucked.
So I buried myself under my covers and cried like it was my job and I was hoping for a promotion. I cried until my pillow was soaked and the only thing that came close to the hurt in my heart was the throbbing in my head.
And this is how Sam found me that night after breaking up with Martin.
She paused when she opened the door to our room, the light from the suite area spilling across my bed, and I met her eyes as they scanned my splotchy, swollen face. The corners of her mouth turned down as she pressed her lips together.
“Anyone die?” she asked.
I shook my head and pressed my face to the damp pillow, my words muffled, as I responded melodramatically, “No. But I want to.”
“You want to die?”
“Yes, I want to die.”
“Why?”
“We broke up.”
Aaaaand more crying. I hiccupped on a ragged sob.
“Well…shit.” I heard her sigh, then say gently as she rubbed my back, “I’ll be right back with stuff for ice cream sundaes.”
The door clicked shut behind her. So I cried and wrapped myself in the chaotic thoughts that had pl
agued me since leaving Martin.
Maybe I was being selfish.
Maybe Martin’s revenge was more important than my mother’s reputation and providing affordable Internet service to millions of people.
Maybe we could see each other in secret and no one would find out.
Maybe we were just taking a break for four months and we’d pick right back up once his master revenge plan was set in motion.
Maybe I was turning into a pathetic creature grasping at straws because I missed him with every cell in my body and the thought of never seeing him or talking to him again made me want to light myself on fire.
Not actually light myself on fire, but do something drastic because I just freaking hurt so very, very bad.
And it had only been five hours.
Sam returned sometime later while I was in the middle of replaying my conversation with Martin in my head for the hundredth time and therefore second-guessing my decision for the millionth time.
She flipped on the light, making me groan, wince, and wish more fervently for death.
“Katy, take the pink pills by your bed and drink some water. You’re probably dehydrated.”
“What’s in the pink pills?”
“Ibuprofen.”
I struggled to sit up, reached for the pills, and started to cry. “Okay,” I said through my tears, “I’ll take the pills, but nothing will ever make me feel good ever again.”
Sam tsked sadly and I heard the clatter of dishes and spoons, the rustling of a plastic bag, and the sure sounds of an ice cream sundae being prepared. After I finished taking a gulp of water and Sam tossed me a new box of tissues, she placed the bowl in my hands.
“Eat your ice cream and tell me what happened.”
I shrugged, squinted at the mint chocolate chip and fudge in my bowl. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Do I need to hire a hit man?”
I took a bite. It tasted good. I was numbly amazed that anything could possibly taste good. “No. I broke up with him.”
“You broke up with him?”
I nodded, pushing the ice cream to one side so I could get a spoonful of fudge.
“Does this have something to do with your mom?”
I nodded again, my throat tight. Suddenly I didn’t want fudge because fudge wasn’t Martin, and fudge would never be Martin.
Stupid fudge.
Holding her own bowl, Sam insinuated herself next to me on the bed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Kaitlyn, tell me everything. Talk to me. Let me help.”
“Nothing will help.” I knew I sounded emo and morose but I didn’t care. Being dramatic was the only thing that felt right.
“Then tell me because I’m nosey. Tell me what happened.”
So I did. I told her all about Martin’s pariah parents and how he’d grown up being used and humiliated—though I didn’t share the specifics—and about the impossible situation with my mother, and a vague description of Martin’s plans for revenge.
It took me an hour because I had to stop every once in a while to sob like an infant. Talking about it was reliving it again and I experienced fresh pain with each word. However, when I was finished, when my tale of woe was complete, I felt somehow different.
I didn’t feel better. I just felt less…despairing.
Despairing, desolate, dejected, depressed, hopeless, inconsolable, miserable…
“I’m sorry if this makes things weird with you and Eric.” I said this to my melted bowl of ice cream because it hurt to lift my eyeballs.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying, I hope this doesn’t put you or Eric in an awkward situation. You shouldn’t let my break up with Martin affect your relationship.”
She was quiet for a moment, and I felt her eyes on me. “Kaitlyn…Eric and I aren’t in a relationship.”
Even though it hurt, I lifted my scratchy eyes to her, knew my face betrayed my confusion. “You’re not?”
“No, hon. We’re not dating.”
“Then…then what happened last week?” My voice was nasally and a little squeaky.
She shrugged. “Nothing of significance. I mean, yeah…we had a good time together, but we’re not dating.”
“Did you sleep with him?” I didn’t know I was going to ask the question before I asked the question, and I winced because it was rude, and sounded judgmental and demanding.
Her half smile was just north of being patronizing. “Yes. We slept together. And we hung out and made out and had a lot of fun. I like him a lot, but I’m not looking for a relationship and I told him that at the beginning of the week. Between school and tennis and now needing a summer job, I was looking for a good time. So we had a good time, but I doubt I’ll see him again.”
New tears flooded my eyes and I blinked them away, tangentially amazed that I could still cry. “Am I a bad feminist? You can tell me the truth.”
“What are you talking about?” Sam chuckled and tried to untangle a patch of my hair near my ear.
“Because I fell in love with Martin. I started falling in love with him the moment he kissed me in the chemistry lab. I am totally weak for him. And the thought of sleeping with someone without being in love…I don’t know. It makes me want to throw up.”
“Kaitlyn, you and I are two completely different people with completely different temperaments, experiences, and personalities. Not all women can—or should—have casual sex. Just like, believe it or not, not all men can have casual sex. And your inability to have sex without deeper feelings doesn’t make you a bad feminist any more than my love for lace panties and the color pink makes me a bad feminist. Do you see what I mean?”
I nodded, still feeling like a bad feminist. But more than that, I still hurt. The absence of Martin screamed in my ears and the acute pain of sudden loss tortured my soul…ugh! Now I was contemplating my tortured soul. I was pathetic.
I groaned. “What is wrong with me? How can I be this upset over a guy I was with technically less than a week?”
“First of all, stop beating yourself up for what you’re feeling.”
“I’m pathetic. I’m a drama llama. I’m that girl. I’ve spent years judging that girl, and now I’m her and I feel so terrible for judging her because, if she felt one tenth of the agony I feel right now, then I need to write her an apology letter. I should punch myself in the face for being so judgey.”
“Kaitlyn, we are all that girl sooner or later. You can’t know or understand another person’s pain until you’ve lived through a similar experience. You fell hard and you fell fast. It was dating boot camp on that island, and you were all in. Girl, you just lost your virginity two days ago! Give yourself some time to adjust.”
“Oh, Sam, how am I going to make it through the rest of my life when almost six hours post breakup I’m already contemplating death by fire as a preferable alternative to the ache in my heart?”
Sam sighed and wrapped her arms around me. She laid her head on my shoulder and said softly, “Kaitlyn, stop and think about this, really, really think about what’s going on. Think about what you know about this guy.”
“I know he loves me and I broke up with him and I don’t even really know why.”
“You know why. You broke up with him because he was unwilling to do the right thing.”
“But he loves me and—”
She made a sound in the back of her throat that reminded me of Marge from the Simpsons and interrupted my whiny tirade. “Here is the truth, and I’m sorry if it hurts, but here it is: Martin is never going to choose anyone—even you—over himself.”
I winced because… Gah, right in the feels.
I pressed a damp tissue to my face. “Gee, thanks.”
“I’m not saying this to be hurtful. You are beautiful and amazing and so smart.” Sam paired this with a squeeze. “And did I mention beautiful? But the thing is…” she lifted her head and searched my face, “the thing is, he doesn’t know how to love. He doesn’t. You said it you
rself, his parents are pariahs. He knows all about self-preservation, and he’s thinking only of revenge. He’s the Count of Monte Cristo.”
I gave a pitiful laugh and shook my head. “I know you’re trying to help, but you don’t know him like I do. I know he loves me.”
“I’m sure, on some level, in Martin’s universe of one, he’s willing to make room for you. I’m sure he does love you, as much as he’s capable. But, that’s just it. It’s a universe of one, and giving you a corner isn’t what you deserve. You deserve a universe of two, and a pedestal, and cabana boys to peel your grapes.”
Tears squeezed out of my eyes even as I snorted. I wiped them away with my tissue, which was basically just lint at this point.
“I don’t want cabana boys. I just want…I want…” I glanced at the ceiling and shook my head.
“I know. You want Martin Sandeke to choose you over his mastermind revenge plot, a revenge plot that’s occupied his mind since he was a teenager and toward which he’s been working since he reached the age of reason.”
I nodded and added sarcastically, “Yes. Exactly. Why can’t I be more important to him than a life-time ambition?”
Sam wasn’t at all sarcastic when she squeezed my hand and said, “But don’t you see? You should be. You’re not asking him to do anything wrong or illegal, you’re not asking him to choose you over his convictions. You’re asking him to do the right thing, the good thing, the honorable thing. If he really loved you, really and truly loved you, then you would be more important to him than revenge.”
I stared at her until she grew blurry in my vision and added absentmindedly, “But I’m not.”
“But you’re not,” she echoed, giving me a sad face, then pulled me into a hug, whispering again my ear, “And you should be.”
***
I texted my mother on Monday and told her that Martin and I broke up. She texted me back that she would arrange through the chemistry department for me to finish my lab credits without a lab partner. She also said she was looking forward to seeing me over summer break.
When I received nothing else from her—no call to ask how I was, no thank you or recognition of what the break up cost me—I became irrationally angry and played ‘Killing in the Name’ by Rage Against the Machine on my acoustic guitar until 2:37 a.m. I only stopped because Sam came home from a late night study session and needed sleep. When she left the next morning, I picked up my guitar and played it again.
