“I had this made for you. Yours is pretty tarnished and some of the pearls are missing. Who knows—after seeing this, you may not want to go look for that unsightly, bent thing.”
Truman is holding a long black velvet box. An ivory ribbon is wrapped around it, creating a silky, floppy bow. He slides off the ribbon and opens the hinged box with a quick hand. I gasp again, the second time this evening. It is my necklace, but it is not.
Beautifully recreated in diamonds, perfectly formed blush-colored pearls, and what I am sure is platinum, is a rebirth of my precious starfish. Any other woman would have fallen in love with it instantly. Any other woman would have immediately lifted up her hair and let her significant other lace the delicate chain around her neck.
“You don’t get it, Truman. You just don’t get me. Not anymore. Not like you used to.”
My reaction disappoints him. “Lena, I had this specially made from pictures of your necklace. It’s exactly like yours, only new and better. How can you not like this? I can’t fucking win with you.”
“I don’t wear that necklace because it’s attractive or valuable. I wear it because it’s part of who I am. It’s the only thing I have from my parents. I won’t let you take that away from me.”
And that is the final excuse I need to leave him. A cupcake drew me into the apartment this evening, and now this expensive piece of jewelry is my exit sign. I grab my bag and keys and I am gone. Truman’s voice calls after me as I race down the hall. I am still wearing my tatty clothes, but I do not care. I am going back to Connor and my starfish.
Chapter 21
My First Time
It’s been a particularly hard day for Tru. His parent’s divorce has been finalized—a speedy affair that cost more than it could have had Truman’s mother been willing to wait the normal timeframes—and he’s been suspended from the academy for cursing at Mr. Wall, our American History AP teacher—a lovely man that I adore, one who deserves respect.
Saying “Fuck off, asshole!” normally wouldn’t be enough to warrant a suspension, but Tru has been pushing the envelope for weeks now and the only thing that’s saved him prior to today is all the money his family has given in the past for building expansions. He says to me often nowadays that I’m the only thing keeping him going, that we were meant to meet that day at school, that we’re meant to be together and he can’t stand the thought of being apart. Even for a day. He whispers that I can’t leave him. That it’ll be worse than the divorce, worse than his dad losing his money, worse than everything.
I feel for him, in the deepest part of myself. He’s so achingly broken over what’s happening in his life and, although he hates his father with a passion bright and burning, I see in him changes that highlight the physical likenesses between them—the sandy-gold hair, the cut of their chins, the prominence of the point at the top of his right ear. He is becoming angry and lonely, even when he is right next to me saying that I keep him whole.
Part of me wants to race away from the ugly person that he I fear he could become and part of me resents all of his self-involved whining—he still has money because his mother is well-off and he has a home—two homes now with his father’s new apartment by the water.
He still has a family… even if it is a massive, busted mess at the moment. The rest of me though, the rest that is somewhat broken also, has come to crave Truman the way my body hungrily soaks up the salt water when I am swimming in the ocean off the secluded beach—the little haven that Truman is driving us to now on Tybee Island.
“Slow down, Tru.”
He rolls his eyes, but simultaneously lifts his lead foot a fraction off the gas pedal. “You can be such a buzz kill, Lena.”
“And you can be erratic and thoughtless.” It isn’t a kind thing to say, but he needs to hear it; one of the things I love about being with Truman is that I can speak my mind. He listens to me, respects me, accepts me. We’ve been together four months.
“I don’t need that shit from you today, Lena. I’m getting it from the whole fucking world.”
It isn’t like him to shut me down even though I am obviously right, but I take it on the chin because he is having such a difficult time. He needs to blow off steam; sometimes we treat the ones we love worse than everyone else because we know that they will take it, that they will still love us even after we’ve been complete assholes. Normally, he would never curse at me. Somewhere in the back of my brain, a little voice is reminding me that “normally” hasn’t been around for a few weeks—that Truman has cursed at me several times, that he’s pushed me away emotionally and physically.
I ignore the hateful little voice. I am happy with Truman. I… I even love him. I think.
Yes. I love this beautiful boy with the devilish smile and the lost soul.
“Tru?”
“Hmmm?” We are speeding along the road again, but this time, I choose to remain quiet.
“Will you live with your mother full-time now?”
“I wouldn’t live with my bastard of a father for anything, if that’s what you’re after, Lena.”
I shouldn’t have brought up the divorce, the living situation, his parents. “Sorry, Tru.”
“For?” His voice has gone from clipped and curt to flippant. It is such an erratic change that my mind is left grasping for direction.
“Oh, I just… I shouldn’t have asked. Today is supposed to be about having fun.”
“Forgetting, Lena. Today is about forgetting.” Twisting his body, Tru reaches into the backseat of the little sportster. When his hand reappears, he is holding the flimsy cardboard handle of six pack. It’s not a brand I recognize, likely something fancy—a local microbrewery special or an import.
“I don’t drink, Tru. It hurts my stomach. You know that. Besides, I’m not old enough. Neither are you.”
“Did I offer? And what’s with this ‘old enough’ crap. Buzz kill again!” His tone is still joking, but I grimace and my heart does a freefall into my stomach as Tru pulls out one of the glass bottles. Jamming his knees against the steering wheel, he uses both hands to position the beer cap above the top edge of the driver’s side car door.
The window is down and when he applies force, the dark blue with gold lettering cap flies into the air and falls onto the road. I turn, watching the small circle roll for some distance before it is too small and my eyesight is too poor to see it anymore.
When Truman’s hand is back on the steering wheel and we have not crashed and died, I relax a little. But I still hate the sight of him chugging the amber frothy liquid as he drives. He looks so much like his father in this moment. And if “normal” was us today, I would say something. Instead, I choose to be silent… again.
Focusing on the scenery, I try to forget Truman beside me.
About a month after we’d started dating, Tru had confessed to me that he was originally only with me to upset his parents—his mother especially—but then he’d realized we were more than that. And he’d asked for my forgiveness. I really fell in love with him that day and that had also been the first time he’d brought me to his sanctuary, so breathtaking and peaceful.
The silver car is pulling off of the main road and onto a barely recognizable dirt one that has all but faded into the surrounding sand and dune grass. The Kent family has owned this property on Tybee for four generations—it is very nearly the last bit of untouched land on the island. Truman is the only one that comes here now, which I find hard to understand.
“The weather is perfect today.”
Tru just grunts beside me.
We are barely parked before I am out of the sports car, stretching and pulling my dress over my head and then straightening my bikini top. Hearing the click of the driver’s door closing, I stop what I’m doing—my hand is still gripping my right breast beneath the yellow string top—and I look Tru up and down where he now leans against the front of the car. The dark jeans and designer tee are so slim that I doubt he’s wearing his trunks underneath.
&
nbsp; “Are you going to swim?”
“You swim. I’ll watch.” He does that sometimes—tells me what to do, but I don’t mind. It happens so rarely and it makes me feel taken care of, sort of like that first day we met—he took my hands at school when I’d hesitated and lifted me up off the floor like a real knight in shining armor.
“Now who’s the buzz kill?” I laugh, walking the small distance over to him and kissing him full on the lips. I do not relent until I feel Tru’s mouth begin to curve at the corners. When I pull away, the smile is already fading, but I know I have sliced through the darkness, even if the hidden light beneath only shone for a mere moment.
“Come on! Swim in your tighty whities then!” I pull at his hand playfully, trying to get him away from the car and into the waves. The water will be lovely and warm today.
“What tighty whities?” And now Tru’s grin is wide and infectious. And more importantly, it is sincere.
“Tease!” I turnabout, running toward the water as Truman strips down to his birthday suit and races after me.
***
Bobbing up and down in the water, there is a tension between Tru and I that has not existed before. Our bodies float only feet apart, but it feels like miles.
The tension and distance exists because he has just said that he loves me. And saying those words—that’s different than saying he can’t live without me and that I can’t leave him. It’s a contract between two souls; it’s a promise that shouldn’t be broken.
It scares me a bit.
Yet, I have said it back. I have told him that I also love him. And I think I do, so it is not a lie, it is just an early truth—one that I wasn’t quite ready for.
Truman swims toward me, closing the gap that lies between us, and he wraps his arms around my waist. Hugging me close to his body, he whispers that he loves me over and over again. I can feel heat forming in my feet and it begins to rise, as heat does, through my legs and into my belly. It makes its way quickly towards my heart, but I stop the warmth before it reaches my head—I do not want to think now, so I will not let the heat rise further.
Let it stay where it is, melting and melding my physical needs with my emotional needs.
“I love you too, Tru. I do. I’ve never had this before.” I put a hand on his chest. “Someone who cares about me the way you do, I mean. I know it’s not been long, but Tru…” my words trail off. I feel they are cliché, silly things that don’t intimate what I am feeling. Being loved, really loved, is something I’ve been little exposed to as a “system” kid.
“You don’t have to explain to me, Lena.” Truman is looking at me and I see anticipation in his eyes. These words that have been exchanged mean something else to him—that our relationship is ready.
I’m a virgin. He is not.
But who will ever love me the way he does? How lucky am I?
My string bikini is lost to the ocean in seconds; Tru’s hands are deft things, greedily untying and exposing my full body to the wetness. And I find that I like it, that my skin wants to absorb the salt and brine.
When he enters me, it is painful—I knew it would be, my first time—and the water does not help; it washes away natural moisture rather than adding. It causes friction and I know that I will be sore when it is over. I cannot stop the tears building in my eyes, a product of the discomfort, nor how they begin to streak down my face like raindrops on a car’s windshield.
But Truman does not notice. We are hugged together tightly, my eyes focused on the far-off horizon across the waves.
Chapter 22
Bruises on my Heart
My left fist is banging on the café door. Every part of me hopes that Connor is here. I want to tell him that I’ve decided. That I am leaving Truman. That I am going to be me for a while. That there is hope for an “us.”
But no one answers.
It is nearly midnight and Deacon’s Place has been closed for two hours. No one answers. And there’s nowhere for me to go. All of the cards in my wallet are joint accounts with Truman. If I use one to spend the night somewhere, he will know, and I am sure he will come. He won’t give up on me so easily. I know this beyond a shadow of a doubt, because the truth of it is tattooed inside my body, beside the bruises my time with Truman has inflicted on my heart.
I can hear my name in his voice, echoing toward me down the hall as I leave. I am here, in front of the café, yet I can still hear it. “Lena. Lena. Lena, come back!” It makes me feel like Jane Eyre wandering the plains, hearing Rochester calling her back to his den of adultery. Former den of adultery, I qualify within my head. Crazy Mrs. Rochester is dead by that point in the book.
Another man inflicting bruises on a woman’s heart.
Not that I can blame Truman for the purple and blue marks inside me. It isn’t his fault—not really. I settled. We were in love, and that changed; I continued to settle. I know that I have been more to him than just a relationship to piss off his parents. Admittedly, that’s what I was in the beginning. Peggy is right about that. He wouldn’t have stayed with me so long if that were the case still. And I know positively now that I am not a dalliance that would eventually pass from his life.
Like I’ve admitted to myself already, I know that I was never going to marry Truman. I’ve known it for a while. But now, after Truman’s words after dinner, I also know that he did intend to marry me and honor his promise. A marriage of convenience, though—stability to forward his career and future. A knickknack around the house to photograph when he makes it to the big-time. A knickknack like that damn elk statue I hate so much.
I hit the café door again, but I am losing steam. “Connor. Why couldn’t you just be here? Why couldn’t you be upstairs in your apartment tonight instead of going home?” I’m mumbling the words, my head lolled forward toward the stained sidewalk.
“Lena…” It is Truman’s voice behind me. He has followed me.
My body does not want to turn around and face him. Instead, I slump more fully against the door and slide to my knees. It is dramatic and I know I look foolish. “What do you want? Why are you here?”
“Why are you here, Lena? Is this…” His swallow is audible behind me. He’s just realized why I am here. There’s no point in denying it. We are over.
“Yes.”
“That long-haired hippie that fucking serves coffee for a living? Jesus, Lena, could you have at least picked someone halfway decent to fuck.”
Each of his words hit my back and they do not bounce off without causing injury. “He is decent. He’s more than decent. He’s kinder and more decent than you’ll ever be, Truman.”
A hand grips my shoulder and I know it is his—his college signet ring is glinting in the light of a nearby lamppost. “This is a fucking embarrassment, Lena. We come here. I come here. My fucking coworkers come here. They fucking bring me coffee from here all the time. I drink out of cups with this asshole’s logo. What’s going to happen? You’re going to shack up with this guy and then everyone at the office is going to be talking behind my fucking back. They’re going to be sipping their goddamn cappuccinos and lattes and talking about me and how my whore of an ex is grinding fucking coffee beans with the hippie.”
I’ve never heard Truman so mad. And I smell liquor on his breath—he rarely drinks anything except wine, and then only a glass or two. He’s never been drunk, not since we’ve been together, because he keenly remembers how his father was.
I want to crumple into a ball, huddle so far into myself that I do not exist anymore and this “different” Truman is a dream. But another part of me is ignited by his cruelty. He’s controlled me our entire relationship. It’s over now. It’s none of his business who I choose to love or not love. He has no say in what I do now.
Standing up, I turn to face him, brushing his hand away from my body.
“What would make this better, Truman? You weren’t mad before. You were kind, even accepting. You admitted that you’ve cheated on me over and over and over again.” I s
lap my hand each time I say over to get the point across. How dare he be pissed that I slept with one guy when he has slept with who knows how many women. What made them so worthy? “Now everything is unacceptable and terrible, because the man I had sex with owns a coffee shop? That’s stupid. It’s just stupid, Truman!”
Yelling at him feels good; the strength is seeping back into my body.
What does not feel good is the impact of his fist against my right upper cheek. The crack is audible and I know instantly that something has broken. Now I do crumple into that ball, huddling so far into myself that I actually feel as if I might fade from reality. The whimper that escapes my mouth is unstoppable. The strength is banished, and it is so far from me now that I do not think it will be back soon. No more spurts of self-confidence; no more standing up for myself.
No more Lena.
Just Truman’s little wife.
“Oh my God, Lena. Oh my God… I’m so sorry. I would never hurt you.”
Isn’t that the exact thing every man says when they hurt their partner “accidentally”? I would never hurt you.
But you just did.
You just did.
“Let me take you home, Lena. Please, I’ll make this all better. I promise. I’ll do anything to make you happy.”
I do not flinch or protest as Truman picks me up and cradles me against his body. Maybe it’s shock, maybe it’s the throbbing of my face, maybe it’s my inability to muster up my strength again. The punch has made me gun-shy.
***
We are back in the condo now. My car has been abandoned near Deacon’s Place. Truman says we will get it in the morning. I don’t care. It’s just a car.
Falling in Deep Collection Box Set Page 89
