Текст книги "A Lover's Lament "
Автор книги: K. L. Grayson
Соавторы: B. T. Urruela
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
“Even My Dad Does Sometimes” – Ed Sheeran
“BREAKFAST IS READY.”
I jump at the sound of Bailey’s soft voice. The shovel slips from my grip, but I manage to catch it before it falls to the ground. “Holy crap,” I breathe, my hand clenched above my heart when I turn to face her. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry,” she says, yawning. Tucking her hands in her coat pockets, her feet shuffle against the ground and she yawns again before sitting on one of the straw bales in the corner. My brows furrow and I cock my head to the side. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen my baby sister up before ten o’clock in the morning, and I sure as hell can’t remember the last time I saw her step foot in this dirty barn.
Bailey and I are eight years apart, and when we were growing up, I always used to joke with her that she was an ‘oops’ baby. Of course she wasn’t, but I was older so it was my duty to pick on her. Despite our difference in age and my occasional need to make her cry, Bailey and I have always had a great relationship. I’ve always been the tomboy, never afraid of dirt and hard work, and Bailey has always been the girly-girl, in love with designer clothes, manicured nails and makeup. While I spent hours out in the barn or the field helping Daddy, she sat inside having tea parties and playing with her Barbies. We’ve always been complete opposites, but best friends nonetheless.
Until recently.
“Bailey?” I ask cautiously, glancing outside to confirm what I already know. Yup. Still dark. “You do realize that the sun won’t come up for at least another twenty minutes, don’t you?”
She shrugs her shoulders and looks down. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Okay,” I answer slowly as I turn around to keep shoveling. My hands are tired and achy, but I keep going because if I don’t do this—if I don’t take care of Mac, Molly, and Toby—then no one will. Bailey and Mom don’t understand why I insist on keeping the horses, and I don’t understand how they could possibly think of getting rid of them. I know that the horses are expensive and they take a lot of work, but that’s why I’ve taken over the burden. I want to do it. No, I need to do it. They’re a part of us—a part of him—and right now they’re the one thing that’s keeping me tethered to the past … a past that I’m not ready to let go of.
Forty days.
That’s how long it’s been since we buried my father. January 3, 2006 will go down in history as the single worst day of my life, and I’ve spent every second since then living in hell—three million four hundred and fifty-six thousand seconds, to be exact. And they’ve all been filled with a bone-shattering anguish that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.
It took fourteen days for my family to realize that I wasn’t grieving properly, but little did they know I wasn’t grieving at all. I’ve merely been existing. And then it took another two weeks for them to convince me to talk to someone.
“I’m worried about you.”
And there it is! Of course she’s worried about me. That’s all I’ve heard since I walked out of that damn hospital. Frustration bubbles up inside of me, my muscles coil tight and, without thinking, I start firing words back at my sister. “Really, Bailey, you’re worried about me?” I scoff. She steps in my line of sight and I catch her glare before continuing. “Don’t you have better things to worry about, like the classes that you’re failing?” She opens her mouth, but I don’t give her the chance to talk. I’m pissed. “Or how about your boyfriend? Didn’t you tell me you thought he was screwing around on you behind your back?” Bailey’s eyes widen as if she can’t believe I went there.
And yes, I’m well aware that I’m way out of line, but I can’t find it in me to care. Unfortunately, that’s what happens when you shut down, and it didn’t take long after Daddy’s funeral to realize that it’s much easier to be angry than it is to be in pain. The downfall is that I’ve become numb, and not just to my own feelings but everyone else’s as well.
“Fuck you, Katie!” she yells. My heart slams against my ribcage as I wait for her to tear into me some more. Lord knows I deserve it. “Shit,” she hisses. Her eyes squeeze shut and she drops her head. “This isn’t about me, it’s about you.” Her voice is softer but still strong, and I’m both proud and jealous that she was able to control her emotions when I wasn’t. “I’m worried about you, because you’re my sister and I love you.”
“Don’t worry about me, Bay. I’m fine.” That’s a fucking lie. I’m far from fine, but I’m dealing with things the only way I know how. I have to get through this in my own way and on my own terms.
“You’re not fine.” Bailey’s eyes are hard and unyielding when they find mine. “You’re losing weight and you have dark circles that have become permanent fixtures under your eyes. You work all the time, and when we do see you, it’s nothing more than ‘hi’ and ‘bye’ on your way out to the barn. You’re running yourself ragged and you’re going to kill yourself, Katie.”
“Right,” I say with a snort. Tossing the shovel to the side, I tug the gloves off of my callused hands. “I would hardly consider mucking stalls life-threatening.” Arguing the other points she made is useless because they’re all true.
“It’s not just mucking stalls, it’s everything. If it’s your day off, you’re here in the barn from the asscrack of dawn until well past sunset, and if it’s your day to work, you’re here before and after you put in a twelve-hour shift at the hospital. Seriously, do you even see Wyatt anymore?”
“First, don’t worry about my relationship with Wyatt,” I warn, my blood boiling at the mention of his name. “It’s none of your business. Second, I come here because it’s peaceful and it gives me time to think—”
“Dwell,” she interrupts. “It gives you time to dwell. I get it, Katie. I get that you’re hurting. I’m hurting too, and so is Mom. But what you’re doing isn’t healthy.”
“Healthy? I’m not healthy, I’m in pain! Drexler killed our daddy, Bailey,” I yell, running a hand through my hair. “How does that not bother you? He was selfish, and his actions are the reason that Mom will grow old by herself and our future kids will never know their grandpa.”
Bailey’s shoulders slump. “I get that,” she concedes, sadness in her eyes. “I know that Andrew Drexler is to blame, but you need to forgive him so that—”
“What did you say?” I hiss, taking a step back as though she’d slapped me across the face. “Forgive him? You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m not joking, and yes, I think you should forgive him. Look at you,” she says, waving a hand in my direction. “You’re angry and bitter over something that you can’t change. You can yell and scream and cry, and you should do all of those things. Hell, you could even hurt the man that did this, but you know what?” she asks, tossing her hands up at her sides. “It won’t bring Daddy back. So you can be angry and keep living this shell of a life that you’ve been living the past month and a half, or you can grieve with the rest of us and remember all of the good things about Daddy.”
The air swirls with tension so thick I could choke on it. We stand for several seconds just staring at each other, and I eventually have to look away or risk breaking down—and I do not want to break down. Not now, and certainly not here.
My silence must be too much for Bailey because she says, “I don’t want to fight with you, Kit Kat.” I flinch at her use of my childhood nickname. “We’ve just been tip-toeing around you for too long and I couldn’t take it anymore. I’ll drop it, and I’ll leave you alone—for now—but just know that when you do let go of the anger, the pain will still be there. It’s not going away … not until you deal with it.” She spins on her heel and walks toward the door, and when I finally gather the courage to talk, she stops but doesn’t turn to face me.
“I’m dealing with it, okay?” I sigh, mostly because I’m tired of arguing, and I hate that my baby sister is schooling me. “I’m going to therapy just like you and Mom wanted. I’m trying to work through it. What else do you want from me?”
Bailey turns around, her face void of any emotion, and she shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t want anything from you, Katie. That’s the thing, I just want you. I want my sister back.”
“I’m trying.” Why the hell can’t they see that?
“Well, try harder.” She shakes her head before turning away from me and walking out.
“How did that make you feel?” Dr. Perry asks. Folding her hands, she places them neatly in her lap atop a yellow legal pad and looks at me curiously. Apparently, my argument with Bailey this morning softened me, because normally I’m a tough nut to crack—or at least I’d like to think I am. But nope, not today. Today, I sat down on this horrid floral-print couch and spilled my guts before the expert nut-cracker even said a word.
“You know I hate it when you ask me that question,” I quip, earning a genuine smile from my therapist. A low growl rumbles from my chest and I toss my head back on the couch. It took me three sessions with Dr. Perry to learn that she can read me like a book. I also learned, after a very ugly screaming session—the screaming was totally me—that she has the patience of a saint, and if I truly want to move past the wall I’ve put up, then I have to first open up. “It made me feel like shit. It made me feel like I’m letting them down.”
“Letting whom down?”
Lifting my head, I cock a brow and give her a classic who-do-you-think look. “Mom, Bailey, and Dad.” I’ve known for several weeks that I’m letting them down, but that’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. There’s something about saying it aloud that makes it so much more real. “You’re waiting for me to tell you how I’m letting them down, aren’t you?”
Dr. Perry flashes her signature beauty queen smile. “I’m proud of you, Katie. You’re finally catching on to this.” The corner of my mouth lifts just a fraction before I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Wait!” She puts out a hand to stop me from answering. “First, I want to know why you left Wyatt out. Do you feel like you’re letting him down too?”
Oh, hell no. I’m not about to dive into that mess right now. “One thing at time, Doc. Take your pick.”
Her lips purse but she nods. “Please, keep going.”
My body relaxes. There is only so much I can take, and I’ve just about had my fill. “I don’t understand how Mom and Bailey have been able to move on. I don’t get how they can go about their days like nothing happened.” Anxiety swirls through my body. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly to try and keep myself calm. “They smile, laugh and carry on just like they did when he was alive.”
“Does it bother you that they do those things … that they seem happy?”
“No,” I answer, nodding my head yes. “Maybe.” Leaning forward, I bury my face in my hands and then drag them through my hair. “I don’t know,” I mumble, shrugging my shoulders. “It makes me feel like they’ve moved on … like they don’t care. But I realize that’s stupid. Of course they miss him. Of course they care. I just … I feel like there’s a line drawn in the sand, and they can jump freely from one side to the next while I’m stuck in one spot, completely frozen in place.”
“Why would you want to jump?”
“Because I don’t like feeling like this,” I snap. “I hate it. Anger isn’t something I’m used to, but I can’t seem to stop feeling it. And I’m completely indifferent to everyone around me. It’s like I’m an outsider looking in. I see what I’m doing and how I’m acting, but I can’t stop. I want to care that I’m hurting them, but I don’t. I simply don’t care.”
My eyes drift over Dr. Perry’s shoulder as those words sink in. Oh my gosh. I don’t care. These are the people I love, the people that love me despite everything I’ve put them through, and I don’t care that I’m hurting them. I wait for the familiar pressure to build behind my eyes or the burn in my nose to signal a breakdown, but nothing comes. Nothing. What the hell does that say about me?
“Katie, are you okay?” Dr. Perry tilts her head, trying to catch my gaze, and I look at her and nod. “Can I speak freely for a second?”
This is different. She’s never asked that question before. “Sure,” I answer, hating how weak my voice sounds.
“You do care, or you wouldn’t be here.” Her words hit me like a ton of bricks and I look down, suddenly fascinated with the invisible piece of lint on my pants. “If you didn’t care, then when they begged and cried for you to get help, you wouldn’t have listened. But you’re here, and you haven’t missed a session. And every time we meet, you open up a little bit more. That tells me you care.”
She’s right. I know that she’s right, but why do I keep acting like a bitch? Why does the thought of being around them and spending time with them make my skin crawl? Why do I insist on keeping myself closed off? Why do I ignore their calls and snap at them when I do see them?
“I don’t know. Only you can answer those questions.”
My eyes widen and I look up. “I, uh … I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“But you did.”
“I did,” I acknowledge.
“So what’s the answer? Why does the thought of spending time with your family make your skin crawl?” My chest tightens and my legs become restless, my knee bouncing at a fast clip. “Why are you keeping yourself closed off from them?” Dr. Perry’s calm voice does nothing to soothe me, and this time it doesn’t make me want to open up. Nope, this time it pisses me off because she’s getting a little too close.
“I don’t want to talk about this.” Pushing up from the chair, I walk toward the window and stare out at the Great Smoky Mountains. I love it here. The rippling creeks, rolling hills and—
“Why don’t you want to talk about it?”
Son of a bitch, she is good with those stupid-ass, open-ended questions. “If I answer your question, can we change the subject?”
“For now.”
My stomach tightens at the knowledge that I should’ve driven that night. I haven’t told anyone else that little piece of information because I’m ashamed. I’m the reason my mom lost her husband, and I’m the reason Daddy won’t be there to walk Bailey down the aisle.
Reaching forward, I grip the base of the window and lean down. My lip trembles and I drop my chin to my chest, then blow out a slow breath. With my eyes squeezed shut, I open my mouth … but nothing comes out. I can’t. I can’t do this.
“It’s okay to cry, Katie,” she whispers from behind me.
I spin around, my eyes wide, my head shaking frantically from side to side. “Oh, I’m not going to cry.” The first tear drips down my face.
Dr. Perry tosses her notepad on the table. Pushing up from her seat, she walks to her desk and grabs a Kleenex, which she pushes into my hand. “I know you’re not, but if you decide to, I want you to know it’s okay. We all cry. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“It should’ve been me,” I blurt. Guilt penetrates the solid wall around my heart, and for the first time in several weeks I feel that horrible pain I’ve been working so hard at pushing away. My hand rubs absently at the ache in my chest and I suck in a sharp breath. “When I’m around them, I feel guilty … because it should’ve been me. And then I get angry that it wasn’t me, and then the anger takes over and all I can think about is Andrew Drexler.” Just saying his name makes me want to punch something. I curl my fingers, digging my nails into the palm of my hand. “I hate him,” I seethe. “I hate what he represents. I hate that he was so careless. It makes me sick. He’s a fucking soldier, Dr. Perry. He’s supposed to protect this country, not murder innocent civilians—”
“Katie—”
“No.” I shake my head, refusing to let her try and change my mind. “It’s true. He murdered my dad. I don’t give a shit what he’s gone through or how many lives he’s saved. It doesn’t give him the right to do what he did. It doesn’t give him the right to get behind the wheel three sheets to the wind and put everyone else’s life in danger.”
“Do you think about him often?” Dr. Perry’s question throws me off balance. I take a step back.
“Yes, I think about him often,” I admit. “I think about him rotting in jail.”
“How about your mom and sister?” she asks. “How do they feel about him?”
A maniacal laugh falls from my mouth. “They’ve forgiven him.” My eyebrows furrow and I search Dr. Perry’s face for something—anything—that tells me she thinks that sounds as crazy as I think it does. “They’ve actually forgiven him.”
Dr. Perry’s knowing eyes watch me. Her stare becomes too intense. Turning away, I walk back to the couch and sit down. Crossing my arms over my chest, I effectively close myself off … or put on my armor … no difference, I guess.
Dr. Perry follows suit and sits down across from me in her plush chair, but she doesn’t look comfortable. She scoots to the edge and props her elbows on her knees. “Katie.” Her voice is careful and I lean back, unsure of what she’s about to say. “Have you ever wondered what he’s been through?” My jaw drops and her words rush out before I have the chance to argue. “Have you wondered what kind of life he’s lived, or the things he might have seen at war, or worse yet, what he’s had to do at war?”
“No!” I answer, a scowl plastered to my face. Shit, I can’t even seem to care about my family and how they’re feeling—how could I possibly care about how a murderer is feeling? “Hell no. Why in the world would I care what he’s been through? I don’t give a fuck about him. He killed my father.” The pain I felt earlier releases its grip around my heart as the anger trickles back in, and I feel like I can breathe again. This is what I’m used to. Anger I can handle. “I don’t care what he’s seen, or had to do. That’s the life he chose. And it doesn’t matter what he’s been through; it doesn’t make what he did right.”
“I’m not making excuses for him,” Dr. Perry states, reaching for her notepad. She scribbles something down and looks up at me. “I’m trying to find a way to help you move past the anger, and it seems to me that you’re holding on to the resentment you feel toward Lieutenant Drexler as a way to keep from moving forward.”
“I don’t want to move forward,” I bite out, grinding my teeth together to keep from screaming.
“Why?”
The truth sits heavy on my chest, but I need to get it off. I suck in a deep breath and let it out roughly. “Because I’ll be moving forward without my dad,” I lament, gripping my hair in my hands. “Then he’ll really be gone.” Those last words were whispered to myself, but I know Dr. Perry heard me … she hears everything.
“He’s already gone, Katie.”
Her words float around in my head as if testing themselves out, and when I don’t immediately feel the need to punch her, I take it as a good sign.
There’s no doubt in my mind that she’s right ... I do need to move forward. Squeezing my eyes shut, I picture the look of disappointment and sadness that I saw on Bailey’s face this morning, and a tiny piece of the wall I’ve erected around my heart falls to the wayside. “Okay,” I breathe, opening my eyes. “What do I need to do?”
The look of pride on Dr. Perry’s face is unmistakable, and her bright smile beams at me. She stands up, walks over to her desk and pulls out a piece of paper, which she hands to me before sitting back down. My eyes roam over the sheet, and when it sinks in what she’s trying to do, I raise my eyebrows and look up at her.
“Really?” I ask, scrunching my nose. “This seems a little silly. I don’t see how reaching out to a soldier is going to make things better. A soldier is my problem, remember?” I ask, dropping the paper next to me. I sit up a little straighter on the couch and cross my legs, knee over knee. “Maybe we should avoid any and all soldiers.”
“I can see why you would think that, I really do. But I believe if you get to know one, it might help you look at the situation differently. It might even make it easier to move past your anger so you can move forward with your life.”
“Fine. I’ll do it,” I say, fighting back an eye roll because that would be childish, and it’s probably something a twenty-seven-year-old woman shouldn’t do. Dr. Perry’s answering smile tells me that I’ve made her happy, and as long as I’m making everyone else happy, then I guess that’s what matters.
“Great.” Looking down, she scribbles something on her yellow legal pad—I hate that damn pad—and then she looks back up at me. “I’ll email you a list of participants in the soldier pen pal program so you can get started.”
“What am I supposed to say?” I ask, suddenly unsure of my decision.
“Whatever you want to say.”
“Fuck you?” I ask without an ounce of sarcasm. Surprisingly, Dr. Perry laughs and a small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“Well, you might not want to use those exact words, but if you think it’ll make you feel better, then go for it.” I don’t know how she does it, talking to people all day every day. It would drive me absolutely insane. Hell, I drive me absolutely insane.
Looking at the clock, I notice that my time is almost up. “Well, Doc, it’s been fun.” I move to stand up, but she reaches out a hand, stopping my movement.
“Wait,” she says, looking at me curiously. “You never did tell me why you left Wyatt out earlier. Would you like to talk about it before you leave?”
“No, I would not like to talk about it. We’ve talked enough for one day. I’m all talked out.” Plus, I think to myself, I don’t really know why. I guess that’s just one more thing I should add to my list of problems.
“Okay,” she says, laughing. “Then I guess we’re done for today. I’ll send you that list of names, and on Monday you can tell me what you did with it.”
“Sounds fantastic.” Sarcasm is dripping from my voice, but I don’t really give a shit. Right now, I just want to get home, take a shower and go to bed. Pushing up from the couch, I shake Dr. Perry’s hand and make my way out of her office.
“Oh, and Katie”—I stop and glance over my shoulder—“I want you to write the letter, not type it.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Because writing it is much more personal.” She offers me a small wave and then turns toward her desk. I shake my head as I walk out.
What in the hell did I get myself into? I don’t want to write a letter to some stranger, and I sure as hell don’t want to write to a soldier. As I head toward the car, my mind races with all the different things I could say to piss him or her off. Then that damn look on Bailey’s face pops in my head, and by the time I climb into my car, thoughts of what I should say to try and help me get through this have taken over.
Do I tell them about the accident and who it was that killed my dad? Do I tell them about everything I’ve been feeling and thinking since I woke up? How much is too much? My mind continues in a thousand different directions, so fast that I can’t even keep up with it. Before I know it, I’m pulling into my driveway with absolutely no recollection of driving here.
I put my car in park and stare at my house. It’s nothing special, just a small, two-bedroom home, but it’s mine and I’m damn proud of it. Last summer, Dad worked hard to make the outside look presentable. He repainted the house, added some landscaping, planted a tree in the front yard, and he even hung up a porch swing. Tears fill my eyes when I think about all the things my dad did for me … all the things we did together.
Now who will come over when my water heater goes out or my drains get clogged? And who’s going to help me install the cabinets that Dad and I spent all winter sanding and staining? Better yet, who will walk me down the aisle on my wedding day and teach my son or daughter to throw a perfect spiral?
I bat angrily at the tears rolling down my face, push myself out of the car and walk the few steps to my house. Quickly unlocking the door, I nudge it open with a loud creak and slam it behind me. When I flip the light on, the first thing I see is my dad’s coat still draped over the back of my couch. He left it here the day of the accident, and I just can’t bring myself to move it. If I do, then I’m losing a part of him all over again and I just can’t. Once has just about killed me.
Tossing my keys on the table, I grab my laptop and make myself comfy in my recliner. The second I power up my computer, there’s an email waiting for me from my lovely psychiatrist.
From: Dr. Carol Perry
To: Katie Devora
Subject: Soldier Pen Pal Program
Ms. Devora,
Attached you will find the list that I was telling you about. Pick any one and get started on your path to healing. Good luck. I’ll see you on Monday.
Sincerely,
Dr. Perry
I double-click on the attachment and a list of names pop up.
Casey Dean Becker
Patrick Eric Malone
Richard Lee Farnsworth
Jason James Newman
Paul Thomas Johnson
Jeremy Michael Wilkinson
Daniel Robert Gladney
Todd Wilson Blair
Jacob Matthew Dicenzo
Eric Robert Recendez
Maxwell Lucas Albert
Shane Emil Lopez
Blake Kenneth Haines
Christopher Marcus Holguin
Kevin Aaron Witte
Devin Ulysses Clay
I suck in a sharp breath at the sight of his name. “Impossible,” I murmur, sitting up in the recliner. There is no way that there’s more than one Devin Ulysses Clay walking this earth. It’s impossible. Right?
Scratching my head, I inspect the name, reading it several more times to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and a small shiver runs down my spine. No way. What are the chances of this?
I click on his name, but all it tells me is that Devin Ulysses Clay is a twenty-seven-year-old sergeant in the U.S. Army.
Well, I’ll be damned.
My eyes continue searching for any information I can glean, but it only provides me with a postal address. I grab a pen and paper to write it down. I don’t even bother looking at any other names because this is it. Devin is yet another connection to my past—a connection that still doesn’t feel resolved.
Closing my eyes, I tip my head back, letting the memory take over, a memory that I can drown my anger in.
I can’t believe he’s leaving. Tugging my comforter to my chin, I curl up into a ball and cry—really cry—over what all of this means. My mind sifts through memories, one by one, as though it’s putting them into tiny little keepsake boxes so I’ll be able to pull them out whenever I want.
The day we first met.
Falling out of a tree and sitting side by side in the emergency room as I got a hot pink cast put on my right arm and he got twelve stitches in the side of his face.
Dancing with him for the first time at my Junior Prom.
The look on his face the first time I told him I loved him.
One piece of knowledge keeps trying to fight its way in, so I battle it the only way I know how—with more memories.
Running … laughing … riding horses … swimming in the creek … snowball fights … skinny-dipping …
I’m not sure how long the memories cycled through my head but obviously long enough to put me to sleep. When I wake up to the sound of the rooster crowing, I haul myself out of bed, slip on a pair of jeans, change into a bra and t-shirt, and run through the house. Ignoring calls from both my mom and dad, I scurry out the door in a hurry to complete my morning chores. It takes longer than I’d like, and it’s close to noon when I slide into my car and drive to Devin’s house.
Last night I apologized, and I know that he accepted my apology because we sat in my driveway for nearly an hour discussing all of the ways we could make things work between us. We talked about letters, payphones, calling cards … anything and everything we could think of to stay connected until he can come back. And even though I know we’re standing on solid ground, that knowledge does nothing to suppress this weird tingling I have in the pit of my stomach—a tingling that tells me something is off.
Speeding through town, I nearly break every driving rule known to man. I need to see him, to see for myself that we really are okay. I want to kiss him, hug him, make love to him and remind him that I will fight for this … for us.
When I pull up in front of Devin’s house, I shove the car in park, pull my key from the ignition, sprint up the front walk, and bang on the door.
No one answers, so I bang again … and again. Running around back, I head straight for Devin’s bedroom window. My feet skid to a stop when the first thing I notice is that the curtain is no longer hanging in front of it. My stomach rolls, and on shaky legs I walk toward his house. Leaning in close, I peer through the cracked glass of the window.
A sharp pain is carving its way through my chest, and I can’t help but imagine that this is my heart breaking. The pain rips through me, leaving a trail of shredded flesh in its path, and I clutch my hand over my chest. Panic grips me, adrenaline pumping through my veins, and I drop to the ground in a gelatinous pile of arms and legs. Curling myself into a ball, I bury my face in my arms and sob.
I lost a part of myself that day. Most people would say I was too young to really know what love is, but I disagree. Admittedly, I’m not sure what part of myself I lost—or how permanent the emptiness is—but I’m sure it must’ve been significant if the gaping hole inside my chest is any indication.
“I can’t believe this,” I whisper to no one but myself. What are the chances that his name would show up on a pen pal list that my psychiatrist sent me? It’s a passing thought, but one that I can’t ignore.
What if his name was meant for me to see? It wouldn’t surprise me, considering that Devin was always the one person who could help me work through my problems, however big or small they were … at least until the day he decided to leave me without a word.
Bitterness seeps into my veins, but I fight against it because there is no way in hell that I will allow Devin Ulysses Clay to have that kind of control over me, especially after the way he left. And now I have to write him, because if I don’t, I’m letting him win—I’m letting the bitterness win—and I’m tired of fucking losing.
No, there is no reason at all that I can’t write him a letter. A measly little letter. Who knows? Maybe it will be good for me.
