Текст книги "From the Wreckage"
Автор книги: Melissa Collins
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Grace,
I’ve started this letter a hundred times, but I still can’t find the right words. I wish I could go back in time and stop everything that happened from happening. I wish I could remember who we were and all the reasons I loved you. But I can’t do those things.
Seems like the only thing I can do is screw things up. You’re right. In the time I was here, I never once said thank you. But I didn’t say it not because I didn’t feel it. Because I did. I felt thankful and so much more. I may not remember everything about our past, but I remember every moment of living with you. Of waking up to the sound of you getting ready for work, feeling like a little puppy waiting for you to return. Helping you cook what used to be my favorite meals will always be cherished memories for me.
I never told you this, but there were nights I’d lie in bed damn near willing my memory to return, to make the time we spent together come back to life.
But it never happened and I am so damned sorry for that.
Maybe in another life it could have worked out. Maybe in one where I wasn’t such a lost cause, I could love you the way you deserve to be loved.
Please know I’ll miss you more than I can ever put to words.
X—David
“You ready,” Dad calls out from the living room. When I walk out there, he’s holding my bags, standing by the door. “You sure you want to do this? Nothing’s ever so bad you can’t fix it with flowers and chocolate.”
“Not gonna happen, Dad,” I dismiss his attempt at help. “Let’s get out of here before Grace gets home. I don’t want to upset her any more than I already have.”
Dropping the note and her spare key on the side table by the door, I swallow down the lump in my throat before turning to walk away for good.
Because no matter how much I tell myself otherwise, I know I’m no good for her. All I’ll ever do is remind her of what should have been.
Cluing into my quiet, Dad doesn’t say anything else the rest of the ride to my apartment. Thirty minutes later when we pull into the lot, tension fills the cabin of the car. Shifting the car into park, he says, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with your mother and me? We got a spiffy new kitchen and everything,” he jokes.
“Thanks, Dad. But really, I need to be home.” At least that’s the lie I’ll keep telling myself until some of the pain subsides.
“What about driving? You can’t take yourself anywhere,” he adds, rubbing salt in the wound.
“Thanks for the reminder, but really, I’ll be okay. I can order takeout and have groceries delivered. The stairs will take me a few minutes, but I can manage.” I unfasten my seatbelt and open the door. “I’ve got this, Dad. Thanks again for the ride and I’ll call you if I need anything.” Grabbing my bags from the back seat, I face my door, feeling as if there’s nothing but an abyss waiting for me on the other side.
It turns out, stairs, even in a walkable cast, are a pain in the fucking ass. Luckily, I won’t have to deal with them again until my next physical therapy appointment on Monday. Staring at the empty apartment before me, I laugh at myself and my sad existence. It’s just me and this empty space for the weekend. I’ve only stopped here a few times in the last three weeks, either with my parents or with Grace. But this is the first time I’ve been inside. They’ve always been the ones to run upstairs and grab the things I’ve needed.
Some things look familiar. Some don’t.
The fridge is empty, but clean and the pantry is bare. I’ll definitely need to figure that out, though I’m sure Mom will be here tomorrow with bags full of food for me.
My stomach twists in knots as I walk through my apartment. Even though I should feel at home, I feel like a foreigner invading someone else’s homeland. Nothing is familiar. Nothing is mine. A blurred haziness descends upon me as I make progress through the living room. There are a few pictures hanging on the walls, some on side tables and shelves. The one of me and Ian from what I assume is our academy graduation strikes a familiar chord. There are some of me and my parents, and again, those fall into place. Not the events, but at least the faces. The feeling of belonging and being loved.
It’s a surreal sensation, walking through your own home, not recognizing everything in front of you.
Figuring a hot shower will help me clear my head, I walk down to the bathroom. When I pull back the curtain, my chest tightens at what’s before me.
On the shelf, next to my body wash are items that I assume belonged to Grace once. Flipping open the top, I inhale the sweet vanilla scent of her shampoo and I’m immediately transported back to her apartment. When she’d sit next to me on the couch, or walk past me in a breeze, her scent was everywhere. I longed to be able to bury my nose in her hair, pull her into my arms and nuzzle against her neck. But that would have been cruel. To make her think I remembered her when I couldn’t.
Pushing down those feelings, I gather her things from the shower put them on the ledge of the sink. After wrapping up my cast, I shower quickly. Turning the water to near-scalding, I welcome the physical pain. That’s something I can manage. Right now, the mental shit is just too much to handle.
In an almost robot-like state, I shut off the water, step out from behind the curtain, wrap a towel around my waist, and unwrap my cast. When I step into my room, I take a deep breath. The hot water strengthened my resolve a little.
I’m alive.
And whether I remember my old life or not, I’m here today.
Except when I open a dresser drawer, instead of seeing my own clothes, I find Grace’s. Pulling out a T-shirt, I hold it up to my nose, smelling her sweet scent. No matter how goddamn hard I try to move on, she’s here with me, reminding me of who she used to be to me.
“No,” I assure myself, strengthening my convictions once again. She can and should do so much better than me.
After finding my clothes, I slide on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Digging into my closet, I find an empty box. With each item of Grace’s that I drop into the box, my heart empties a little more. After twenty minutes of scouring my apartment, I have a box filled with the things she left here, but the effect she had on my life stays with me. I can’t put those in the box.
Her song will stay with me forever, lulling me to sleep each and every night.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, staring down into the box, the realization hits me like a Mac truck. I might not remember her from before the accident, but every time I close my eyes, I see Grace. Thoughts of her from the last three weeks, from when she sang to me while I was in my coma, from rebuilding my new life with her as a main part of it, all come into a blurry focus.
Fragmented thoughts scatter my brain. Could loving Grace now be enough to make up for not remembering how I loved her before? Doesn’t she deserve more than that? Do I?
Looking over at the clock on my nightstand, I think about her and what she’s doing right now. I know her schedule. I know her life. Whether I remember who she used to be, I know her now.
She’s on her way home from work and in about ten minutes, she’ll be walking through her door, only to be greeted by an empty apartment, just like me.
That’s when the self-loathing kicks in. I’ve done nothing but feed her breadcrumbs of hope in the last three weeks. Relying on her for help. Needing her to take care of me. Allowing her to love me when I wasn’t sure if I could ever repay it.
Flopping back on the pillow, I fold my hands behind my head. As I stare blankly at the ceiling, I try to calm my frantic brain, but it’s just not working. Grace is everywhere. She’s in my head and heart.
She’s in my memories and my past. It’s just a matter of unlocking them.
But right now, the very cold reality is that all I have left of her is in a box at the side of my bed. Needing some distance from her things, in the empty hope that it will distance me from her, I move the box to the top of the stairs. When I open the front closet, I see her hoodie in there. Cursing it, I tear it from the hanger.
I can’t escape her.
I don’t want to.
But I should.
She’s better for it.
Rage fills my gut.
I can’t figure any of this shit out. The only thing I can grab a firm hold of is how broken I am.
Determined to box up everything she left behind, I turn my apartment upside down. Collecting everything that once belonged to her—books, movies, clothes, stupid little love notes taped to the inside of my study materials—I move through my apartment in a blind rampage. Things crash to the floor all around me and I simply don’t care. My sole focus is to erase everything about Grace from my life.
When I’m through in the living room, I give the bedroom another pass. Emptying every single drawer, I make sure nothing of hers remains. Clothes flutter to floor, like thoughts of Grace, whispering in the wind.
But when I open the drawer on my nightstand, my world stops spinning.
A black, velvet box sits in the shallow wooden drawer. Too afraid to open it, but too curious not to, I hold it in my hands, turning it over time and time again.
Only the sound of someone walking up my stairs pulls me from my frenzy.
Moving with as much speed as I can, I hobble into the living room only to see Grace. Her face is tear-stained, her eyes puffy and swollen. Holding a crumpled letter in her hand, she stalks toward me.
“The way I deserved to be loved?” Anger permeates her words, her voice wobbling, bordering on out of control. Shaking the letter in my face, I recognize the words as my own. “You’re sorry?” Venom mingles through her words as she mocks mine. “In another life? What about this one?”
Frozen on the spot, I can’t find anything to say. She mistakes my silence for not caring. Stepping right into my face, she pounds her clenched fists against my chest. “I love you.” The paper crinkles in her hands. “I loved you then and I love you now. Don’t you see that?” Sobs wrack her body and the pounding subsides. She can barely catch her breath, but she talks through her breathless crying. “It’s always been you. From that moment you saved me all those years ago, you’re the only person I held in my heart.” With her energy spent, she relents on hitting me, letting her arms fall to the side. “You left your key,” she murmurs, resting her head against my chest.
Trying not to touch her is like trying not to breath. Reaching up, I stroke my hands through her hair, it’s deep red color calling to me to smooth it out of her face. “Shh,” I calm her. But all we both hear is the sound of a black velvet box dropping to the floor.
It pops open, displaying what I knew in my gut it would reveal. “What is that?” Shock washes over her, twisting her face into a painful sort of agony. “No,” she begs, covering her eyes. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know what could’ve been.” Stepping back from me, she back peddles only to meet the wall behind her. Repeating, “no” over and over again, the sobs return. She slides down the wall, cupping her hand over her mouth. Curled into a ball, she cries into her hands, broken and shattered and it’s all my fault.
With the closed box in my hand, I move to sit next to her. Flinching away from my touch, she cries even more. “No,” she repeats again. “I can’t. It’s too much to take in.”
And it is.
Call it a sense of morbid curiosity, but I need to see what’s inside. Cracking open the box once again, a shimmer of light shines in my eye. I’d love to say that in that moment, when the sparkle of diamond nearly blinds me, that all of my memories return, every flash and flare of color coming back to life as if the answer simply lay within this small black, velvet box.
That’s not at all what happens.
I close the box, letting my head hang in my hands,
Grace and I sit beside each other, slumped against the wall.
Pieces of something significant scatter around me, but like a child trying to capture lightning bugs on a summer night, the light eludes me. My mind reaches for the thoughts, like hands outstretched ready to catch the green-tailed bug, but it collapses before anything real comes to fruition.
Her voice breaks through the tension-filled silence. “I would have said yes.”
And with those words, a lightning bug lands in my hands.
“She’ll say yes,” Grace’s mom gasped. Looking down at the ring, she covers her mouth with her hand, and I smiled knowing that Grace does the exact same thing when she’s surprised. “It’s beautiful.”
Clapping a hand to my shoulder, her father smiled at me as well. “Nothing would make me and Meredith happier than to see the two of you getting married. Of course you have our blessing.”
Her younger sister even began to cry, going on and on about how lucky Grace was. They all surrounded me, hugging me with all their might. It was the perfect welcome into the family.
Replaying the scene on an endless loop in my brain, I make sure what I’m remembering is something that actually happened, that it’s not something I simply willed into existence. Unable to keep it to myself any longer, I turn to her. Her face is blotchy and her breath is still uneven, shuddery with the lingering sobs.
“I remember asking your parents.” My admission makes her face pale. She twists to look at me, saying nothing but seeming as if every word imaginable is flying through her brain. “They gave me their blessing.”
She nods, tears streaming down her face. She continues to cry, but when I reach for her she pushes me away. “I can’t. Wait . . . give me a . . . I don’t know what to . . . it’s all too much.” My returning memories take her breath away, but she loses the ability to speak.
A crazy idea blooms to life in my fucked-up head. “What if,” I begin to question, gathering some courage in the hopes that maybe I haven’t ruined us beyond repair. She shakes her head, as if that will stop me from saying what I need to say. “If I can only remember parts of our past, is that enough? If I can only love you for who we are now, is that enough?”
Tears flow down her cheeks. She shakes her head and pulls herself from the ground. “I need space. I need to breathe and figure this out.”
Without another word, she walks out of my apartment, carrying my heart in her hands.
Is it enough?
Numbly, I walk down his stairs, knowing full well that he can’t chase after me. Thankful for that space, I step into my car, gripping the steering wheel as if my life depends on it.
Resting my head against the cool leather, I take a few deep breaths and manage to calm myself down.
He was going to ask me to marry him.
And then my world broke in half.
Is it enough?
“Is it enough?” I scoff his ridiculous question to no one but myself.
Annoyance and anger war inside me, forcing me from the car.
With renewed determination, I climb his stairs, willing myself to remain as calm as possible. When I look into the living room, I see him sitting on the couch, facing away from me. His shoulders are slumped, the box sitting on the table.
“No, it won’t be enough.” My words fall to his back and he stands up. Dejection fills his face as he turns to me. As I walk over to him, I continue, “It’ll never ever be enough.”
Standing in front of him now, I force myself not to reach for him. Not to kiss him as if my next breath has to come from his lungs. “Every day that I get to spend with you, loving you, it will never be enough. Because I could love you . . .” My ability not to touch him wavers and I rest my hand over his heart. “I could love who you are today, who you were yesterday, and who you’ll be tomorrow with everything that I am and it still wouldn’t be enough.” His heart beats wildly under my hand. Smiling up at him, my anger and frustration dissipates, replaced by warmth and happiness. “I could love you every single day for the rest of my life and it still wouldn’t be enough.”
“But what if I–”
“Don’t remember what we used to be, how you used to love me?” I finish his sentence for him, only allowing him the space to nod. “You don’t get it. I don’t care about what you can remember.”
“You don’t?” His brows knot in confusion.
“I never did. All I ever wanted was for you to let me in now. I don’t care about what your head remembers, only your heart.” Reaching to cup my face, he strokes his thumb over my cheek. Leaning into his touch, I feel like I can breathe again. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that for what feels like forever.” Gently, he reaches his other hand up to the other side of my face.
Looking deep into my eyes, it’s as if he’s seeing me for the very first time all over again. “And I’ve been waiting to do this from the moment I laid eyes on you.” Moving an inch closer to me, his warm breath bathes over my skin. The seconds before his lips touch mine are painfully sweet. The anticipation, the want, the need, the desire.
All of it swirls around in my chest, swelling in a sense of love like I’ve never felt. Knowing what his lips feel like on mine, and needing them again as if it’s the first time, it’s the perfect balance of what used to and what will be.
The soft fullness of his lips on mine is a feeling I’ll never forget, but it’s new at the same time. The sparks I’d always felt are still there, but I wait to see if they’re there for him as well. He pulls back and my heart sinks. He doesn’t feel it. My mind races.
“It’s okay. I under–”
My words die on his lips.
His hand in my hair, his lips on mine, his body warm and alive under my fingers—it’s all overwhelming. Pulling back once more, his eyes are wide and vibrant. Resting his forehead against mine, he takes a deep breath. “It’ll never be enough for me either. Not after that.”
“Oh, thank God,” I gasp, before attacking his mouth again. My brain and my body won’t cooperate and I’m clumsy at first. Angling my head the wrong way, not knowing where to put my hands. Wanting to put them everywhere all at once.
And he’s just the same.
It’s the most imperfectly perfect second first kiss ever.
With steps steadier than his, I walk backward to the bedroom. Stopping halfway down the hall, I look up at him, catching my breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t assume. I got ahead–”
“Stop.” His hand tightens on my waist. “Just shut up and keep kissing me. I want you, too.”
A smile pulls at my lips at his demanding nature. It’s comforting to know that hasn’t changed. Nudging the door open with my back, I walk us into his room, spinning us around so that he’s only steps away from the bed. With one gentle push, I step away from him, affording me a few inches of space between us.
Something bold takes over. Courage flows through my veins and uncertainty vanishes. Regardless of what tomorrow brings for us, I want him. Right here and now, I need to be with him. Catching a glimpse of the scars on his arm, I’m quickly reminded that tomorrow is not a guarantee.
And in our case, neither is yesterday.
Sometimes all you have are the minutes ticking on right in front of you.
With those emotions filling my heart, I lift my shirt over my head. Tossing it to the floor in a gentle cascade of soft pink fabric, I’m rewarded with his hungry, wide-eyed stare. Stepping out of my jeans, I let them pool at my feet. Toeing off my shoes, I kick my pile of clothes to the side. In a quick move that leaves goose bumps racing over my heated skin, I get rid of my bra and panties.
Standing naked before him, I don’t know what to expect. His silence is my reward. Rubbing his thumbs over his fingers, he’s on the edge of a decision, literally restraining himself from reaching out for me.
Taking a deep breath, I step within an inch of him. Lacing my fingers with his, I look into his eyes. “You can touch me. Whatever happens afterward doesn’t matter. All that matters is right now.” With a slowness that makes it feel as if time is standing still, he reaches our joined hands up to my breast. When his fingers graze over my skin, my breath gets caught in my throat.
“You’re so fucking soft,” he growls, gently squeezing my flesh. “So warm.”
My head falls backward at his touch, my ability to even hold myself upright nearly gone completely. “I’ve been waiting to feel you again for so long, I forgot how good it would be,” I admit, pushing my breast into his needy hand. My legs wobble just as he wraps his arm around my waist.
“I’ve got you,” he promises, letting soft kisses fall to my neck. “God, I want you,” he growls against my skin, setting loose a fresh river of chills.
“Take me,” I beg. “Please. Take me, now.” Effortlessly, he spins me around and lowers me to the bed. His weight presses me into the mattress and I could happily lie there for the rest of my life. Looking up at me from under his long lashes, he kisses a hot path down the center of my chest. Though I try to stifle it, a soft whimper escapes my mouth as his descends on my tightened nipple. As if I have no control over them, my hands dive into his hair. It’s longer now than it used to be, curling at the nape of his neck. “Oh, God,” I pant, over and over, heavy with need.
“So fucking sweet,” he murmurs against my skin before devouring the other nipple. My body bucks and writhes beneath his. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this alive, so filled with need and passion, I’m afraid I might burst.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he groans in my ear. “I want you so damn much, Grace.”
Clawing at his shirt, I pull it over his head. “Then take me already. Please.” Nearly crying now, I can’t convey to him in words how much I need this moment.
Whatever reservations he may have had are washed away when my hand slides down his shorts, grasping his hard length in my palm. He calls out in pleasure, resting his forehead against mine. “Oh, fuck,” he curses, pushing his body into my waiting hand. Moisture leaks from his tip and I know he’s willing himself to hold back.
Demanding hands push down the elastic waist band of his shorts. His cast gets in the way and as he kneels up to pull them the rest of the way off, he falls to his side, rolling onto his back. Not one to waste an opportunity like this, I climb on top of his hard body.
Hovering over him, I ignore the shaking in my legs. “I need you,” I murmur, lowering my wet flesh to his cock beneath me. Rocking back and forth, I coat him in my wetness, not taking him inside yet. I know I couldn’t handle it. My need is too much, my desire too full.
His wide, swollen crown flicks over my clit with each pass. An electric storm brews low in my belly, threatening to burst into a million streaks of brilliant light, white hot and impossibly bright. His strong hands settle on my hips, pushing me back and forth even faster. “Come, Gracie. Come all over me. Let go. I’ll catch you when you fall.”
Those words are my undoing.
Not because my body explodes into impossibly small shards of pleasure.
But because he’s said them before. Time and time again, he’s promised me that he’d be there for me when I fell.
And here he is.
Holding me steady as my body convulses in a pleasure only he can give me.
“You’ve told me those words before. You always promised to catch me.” My voice is a garbled mess of need and near sobs.
He wars with his words, and rather than saying anything, seals his lips over mine, promising more than anything spoken ever could have.
Before I can catch my breath, I pull myself up, reach in between our bodies, and guide him into my still-spasming core.
“Oh, fuck,” he calls out, pushing deep inside. “I can’t,” he cries, the veins in his neck bulging with his restraint. “Oh, shit, Grace.”
Twining my fingers with his, I stretch our arms above his head. Pressing my soft body against his hard chest, I move back and forth, loving how he grows harder and harder with each push and pull.
Wrapping an arm around my back, he holds another steady in my hair. Locking me in place, he shifts his hips, swiveling them, bringing me right to that delicious edge once again.
Smoothly, he rolls us over, never once severing the connection between us.
In that moment, I realize we’ve never been disconnected. Darkness may have separated us for some time, but it only dimmed our light. It never extinguished it completely.
Resting his elbows on the pillow under my head, his mouth covers mine. His body drives into me, filling me, pulling me into an abyss of pleasure only he’s capable of rescuing me from.
“Oh, God, oh, God,” I pant, clawing at his back. Another orgasm barrels through me, blinding me with its ferocity.
“Gracie,” he calls out. His movements grow more frantic and frenzied, less rhythmic and controlled. “Oh, fuck,” he growls once more, burying himself deep inside of me.
Collapsing on top of me, his breathing is erratic, his heart pounding in his chest. Resting his cheek on my chest, I don’t mind the scratchy stubble one bit.
Combing my hand through his almost inky-black hair, a peace like I’d never known glows around me.
“You’re right,” he says out of nowhere. Rolling from my body, he lays on his side, looking down at me. “It’ll never be enough.” He combs his fingers through the tangled mess of my hair. “Being with you, like that, it’ll never be enough.”
My stomach sinks. My heart begins to crack in half. Preparing myself for the worst, I wait for him to tell me he can’t be with me.
Instead, he smiles down at me, pressing his lips tenderly to my forehead. “It’ll never be enough because I’ll always want more.”
That admission is the first brick of the foundation on which we build our new beginning.
