Ugly Love

  "Rachel, I . . ." He looks back at me again. "I don't know why I'm here."

  I do.

  I can see it in his eyes. I got to know those eyes so well when we were together. I knew all his thoughts. All his emotions. He wasn't able to hide how he felt, because he felt so much. He's always felt so much.

  He's here because he needs something. I don't know what. Answers, maybe? Closure? I'm glad he waited until now to get it, because I think I'm finally ready to give it.

  "It's good to see you," I tell him.

  Our voices are weak and timid. It's weird, seeing someone for the first time under different circumstances from when you parted.

  I loved this man. I loved him with all my heart and soul. I loved him like I love Brad.

  I also hated him.

  "Come in," I say, motioning toward the living room. "Let's talk."

  He takes two hesitant steps toward the living room. I turn around and let him follow me.

  We both take a seat on the sofa. He doesn't get comfortable. Instead, he sits on the edge of it and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He's looking around, taking in my home once more. My life.

  "You're brave," I say. He looks at me, waiting for me to continue. "I've thought about this, Miles. About seeing you again. I just . . ." I look down. "I just couldn't."

  "Why not?" he says almost immediately.

  I make eye contact with him again. "The same reason you haven't. We don't know what to say."

  He smiles, but it's not the smile I used to love on Miles. This one is guarded, and I wonder if I did this to him. If I'm responsible for all the sad parts of him. There are so many sad parts of him now.

  He picks up a photo of Brad and me from the end table. His eyes study the picture in his hands for a moment. "Do you love him?" he asks, continuing to stare at the picture. "Like you loved me?" He's not asking in a bitter or jealous way. He's asking in a curious way.

  "Yes," I reply. "Just as much."

  He places the picture back on the end table but continues to stare at it.

  "How?" he whispers. "How did you do that?"

  His words bring tears to my eyes, because I know exactly what he's asking me. I asked myself the same question for several years, until I met Brad. I didn't think I'd ever be able to love someone again. I didn't think I'd want to love someone again. Why would anyone want to put themselves in a position that could bring back the type of pain that makes a person envious of death?

  "I want to show you something, Miles."

  I stand up and reach out for his hand. He watches my hand cautiously for a moment before finally reaching for it. His fingers slide through mine, and he squeezes my hand as he stands up. I begin making my way toward the bedroom, and he follows closely behind me.

  We reach the bedroom door, and my fingers pause on the doorknob. My heart is heavy. The emotions and everything we went through are surfacing, but I know I have to allow them to surface if I want to help him. I push the door open and walk inside, pulling Miles behind me.

  As soon as we're inside the room, I feel his fingers tighten around mine. "Rachel," he whispers. His voice is a plea for me not to do this. I feel him try to pull back toward the door, but I don't let him. I make him walk to her crib with me.

  He's standing by my side, but I can feel him struggling because he doesn't want to be in here right now.

  He's squeezing my hand so tightly I can feel the hurt in his heart. He blows out a quick breath as he looks down on her. I see the roll of his throat when he swallows, then blows out another steadying breath.

  I watch as his free hand comes up and grips the edge of her crib, holding on to it as tightly as the hand that's wrapped around mine. "What's her name?" he whispers.

  "Claire."

  His whole body reacts with my response. His shoulders immediately begin to shake, and he tries to hold in his breath, but nothing can stop it. Nothing can stop him from feeling what he's feeling, so I just allow him to feel it. He pulls his hand from mine and covers his mouth to conceal the quick rush of air released from his lungs. He turns and walks swiftly out of the room. I follow him just as fast, in time to see his back hit the hallway wall across from her nursery. He slides to the floor, and the tears begin to fall hard.

  He doesn't try to cover them. He pulls his hands through his hair, and he leans his head back against the wall and looks up at me. "That's . . ." He points to Claire's nursery and tries to speak, but it takes him several tries to get his sentence out. "That's his sister," he finally says, blowing out an unsteady breath. "Rachel. You gave him a sister."

  I sink to the floor next to him and wrap my arm around his shoulders, stroking his hair with my other hand. He presses his palms to his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut, crying quietly to himself.

  "Miles." I don't even try to disguise the tears in my voice. "Look at me."

  He leans his head back against the wall, but he can't look me in the eyes. "I'm sorry I blamed you. You lost him, too. I didn't know how else to deal with it back then."

  My words completely break him, and I'm consumed with guilt over allowing six years to pass without letting him hear those words. He leans over and wraps his arms tightly around me, pulling me against him. I let him hold me.

  He holds me for a long time, until all the apologies and forgiveness are absorbed and it's just us again. No tears.

  I would be lying if I said I never think about what I did to him. I think about it every day. But I was eighteen and devastated, and nothing mattered to me after that night.

  Nothing.

  I just wanted to forget, but every morning I woke up and didn't feel Clayton by my side, I blamed Miles. I blamed him for saving me, because I had no reason left to live. I also knew in my heart that Miles did what he could. I knew in my heart that it was never his fault, but at that point in my life, I wasn't capable of rational thought or even forgiveness. At that point in my life, I was convinced I wouldn't be capable of anything at all but feeling pain.

  Those feelings never wavered for more than three years.

  Until the day I met Brad.

  I don't know who Miles has, but the familiar struggle in his eyes proves there's someone. I used to see the same struggle every time I looked in the mirror, unsure if I had it in me to love again.

  "Do you love her?" I ask him. I don't need to know her name. We're beyond that now. I know he isn't here because he's still in love with me. He's here because he doesn't know how to love at all.

  He sighs and rests his chin on top of my head. "I'm scared I won't be able to."

  Miles kisses the top of my head, and I close my eyes. I listen to his heart beating inside his chest. A heart he's claiming isn't capable of knowing how to love, but in actuality, it's a heart that loves too much. He loved so much, and that one night took it away from us. Changed our worlds. Changed his heart.

  "I used to cry all the time," I tell him. "All the time. In the shower. In the car. In my bed. Every time I was alone, I would cry. For those first couple of years, my life was constant sadness, penetrated by nothing. Not even good moments."

  I feel his arms wrap tighter around me, silently telling me he knows. He knows exactly what I'm talking about.

  "Then when I met Brad, I found myself having these brief moments where my life wasn't sad every second of the day. I would go somewhere with him in a car, and I'd realize it was my first time in a car without crying at least one tear. The nights we would spend together were the only nights I wouldn't cry myself to sleep. For the first time, this impenetrable sadness that had become me was being broken by the brief, good moments I spent with Brad."

  I pause, needing a moment. I haven't had to think about this in a while, and the emotions and feelings are too fresh. Too real. I pull away from Miles and lean back against the wall, then rest my head on his shoulder. He tilts his head until it's resting against mine and grabs my hand, intertwining our fingers.

  "After a while, I began to notice that the good moments with
Brad began to outweigh all the sadness. The sadness that was my life became the moments, and my happiness with Brad became my life."

  I feel him exhale, and I know he knows what I'm talking about. I know that whoever she is, he's had those good moments with her.

  "For the entire nine months I was pregnant with Claire, I was so scared I wouldn't be able to cry from happiness when I saw her. Right after she was born, they handed her to me, just like they did when Clayton was born. Claire looked just like him, Miles. Just like him. I was staring down at her, holding her in my arms, and tears were running down my cheeks. But I was crying good tears, and I realized at that moment that they were the first tears of happiness I had cried since the day I held Clayton in my arms."

  I wipe my eyes and let go of his hand, then lift my head off his shoulder. "You deserve that, too," I tell him. "You deserve to feel that again."

  He nods. "I want to love her so much, Rachel," he says, breathing out the words like they've been pent up forever. "I want that with her so much. I'm just scared the rest of it will never go away."

  "The pain will never go away, Miles. Ever. But if you let yourself love her, you'll only feel it sometimes, instead of allowing it to consume your entire life."

  He wraps his arm around me and pulls my forehead against his lips. He kisses me, long and hard, before pulling back. He nods, letting me know that he understands what I'm trying to explain to him.

  "You've got this, Miles," I say, repeating the same words he used to comfort me with. "You've got this."

  He laughs, and it's as if I can feel some of the heaviness lift away from him.

  "You know what I was most afraid of tonight?" he asks. "I was afraid that when I got here, you'd be just like me." He brushes my hair back and smiles. "I'm so happy you're not. It makes me feel good to see you happy."

  He pulls me to him and hugs me tightly. "Thank you, Rachel," he whispers. He kisses me gently on the cheek before releasing me to stand up. "I should probably go now. I have a million things I want to tell her."

  He makes his way down the hallway toward the living room, then turns to face me one last time. I no longer see all the sad parts of him. Now I just see a calmness when I look in his eyes.

  "Rachel?" He pauses, watching me quietly for a moment. A peaceful smile slowly spreads across his face. "I'm so proud of you."

  He disappears from the hallway, and I remain on the floor until I hear the front door close behind him.

  I'm proud of you, too, Miles.

  chapter thirty-eight

  TATE

  I close the door to my car and walk to the stairs leading up to the second floor of my apartment complex. I'm relieved not to have to use the elevator anymore, but I can't help but miss Cap a little bit, even if his advice didn't make a whole lot of sense to me the majority of the time. It was nice just having him there to vent to. I've been keeping myself busy with work and school, trying to stay focused, but it's been hard.

  I've been in my new apartment for two weeks now, and even though I wish I were alone, I never am. Every time I walk in through my front door, Miles is still everywhere. He's still in everything, and I keep waiting until he's not. I keep waiting for the day when it will hurt less. When I won't miss him as much.

  I would say my heart is broken, but it's not. I don't think it is. Actually, I wouldn't know, because my heart hasn't been in my chest since I left it lying in front of his apartment the day I told him good-bye.

  I tell myself to take it one day at a time, but it's so much easier said than done. Especially when those days turn into nights, and I have to lie in my bed alone, listening to the silence.

  The silence was never so loud until I told Miles good-bye.

  I'm already dreading opening my apartment door, and I'm not even halfway up the stairwell yet. I can already tell this night isn't going to be any different from all the other nights since Miles. I reach the top of the stairs and turn left toward my apartment, but my feet stop working.

  My legs stop working.

  I can feel the thumping of a heart somewhere in my chest again for the first time in two weeks.

  "Miles?"

  He doesn't move. He's sitting on the floor in front of my apartment, propped up against the door. I walk slowly toward him, not sure what to make of his appearance. He's not in uniform. He's casually dressed, and the stubble on his face proves he hasn't worked in a few days. There's also what looks like a fresh bruise under his right eye. I'm scared to wake him up, because if he's as belligerent as he was the first time I met him, I don't want to deal with it. But once again, there's no way I can get around him and inside my apartment without waking him up.

  I look up and inhale a deep breath, wondering what to do. I'm afraid if I wake him up, I'll cave. I'll let him inside, and I'll give him what he's here for, which definitely isn't the part of me I want to give him.

  "Tate," he says. I look down at him, and he's awake now, pulling himself up, watching me nervously. I take a step back once he's standing, because I forgot how tall he is. How much he becomes everything when he's standing right in front of me.

  "How long have you been here?" I ask him.

  He glances down to the cell phone in his hand. "Six hours." He looks back up at me. "I need to use your restroom pretty bad."

  I want to laugh, but I can't remember how.

  I turn to my door, and he steps out of the way for me to unlock it.

  My trembling hand pushes open the door to my apartment, and I walk inside, then point to the hallway. "On the right."

  I don't look back at him while he walks in that direction. I wait until the bathroom door closes, and I fall onto the couch and bury my face in my hands.

  I hate that he's here. I hate that I let him in without question. I hate that as soon as he walks out of the bathroom, I'm going to have to make him leave. But I just can't do this to myself anymore.

  I'm still trying to gather myself when the bathroom door opens and he walks back into the living room. I look up at him and can't look away.

  Something is different.

  He's different.

  The smile on his face . . . the peacefulness in his eyes . . . the way he carries himself like he's floating.

  It's only been two weeks, but he looks so different.

  He takes a seat on the couch and doesn't even bother putting space between us. He sits right next to me and leans into me, so I close my eyes and wait for whatever words he's about to say that will hurt me again. That's all he knows how to do.

  "Tate," he whispers. "I miss you."

  Whoa.

  I was absolutely not expecting to hear those three words, but they just became my new favorite words.

  I and miss and you.

  "Say it again, Miles."

  "I miss you, Tate," he says immediately. "So much. And it's not the first time. I've missed you every single day we weren't together since the moment I met you."

  He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him.

  I go.

  I fall to his chest and grab hold of his shirt, squeezing my eyes shut when I feel his lips press against the top of my head.

  "Look at me," he says softly, pulling me onto his lap to face him.

  I do. I look at him. I actually see him this time. There's no guard up. There's no invisible wall blocking me from learning and exploring everything about him. He's allowing me to see him this time, and he's beautiful.

  So much more beautiful than before. Whatever changed in him, it was huge.

  "I want to tell you something," he says. "This is so hard for me to say, because you're the first person I've ever wanted to say it to."

  I'm scared to move. His words are terrifying me, but I nod.

  "I had a son," he says quietly, looking down at our hands now laced together. Those three words are delivered with more pain than any three words I've ever heard.

  I inhale. He looks up at me with tears in his eyes, but I remain quiet for him, even though his words just kn
ocked the breath out of me.

  "He died six years ago." His voice is soft and distant, but it's still his voice.

  I can tell those words are some of the hardest he's ever had to say. It hurts him so much to admit this. I want to tell him to stop. I want to tell him I don't need to hear it if it hurts. I want to wrap my arms around him and rip the sadness from his soul with my bare hands, but instead, I let him finish.

  Miles looks back down at our interlocked fingers. "I'm not ready to tell you about him yet. I need to do it at my own pace."

  I nod and squeeze his hands reassuringly.

  "I will tell you about him, though. I promise. I also want to tell you about Rachel. I want you to know everything about my past."

  I don't even know if he's finished, but I lean forward and press my lips to his. He pulls me against him so tightly and pushes back against my mouth so hard it's as if he's telling me he's sorry without using words.

  "Tate," he whispers against my mouth. I can feel him smiling. "I'm not finished."

  He lifts me and adjusts me next to him on the couch. His thumb circles my shoulder as he looks down at his lap, forming whatever words he's needing to say to me.

  "I was born and raised in a small suburb just outside of San Francisco," he says, bringing his eyes back up to meet mine. "I'm an only child. I don't really have any favorite foods, because I like almost everything. I've wanted to be a pilot for as long as I can remember. My mother passed away from cancer when I was seventeen. My father has been married for about a year to a woman who works for him. She's nice, and they're happy together. I've always kind of wanted a dog, but I've never had one . . ."

  I watch him, mesmerized. I watch his eyes as they roam around my face while he talks. While he tells me all about his childhood and his past and how he met my brother and his relationship with Ian.

  His hand finds mine, and he covers it as though he's becoming my shield. My armor. "The night I met you," he finally says. "The night you found me in the hallway?" His eyes dart toward his lap, unable to hold contact with mine. "My son would have been six that day."

  I know he said he wants me to listen to him, but right now, I just need to hug him. I lean forward and wrap my arms around him, and he lies back on the couch, pulling me on top of him.

  "It took everything I had to try to convince myself that I wasn't falling for you, Tate. Every single time I was around you, the things I would feel terrified me. I had gone six years thinking I had control of my life and my heart and that nothing could ever hurt me again. But when we were together, there were moments I didn't care if I ever hurt again, because being with you almost felt worth the potential pain. Every time I began to feel that way, I would just push you farther away out of guilt and fear. I felt like I didn't deserve you. I didn't deserve happiness at all, because I'd taken it away from the only two people I had ever loved."