The sex was fine.
But his hugs made me empty, and his kisses made me lost.
Afterward, David spooned me and my chest ached unbearably. My tears slowly trickled inside me until they clogged my throat with silence. And when his breathing finally slipped into slumber, and I was free to be honest with myself, I tore out of his embrace, bolted to the bathroom, and barely contained my grief as I wrenched on the shower and hurled myself under the hot spray.
My theory was the water would hide any escaped sobs and camouflage the sadness pouring down my cheeks.
To be honest, I didn’t even know why I cried.
It wasn’t like I’d cheated on Ren. It wasn’t like I had any other sexual experience to judge other than sleeping with David on Natty’s bedroom floor.
I was eighteen and so messed up by the boy who’d raised me that I was a wreck after having such a lovely evening with a man anyone would be lucky to date.
But you know what?
You know what I’ve kept tucked inside where all dark, disturbing secrets live?
The real reason I cried that night?
It was because I felt him.
I’ve felt him for weeks.
Every day, the sensation of him being close gets worse.
Eyes everywhere.
On the street, in my class, in my dreams.
A yearning that matches mine. A pleading that mirrors mine.
And I know it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, but dammit, I have this feeling that if I turn quickly enough, I’ll catch Ren behind me. This constant awareness that if I just breathe his name, he’ll miraculously appear, just won’t let me move on.
I’m stuck in limbo.
I’m becoming unhappier instead of happier.
I’m becoming lost instead of found.
And I need to do something…soon, because if I don’t, I’m afraid of what I’ll become.
I say I’m strong, but the reality is, dear assignment, I’m not.
I’m brittle and fragile and made of spun glass where my insides are nothing more than swirling smoke looking for a crack to escape, to hitch a ride on the wind, to fly into the forest, desperate to find the boy who stole my heart and beg him to make me whole again.
* * * * *
Six months.
Six eternally long months.
Nothing much has happened. I haven’t slept with David again. Things are a little weird, but we continue to co-inhabit well enough.
I haven’t had the energy to write.
But something changed, and I have news.
Funny, how honesty is always the worst weapon, isn’t it?
I’ve turned to you as a sounding board because I have no one else to talk to. Natty is on David’s side—as she should be. David is doing his best to date me—as he should with our history. And all along, I keep my secrets until I can tell you.
Normally, I write on a park bench while waiting for the bus after school, or in a coffee shop during lunch hour, but the other night, I stupidly left my computer on standby in the lounge, not password protected like normal, and David read everything.
He saw what I wrote about sleeping with him.
He saw how sad I was.
How empty and angry and confused.
I offered to leave, but David didn’t kick me out. He didn’t walk away from me, but he has withdrawn his offer of dating.
He said it was his fault to push for something he knew I wasn’t ready for. That he understands I’m not over Ren, but will continue to support me as a friend.
He’s correct, of course, but having him confront me so calmly with no blame or ridicule made me feel even worse.
He knows what it’s like to love and not be loved in return, and to my utmost horror, I’ve done it to him again. Not that he’s in love with me, but there is something there. Something that could become something, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, I’m running out of time, my Uber will be here soon, and I’m taking you to my old apartment. I’m going to print off every stupid word and burn you like I should’ve done the moment I knew I couldn’t hand you in.
I’ve told David I’m having the afternoon away to get my head and heart on the same page. That I’ll return in better shape and ready to stop moping around his house.
My printer is still gathering dust in my old room.
The clothes I don’t wear still in my wardrobe.
The bed I don’t sleep in still waiting for a dreamer.
It’s time, don’t you think?
Time to stop this—all of it. Time to cancel the lease on somewhere I’m not living, time to patch up the heart I’m not using, and finally put the past where it belongs.
Behind me.
Oh, my Uber is here.
I had other things to say, but I suppose they’re unimportant now.
Farewell, assignment.
This is the last you’ll hear from me, and I want to say thank you before I let you go.
Thank you for being a shoulder to cry on. Thank you for being the only one who truly understood how I felt about Cassie, Ren, David…everyone.
Just thanks, for everything.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
REN
* * * * * *
2018
THE EVENING DELLA slept with David I forced myself to stop being ridiculous.
I sucked up my pride, rubbed out my bruises, and trekked the few blocks to the abandoned apartment that my cash still paid for.
The lonely space breathed a sigh of relief as I jimmied the lock again and stepped into the musty, unloved lounge. It needed someone to comfort, just like I needed someone to comfort me.
I meant to do some dusting, return to the borrowed shack, and grab my backpack. To have my first shower in a while—if the water hadn’t been turned off—and eat if the pantry still stored food.
But that was before my feet guided me to Della’s bedroom, and my eyes fell on her unmade bed. Images of her sitting cross-legged while doing her homework slammed into me. The memory of her blue-dyed hair so glossy and bright. The sounds of her laughter as I pulled her ponytail. The feel of her arms around my waist and her cheek on my chest—
Fuck, it was too much, and every chore and task faded beneath the immense blanket of exhaustion.
I wasn’t proud of it, but I fell face first onto Della’s bed, wrapped myself up in her blankets, and inhaled her pillow.
I slept for two solid days, waking briefly to drink water straight from the tap and gnaw on a few stale crackers from the kitchen. All my body cared about was dreaming, and I woke angry and hard when my dream goddess refused to visit me—almost as if being in Della’s domain meant my loyalties to her returned to loving her as a brother, rather than the complicated tangle I now accepted.
Unfortunately, once my body caught up on sleep, it became determined to reveal how badly I’d neglected it. Rundown immune system and no weight reserves meant a simple cold found me a very comfortable host. Within a few hours, the congestion and headache turned to fever and coughing—cursing me with the flu.
I got sick.
And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
I spent a week combating lungs full of oppressive agony, and hugging a burning chest that charred me to ash.
At some point, I feared I wouldn’t get better. That I’d fall down the sickly slope into pneumonia like I had when I was fifteen.
But, through some miracle, the hacking coughs slowly abated and the burning slowly cooled, morphing to a wheeze I could cope with.
When I felt semi-human again, I returned to gather my things in the forest. Afterward, I cased out a local convenience store for staples, and spent two full days spring cleaning the apartment.
To start with, I didn’t want to spray the tropical scented disinfectant just in case I deleted any smells of Della, but she hadn’t lived here for so long that no whiff or note of her was left.
Della had paid utilities as well as rent, which meant I had hot water to wash and gas to cook with. I wanted
to thank her for wasting money on something she no longer used—almost as if she’d known I’d return and need a place to stay.
When I wasn’t staying busy with chores, I tailed her.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t go back.
I broke that promise.
Countless times.
I couldn’t help it.
After I was better, and more publicly acceptable, I walked to her shared house in much cleaner clothes than before, and watched her go to college. I waited outside like all those years ago when she first went to school, and followed her home again.
I slowly drove myself insane, keeping her constantly in my thoughts, all while she returned to David every night.
By the end of the second week, I couldn’t do it anymore.
Any of it.
I couldn’t keep stealing supplies so close to home unless I wanted to get caught. And I couldn’t keep stalking unless I wanted to keep sliding into that dark, dismal place I couldn’t climb out of.
I needed money.
I needed to learn how to exist without her so I could put myself back together again and be the parental figure Della needed, not the off-the-rails, rejected lover I had currently become.
The next day, I headed to a supermarket two blocks away that I hadn’t stolen from and read their advertisement board for employment. I wasn’t deluded to think I’d find a perfect farmhand role, but I was prepared to do what was necessary to get my life back on track.
The only two positions available were a window cleaning gig or a barman at a local nightclub. No way could I be cooped up in a darkened cesspit with writhing bodies and pounding music.
That left the window cleaning job.
I memorised the number then asked to use the supermarket manager’s phone to arrange an interview. I knew nothing about washing windows, but I needed cash, so…
The owner was a spindly looking pothead whose dad had bought him a franchise once he’d dropped out of school with no prospects. He wanted someone to run the bookings and basically handle the entire business.
I bullshitted enough that I got the job, earning cash under the table with a bonus for each new contract I signed.
My first pay cheque was used to purchase a cheap pair of jeans and a couple of t-shirts, replacing the holey, discoloured things I’d lived in for far too long in the forest.
The next lot of cash went to topping up my long-suffering cell-phone, and it became a thing of torture as I stroked the buttons and read old messages from Della that I’d never seen.
At the start of our separation, she wrote to me often. Telling me stories of classes, exam results, how much she missed me, how much she cursed me, how much she was sorry.
Then they became less and less. Until now, she didn’t message me at all.
Now, it was my turn to curb the all-consuming need to get in touch. Lying in her bed, I wrote text after text that I never sent.
I’m in town.
I’m in our old apartment.
I miss you.
I want you.
I love you.
I’m in love with you.
I deleted them all, needing more time so I didn’t do something I regretted, something we couldn’t survive.
Before I knew it, another two months had passed, pushing me over the six-month anniversary of leaving Della. Even though I still saw her every day—if only for snatches of time between window washing jobs or after work before dusk fell—I still missed her more than food, shelter, and freedom.
At least, she had a routine and friends. She had movie nights and dinners out. She had a life that I didn’t want to ruin, and it gave me all the more incentive to stay out of it.
I hated that I watched with horror every night until her bedroom light turned on, not just his. I held my breath to see if she’d sleep with him again, and exhaled in utter relief when she didn’t.
It was sick.
I knew that.
But it didn’t change anything.
And, as much as our distance slowly robbed me of life and purpose, I didn’t let her know how much I wanted her.
How much I missed her.
How deeply I cared.
How fucking screwed up I was…over everything.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DELLA
* * * * * *
2018
DAMMIT, THE APARTMENT still smells of him.
I haven’t been here in so long, but the moment I opened the door, it felt as if I’d never left.
It feels lived in.
I was expecting dust bunnies and cobwebs, but the floors are freshly polished and the corners neatly clean.
I know I said I wouldn’t write to you again, assignment, but I had to tell someone.
I think I might have to go see a professional. Admit I have a problem. Talk to a doctor, maybe.
This level of delusion can’t be real, can it?
I feel him watching me. I prickle for no reason. I stiffen at the slightest noise. I believe, no matter how insanely impossible, that he’s close by.
And now this?
I truly am losing my mind.
My bed was made when I came home, and I swear I left it a mess.
The bathroom smells like tropical disinfectant, not the faint must of mould that lingers in the grout around the tiles.
How is that possible?
Why do I keep deluding myself this way?
He’s gone!
He’s gone!
I need someone to scream that in my face and then maybe the folded threadbare towels will make sense, or the fact that if I stand still and inhale, my nose fills with his woodsy, wild scent instead of stale passing of lonely time.
I smell him.
And I don’t know what to do anymore.
I came here to put things behind me, yet everywhere I turn, the past keeps dragging me back.
I haven’t said it out loud since he left—not that I ever said it out loud—but sitting here in my bedroom that Ren helped decorate, looking around the apartment Ren helped make a home, I can’t pretend anymore.
I’m still in love with him.
Even more than before.
I’m still furious at him.
Growing hotter by the day.
And I’m afraid.
I’m so afraid I’ll never be able to get past this, that my future is a merry-go-round of prickled skin for no reason, smells of Ren in the air, and the unnerving sense that he hasn’t truly gone, after all.
Maybe he died out in the forest, and his ghost is haunting me.
Maybe this is what everyone goes through when they lose someone so damn special.
Either way, I can’t do this anymore.
I came here to burn you, and that’s what I’m going to do.
And then, I’m going to sell every piece of furniture and leave.
I can’t be in this town another moment.
Screw my creative writing course. Screw being brave. Screw lying. Screw everything.
I can’t do it.
I can’t stay.
I’m running…just like he did.
It’s finally time to say…goodbye.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
REN
* * * * * *
2018
STEPPING INTO THE place I used to live with Della was excruciating.
Every day was the same; the pain never got easier, or the sensation that I was missing something fundamental any gentler.
She was the reason I went to work.
She was why I remained in a city I couldn’t stand rather than return to the forest I loved.
And she didn’t even know I was back because I was too much of a pussy to face her. I wasn’t ready to accept her anger at my weaknesses, to bear the brunt of her disappointment, or to stare into her eyes as I lied about what I felt for her.
I wanted that lie to be truth when I next saw her.
I wanted to hold love in my heart and no lust. I wanted to hug her hard and feel connected and comfor
ted and not consumed with the desperation of spilling everything.
Of confessing that I loved her in a totally different way.
That I couldn’t exist without her.
That I was willing to do anything to have her back.
I hated how incredibly wrong it was to fall for the girl I’d raised, yet my body said it was unbelievably right. That it had been waiting for that moment to finally come alive and shout yes to finding everything I never thought I’d find.
My eyes glued to the carpet where she’d fearlessly stripped and offered every secret and vulnerability. And just like every day, I cringed in horror knowing that, despite the fact she’d moved on and my vow to pretend my love hadn’t changed for her, if I could rewind time, I would gather her close and kiss her.
I wouldn’t wait for her to kiss me.
I wouldn’t make her put her entire heart on the line.
I would meet her halfway because our entire lives had been a partnership, and it was up to me to carry half her burdens.
My boots were heavy and droplet stained from washing windows as I trudged down the tiny corridor to her—my—bedroom.
Wait.
I froze as the sounds of splashing water came from the poky bathroom at the bottom of the hall. Light glowed beneath the door.
What the hell?
I’d grown so used to having sole use of this place, I hadn’t considered what I’d do if she suddenly returned.
I backed up, my heart racing into overdrive.
Shit.
I’d caught her in the shower.
I didn’t know her to shower at dusk—she was normally a morning person—but if she’d had a long day at college or a fight with David or whatever other reason had brought her here, I supposed it was only natural. Then again, I had no right to know her routine anymore.
I’d left her.
I wasn’t privy to her heartaches. She wasn’t a virgin, after all. She had the man she’d chosen warming her bed at night.
Once again, that knowledge harpooned me, and my steps faltered. She’d grown up beneath my nose and, by the time I’d noticed, it was too late.
Everything was too fucking late.
A painful cough ripped from my lungs.