I stride past her, stopping when I’m in line with her. My gaze locks on hers. “Over and over I tell myself to let you go, that it’s best for you. What if it’s not? How do you know? How do I know?” I continue on out the door.
“We’re still friends,” she says, her voice soft behind me. “I’ll be there Friday night.”
I keep going.
Down the stairs.
Across the yard.
Into my truck.
I drive away, ignoring every part of me that’s fighting to turn around. Nobody said love would be easy. In fact, all the poems and songs make it clear just how fucking relentlessly difficult it would be.
I shouldn’t be surprised.
19
Brynn
I hada serious boyfriend in high school. When he broke up with me, I learned the meaning of the termheartbroken.
What I’m feeling right now takes that experience and makes it look insignificant. The pain of that heartbreak stayed in my chest. This pain? Systemic.
My fingertips feel the absence of Connor’s warm skin.
My body yearns for his proximity.
My heart aches to see emotions in his eyes.
My lips crave his kiss.
All of me hungers for all of him.
Thisis what the great poets meant when they wrote about life-altering love.
“Ugh,” I shriek, frustrated beyond words.
Another crumpled piece of paper joins the small pile on the floor beside me. My legs stretch out under the coffee table. A small stack of white printer paper and a pen are on its surface, and I’m attempting to keep myself together when all I want to do is fall apart.
It’s just a letter. I’ve told myself that so many times it could be considered my mantra for this Sunday morning. All I want is to write Connor a letter that will capture what he meant to me during this time. The problem? I keep writing in present tense.You mean so much to meshould readYou meant so much to me.
My heart wants Connor in the present. It doesn’t want him placed in the category ofpast. Usually the brain overrides the heart, but this morning, on my seventh attempt to write him a letter, my heart takes control of my brain. What I feel for him leaks out of my chest, travels my veins, coloring my insides so they’re no longer blood-red but now shades of Connor. The colors leave my fingers as words, and the words don’t say goodbye. They say things I can’t tell him. An admission of love, a brave declaration that I’ll take Eric Prince head-on and fight him like I should.
I can’t say any of that.
Sinking down, I tip my head back and lower it onto the couch cushion behind me. I close my eyes, letting a deep breath fill my chest. This is harder than I knew it would be. I didn’t promise Connor a goodbye, but he deserves one. I straighten and pick up the pen. Maybe my eighth try will be successful.
My phone rings from the kitchen counter.
Connor?
I stand quickly, bumping my knee on the table in my haste. “Ow,” I grumble, rubbing the throbbing bone as I hurry to the kitchen and grab the phone.
My heart sinks when I see the screen. “Darby, hi. How are things?” It’s the same way I greet her every time she calls to update me on my condo. I’m expecting Darby to respond the way she always does, which is basically along the lines ofthe property looks great, no changes, blah blah blah, but not today.
“Brynn, you seem to have an enemy.” Her voice shakes as she speaks.
Fear sets into my limbs. I know perfectly well I have an enemy. That wasn’t something I shared with my property manager when I hired her, and now the fear that had retreated to arm’s distance is up close again. “What happened?”
