“Hey,” I call as I climb out of the car, and under the beam of the streetlight, Miles gives a wave.Seeing him outside this building brings back a flood of memories that I’m not sure I’m ready for, but I don’t really have much of a choice but to confront them.
“Where do we even start, Daze?”Miles says the second I walk up, and shit, he’s diving right in.
Not sure how to respond, I sit down next to him, my thigh brushing his as I shift closer to him, and despite the animosity and confusion that exists between us, he’s still a huge source of comfort.
“I didn’t think you were coming back,” I mutter, but it’s no excuse for what has happened.
“I told you I was coming back,” Miles counters, a bit of contention to his words.
“Yeah, and so did my dad,” I shoot back.That pain will always be fresh even if it’s been years.“And you know how that went.”
“Daisy,” Miles croons with sympathy.His arm effortlessly slips around my shoulders, pulling me to him, and I let my head fall in the crook of his neck.
My dad left for the mainland when I was twelve, leaving my mom, my sister and me to take a job that was supposed to last a year.Six months in, the phone calls stopped, and that’s when the divorce papers showed up.
He’d found someone new, leaving his current family behind as if we never existed.I haven’t seen him since the day he left, and I struggled for years to get over it.When Miles left, it brought back all those abandonment feelings, and I sought comfort anywhere I could find it.
Isaac.
I didn’t think he would come back.How could he when all that was left on Maui was me, his girlfriend from high school, and he had the taste of fame on his tongue?He could have been huge, his band taking off, and sometimes I worry it failed because of me.
“Why Isaac?”he now asks me, the question posed without that tinge of anger that laced his questions before.There’s a vulnerability, a damaged heart asking it, and I owe him an answer.
“There’s no answer I can give you that will make what I did right, Miles,” I tell him, taking his hand in mine.
I lay it in my lap, my eyes focusing on it, the calloused fingertips from his guitar, each mark marring his skin as a reminder of all those hours he spent playing.I loved to listen to him play, to hear the deep, hypnotic tone of his voice, the words he sang only for me.
But then the world got to hear them, taking something that felt special—something that felt like it was just for my ears—and turning it public.I hated it, but only because I was bitter and broken by then.
“Any answer you give will help ease this shit,” he grumbles, waving a hand in front of his chest, and I choke back the sob that forms.
“I can’t talk about it,” I manage to get out, the tears beginning to spill down my cheeks in long, winding rivers.
I don’t want him to feel sorry for me.That’s not why I’m crying.This isn’t about sympathy or the need for him to ignore everything that’s happened.It’s part of healing, and the tears need to come.
“I’m sorry.I’m so sorry for the way everything played out.”Every word is a plea for mercy and forgiveness, to move on from something that has broken both of us.
I am sorry, but it’s just not that easy.
He takes my hand in his now, holding it to his chest, letting me feel the soft beat, and it reminds me of our life together.He used to do this and tell me that his heart beat for me, that I was the reason he wrote music, why he played guitar, and why his lyrics were so real.
I was his muse, his inspiration, and his passion.
And as my thoughts wander to those days, it feels like I am the reason the band fell apart.Without his reason, he lost his desire to continue.
“My heart was so broken without you,” I murmur, closing my eyes, my palms growing sweaty with my admission.“I saw pictures of you from your shows, other women, and all those feelings of my dad leaving came rushing back.I thought you would find someone new, that what we had wasn’t…” I trail off, not knowing how to continue.
“And how do you think I felt when I heard about you and Isaac?Owen called me.I had to hear it from Owen, not you,” Miles states, his words void of any emotion, and that hurts more than his anger.
“Hurt,” I simply say.
“Did you want to hurt me?”
I shake my head, the tears pooling in my eyes once again.But my answer is a lie.I did want to hurt him.I wanted him to see that he was replaceable, just as quickly as he replaced me.I wanted him to feel the dull ache that never left my body and the way it felt to cry myself to sleep every night.
“I did,” I admit, sobbing now.My tears run down my face, drenching Miles’s T-shirt.“I hate that I did.”
“I wanted to hurt you too,” he admits, and nausea churns in my stomach.
