“I don’t give a shit about anyone else. You’re the only one I want, Carrie. And I’ve been sure of that for weeks now. I was just waiting for you to see it, too.”
I blink. He’s just bared his soul, and all I can think is how messy and fucked up it gets when you let a guy worm his way into your heart.I feel so trapped.He forced me to help him, back in the day. If he hadn’t, I’d never have spoken to him. Looking back, I have no clue what prompted me to say yes—but what I do know is that I have so much to lose by continuing down this path.
“Waiting for me to see what, exactly?” I cock an eyebrow. “We’ve been playing games for way too long, and I have no idea who you evenare, deep down. All you’re doing is copying shit from books. I can’t tell which parts are really you, anymore.”
And just like that, I realize how deep I’ve cut him with that final swipe, the hurt blossoming across his face.Too far, Carrie. Too far.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he spits. “I was more myself with you than I’ve ever been. Why are you making this into such a big deal, Carrie? It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me.”
“I don’t want a boyfriend,” I say simply. “I don’t want you in my life.”
Point of no return—unlocked.
Of all the millions of things he’s ever said to me, nothing has ever hit me harder than his silence right now. He steps to the side to let me pass. And though every atom in my body is yelling at me to stop, I walk on by, leaving him there by the roadside as I make a beeline for the main street, biting back on the rush of emotions swirling inside me—hollowing myself out until I feel nothing at all.
THE NEXT THREE HOURS SLOPEby in a numb blur. Greyson is there to greet me off the bus. As we drive, he explains, but I’m hardly listening. As soon as we pull up outside the house, I fling open the car door and leap out onto the sidewalk, heading straight for the porch. The door is wide open, the smell of smoke and embers hitting me in the back of the throat. Bags litter the entrance, and I stumble on a pile of brochures. The past two years have served me well, though—I brace myself against the doorway that leads through to the living room, but what I see rattles me to the core. It’s worse than I imagined—it’s worse than anything she’s ever done before.
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
I drag my eyes away from the charred walls and my gaze lands on Mom—sitting on her sofa bed, hugging her knees to her chest. I press my lips together, trying to still my beating heart. She looks like a madwoman, perched in the middle of all the chaos. All this stuff… How did she even have time to find all this crap since I last came? A mishmash of cans and cardboard boxes, plastic crates and random junk is strewn across the room. I want to scream—to run away and never look back. I never want to set foot in this house again.
“What have you done?” I murmur.
“I don’t know what h—”
“What have you done?” I repeat, louder now.
She flinches, and even when she bursts into tears, I’m unmovable. My empathy has run dry—she’s wrung every last drop of compassion out of me, burying it deep under all these piles of shit.
“This needs to stop.”
“Carrie, I—”
“It ends today,” I continue. “You aren’t safe anymore.”
“It was a candle,” she stammers.
“No, Mom. It wasn’t a candle. It was all this stuff.”
I swing my foot at the nearest bundle of newspapers, and then a second, and then a third—it won’t change anything, I know. But it feels good. For years now, I’ve followed the same old pattern—clearing away in silence, tossing stuff without a word, cleaning up on autopilot. And I just can’t do it anymore. I don’t know whether it’s the fire or something else, but things are different this time. I can’t keep my feelings bottled up anymore. Initially, I was hoping this was just a phase she was going through—a dark patch while she got over my dad. But nothing has changed. Nothing ever will.
I stomp upstairs, the floorboards groaning under my weight. I fling open the door to my bedroom and grab my phone, firing off a message to my dad. No punctuation, no room for second-guessing—just an outpouring that comes straight from the gut. Once I’m all out of words, I hit delete and stare down into my hand for a moment. I look up, taking in my bedroom. It’s the only part of the house that’s been spared the flames, but my absence the past few weeks gave her an in—the whole room is full of her clutter, sealed packages and unopened parcels shoved into every corner. And that’s when I crack.
I start reaching for boxes, heaving them over the banister and down to the ground floor one by one, not even caring whether the neighbors hear, slamming the door behind me once I’m done, sliding down to the floor as my mind races. It’s like there are two warring parts of me, and I don’t recognize either of them. Slowly but surely, everything I’ve been struggling to ignore is coming crawling out into the daylight. The one guy I wish I’d never met is turning out to be the one person I now desperately need beside me. The one guy who scares me—because he gifted me a glimpse of what I could be if I could just let go and create space for the spark between us to blossom. A guy who scares me—because when I picture life without him, nowthat I’ve rejected him, I feel so lost and cold. Why couldn’t he just be the asshole I was expecting him to be? Why does he have to be kind of great? Why am I suddenly so into him? I flick back through my memory—all the awful things I didn’t mean but said anyway. The only authentic part of that whole showdown was my fear, and now the regret is just as real.I was looking for excuses to run away.
“Apple doesn’t fall far, huh?” I mutter to myself.
I shake my head, remembering all the bullshit excuses Dad threw in Mom’s face as he was stepping out the door.
A wave of hysteria washes over me. I’m like the perfect, fucked-up combination of both my parents, and as the realization lands, anxiety edges at my sides. This won’t be my first panic attack, but it’s been nearly a year since my last one.
I crawl over to my bedside table, fumbling for a paper bag. I bring it to my lips, breathing in and out, watching it swell and crumple in time, taking in the comforting crinkling sound and engaging in a little light self-loathing as I wait for my pulse to settle. I’m everything I hate—a bitter, stomach-churning cocktail of Mom’s and Dad’s worst sides. Tears spring to my eyes.
I can’t believe it’s taken years for this to dawn—by trying so hard not to end up like my mom, I’ve backed myself into a dark, lonely corner. I thought that by keeping love at arm’s length, I could fend off the trauma of the divorce and the effect it had on Mom, but it all just burrowed into my heart, instead. I tried to lose myself in fairy tales—Prince Charmings and happy endings. I tried to protect myself from anything that even hinted at the possibility of feelings. I built a wall around me with books, just the way she did with her boxes. I sealed myself off from the world for no good reason.You’re no different from her. You do exactly what she does—and for what?
The more I think about it, the more I get the sense I’m fucking up my life. I play it safe so I don’t get hurt. And I get hurt because I play it safe. I’m a prisoner of my own making, and I’m the worst. I’m stupid, and cowardly.And I miss Donovan.
I fucked up. Despair lands over my anger, settling into the cracks. I break. I sit there sobbing with my back to the door until my body has nothing left to give, and I drag myself over to my bed.
