I’m not sure if I’m about to have a heart attack or throw up that last shot of vodka, either way I’m struggling to swallow down bile while my heart beats so hard I’m convinced Will can hear it from where he stops to lean against a dresser.
“I wanted to talk,” he says. “More, that is. About everything that happened, and give you a better apology?—”
“You already apologized, Will,” I interrupt. “I know you meant it. And that meant more to me than you could know, so thank you for that. But you don’t need to do more. I’d rather move on from it.”
Will gives me a crooked, pained smile. “Good. Because I don’t have a better apology for you. I only have this,” he says, pulling a familiar notebook from under his arm and holding it out to me.
“Where did you get this? I thought I’d lost it,” I say, fanning through the pages that seem far more worn than before, withsome of the pages dog-eared. I can’t bring myself to be mad or embarrassed by what he read in these pages, though. They’re all things I want him to know.
“You left it in Raleigh. I kept meaning to give it back to you, but so much keeps happening, and I think I kind of got attached to it when I realized I’d lost you.”
I wait until he raises his eyes from the floor to lock on mine, so he can see how sincere I am when I tell him, “You never lost me, Will. Not fully.”
There’s a sheen of moisture in his eyes that is both heartwarming and concerning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Will cry before, but sure as he’s standing right in front of me, there are tears building up along his bottom lash line. If he were to blink, one would fall.
I almost want to see it, except that my heart can’t stand to see him in pain.
I take a step towards him, but Will holds up a hand. “Hold on. There’s more. I need you to sit down or something so I don’t punk out the way I’ve always done when it comes to anything that I think might hurt you.”
Effectively stalled, I backtrack and tentatively perch on the edge of the bed.
“What’s going on, Will?”
“I told you I don’t have a better apology. I just have that,” he gestures to the notebook I’m holding against my chest like a shield. “And I also have a confession.”
“A confession? If it’s that you read my journal, it’s pretty obvious. And while I don’t love that you saw all myembarrassing attempts at writing, I also don’t hate it. Everything in here was either for or about you.”
Will shakes his head. “Way, way worse than that, I’m afraid. You know I’m doing the whole therapy thing. And I’m working really hard on it, trying to grow, and being honest with myself is a big part of it.”
I nod because I understand. “It’s intense, yeah?”
He huffs, then looks up at the ceiling. When he closes his eyes, a single tear tracks down his cheek. “There’s a very good chance that you might hate me or never want to talk to me again after I tell you this. But I can’t start the next phase of what I need to do if I’m not as honest with you as I’ve been with myself lately.”
“Okay,” I whisper, feeling sick and worried for an entirely different reason.
Will swallows. “When we were in Dallas…” He starts with a trembling voice, worried or maybe afraid about what my reaction is going to be.
I can’t lie, the truth of what he did, the trouble he caused, hits me hard in the ribs. Some of his words blur together as my brain tries to make sense of the insanity. I focus on the sound of his voice, and realize that he isn’t just afraid I might never speak to him again—he’s come to terms with the possibility of me being so angry that I walk away from him for good. He’s doing this because it’s the right thing. Because he’s truly remorseful. He doesn’t make excuses for his actions, only owns up to what he did. There’s a why, which is a whole journey his therapist has taken him on to help him understand, but the why doesn’t matter more than the truth and consequences of his actions. He was horrified by how quickly it escalated and still can’t stand thethought that people got hurt because of him—that he put me in danger and other people were injured protecting me. And he’s ashamed of the comfort he took from having me in his arms that night, and the places his thoughts strayed to when he woke up pressed to my nearly naked body.No wonder he ran away the way he did.
It’s a lot. It’s too much to process all at once. And it’s not that I’m not angry—I am. What he did was fucked-up on so many levels. But I’m so tired of being angry. And when I really dig deep, as toxic as it is… I’m not really all that surprised.
“There is so much I need to atone for that I’m not sure I deserve the opportunity, but I want you to know how sorry I am. When you’re ready—if you’re ever ready—I will do anything and everything in my power to make it up to you. All of it,” he says quietly, then he turns to leave.
I look down at the notebook in my hands, letting it fall open where an extra page seems to have been folded in half and stuck between the pages.
If I love you, let you go
But holding you is all I’ve ever known
I don’t know how to be anything else
I don’t know how to be alone
I’ve replayed almost every word
All the times you didn’t leave
I’m trying to be brave enough
