Love on the Rise: Book Two of The Against All Odds Series

by Gemini Jensen

  “You’re right, baby girl, and I love you. You always know the right things to say.” Picking her fork back up, she begins eating again. I can already feel the dense fog of depression retreating from around her. Too bad it’s just circling back around and heading straight for me.

  But even in the hardest of times, I try to stick to my rules—or at least the ones that haven’t been amended or erased. Rule number one has always proven to be significant. Kindness is important. Even if I might have the urge to lash out at others when I’m in pain, it wouldn’t solve anything. I’d end up feeling even worse about it later.

  After lunch, I pull Mom into a hug and kiss her on the cheek before assuring her that I love her. I watch as she climbs into her vehicle and drives away, making sure she doesn’t realize I chose to walk the few blocks distance from our apartment building. She always has a hissy-fit over my walking too, and I really enjoy getting to explore the city we’re in now, perusing the shops as I please.

  Chapter Eight

  IT’S THE PERFECT day. Sunny and mild, and not at all chilly. One of those rare gems amongst the colder months that tease me, making me forget I still have weeks to endure before the transition to spring, then summer. I brush shoulders with strangers, catching snippets of their conversation as they pass by me like I’m not even here. This is the part I appreciate, witnessing the lives of everyone around me, yet remaining unnoticed.

  It’s the realization that I’m just a small part of a larger universe; a molecule of dust floating amongst space in the grander aspect of things. Sometimes, especially with feelings that become so overpowering, so all-consuming…it’s a difficult concept to grasp.

  As I’m wandering around like a lost soul, trying to enjoy life and attempting to push all thoughts of Gray and our messed up relationship—or lack thereof—aside, I stumble upon something I don’t expect. Whether it proves to be luck or some divine form of torture, is yet to be seen. Across the street from me sits a sleek, black luxury sedan. The same kind Gray drove last night. And while it isn’t a make or model as rare as a Lamborghini or Ferrari per se, it’s definitely not as common as a Toyota or something of that nature.

  But it couldn’t be the same one, could it?

  My legs are crossing the street in the car’s direction before my mind even acknowledges a plan of action. I nearly forget to look both ways as I go. Heart beating frantically and adrenaline gushing through my veins like I’ve just been injected with an IV, my head is spinning as I round the back of the car to the passenger side.

  I can make out a silhouette in the driver’s seat, but the owner doesn’t seem to notice me as I case their vehicle. Leaning down, I peer through the window, jerking on the handle as soon as I do. Gray turns to me but doesn’t jump from my sudden intrusion, almost like he’s expecting someone to climb inside. From the way his nostrils flare, jaw ticking before he starts glancing anxiously about the street, I’d say that someone isn’t me.

  What do I do though? I don’t give two flying fucks, and I climb on inside.

  I’m well beyond pride and sanity. What right does he have to walk back into my life, literally the same night I make a decision to finally attempt getting over him, and then walk right back out?

  He took the coward's way out. He never answered any of my questions, just fucked me into momentarily forgetting about them. Well, I haven’t, and now I have more of them than ever.

  He will man up and handle this face to face.

  I’m giving him no other choice.

  The door slams shut as I face him, sitting in the same seat he buckled me into less than twenty-four hours ago. I was angry with him then, and I’m angry with him now. Only last night it was more of a playful irritation that was still so full of hope fueled by my erroneous presumption we were finally reunited and would pick up right where we left off. As I sit here now, I’ve been made aware of the error in my thinking. That wasn’t the case at all. The occasion was more of the “goodbye sex” kind rather than one eliciting cause for celebration. I never knew it was possible to feel such a passionate rage simmering beneath my skin, with my chest still feeling so hollow.

  How can such an intense feeling exist inside me when half my heart is missing?

  And currently, something in my mind is shouting a warning of how that hollow, gaping hole will only be growing by the time this conversation has ended.

  “You shouldn’t be here. You need to go.” His tone is cold, his face ridding itself of surprise and transforming into that of an emotionless mannequin, stiff and unmoving, his black pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses hiding his eyes.

  I should get out at that. He’s washed his hands of me, and I should do the same. Only I can’t. Not without an explanation.

  “And you should have said what you wanted to my face.” I train my sights on his face, zeroing in to ensure I don’t miss anything.

  “I did. You just weren’t awake to hear it. I wrote it down for you,” he states dismissively, continuing to glance around outside the car every few seconds as his leg jiggles nervously.

  I huff, rolling my eyes. “I’m not in the mood for your games, Gray…” I reach over and snatch the glasses right off his nose, laying them neatly in his cup holder before continuing. “You should have told me when I was awake, lucid, capable of ascertaining what you were saying,” I spell out for him.

  He shrugs, looking back up the street again as if he’s searching for something. Pulling out his phone he types out a message, completely ignoring me like he hopes I’ll disappear on my own before he’s finished. He hits send, placing the phone back in his lap.

  I sit here waiting. Watching. Existing. Hoping.

  He takes a deep breath, sitting up straighter, his face settling to a hardened mask of determination when he turns back to me again. “Get out of my car,” he orders, “I have somewhere to be. Gotta pick someone up. They’re waiting on me.”

  “Another girl?” I ask stupidly. And he withholds an answer. Of course he does.

  The way he keeps scanning the area around us in agitation—like he’s afraid someone will see us—plus his inclination to neither deny nor confirm my question…is answer enough.

  Reaching for the handle of the door, I fight back the burning sensation behind my eyes for the second time today. I still hesitate to get out though, feeling the need to torture myself just a little more and not at all caring what a weak and desperate idiot I’ll look like for doing so.

  “You know what, I don’t understand you. I guess this new Gray, the one with the suave car and sleek suit, isn’t the same guy I fell for.” That’s the closest I’ve ever come to saying those three, life-changing words, but he’s not getting them now. And I’m far from being finished with my accusations. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? Swooping in out of nowhere, right when I decide to make an attempt to move on from you…because if you really meant all those things you said back then, you wouldn’t have made it so difficult for me to get in touch with you.

  “Then you showed up last night, and I thought wow, this is fate. He’s finally found me and we can be together. And you made me believe you still cared. You seduced me with your words, your actions, and your body. You made a fool out of me, leaving in the middle of the night like that. And you’re making a fool of me now.” My voice sounds strangled at the end, and I have to fight to keep from sobbing as I say the last words.

  And he scoffs. He seriously fucking scoffs at me.

  He really isn’t the same Gray anymore.

  My Gray would never scoff, even when he was being an asshole. My Gray is compassionate for others, caring, thoughtful, even when he doesn’t want to be. He’d never do anything to intensify another person’s pain.

  “Please, V,” he admonishes with sarcasm lacing his tone, “we both know it’s always been you who’s gone out of her way to seduce me.” His face is unmoving. His tone so chilly that I swear some of the ice from it breaks free, the splinter landing right in the core of my heart—and my eye. That’s wh
y I’m really crying here, because there’s something in my eye and he put it there. Definitely not because I’m allowing him to affect the way I feel about myself.

  “Don’t call me V,” I shout. “So, this is it? We’re really done. For good…Forever? You’re sure that’s what you want?” I clarify, desperate for him to retract his words and to dull the pain he brought with them. Desperate for him to tell me this is some fucked up joke, or opposite day, or something. Anything but…this.

  “Yes, that’s what I want. I thought I made that clear when I left in the middle of the night like you were a cheap fuck.” His jaw ticks again like he’s grinding his teeth, nearly convincing me that he doesn’t like the words he’s saying. Maybe even hates them more than I do.

  “You’re lying,” I challenge.

  He turns to me then with a glint in his eye, appearing suddenly menacing, evil even.

  “I don’t know how to make myself any clearer. I tried being polite, but I’ll just be blunt now. We. Are. Done. I don’t want you anymore. I’ve moved on. You should too. Last night was just for old time’s sake. Nothing more. That’s what you are, Valentina.” He drawls out my full name, emphasizing the change over from his nickname for me. “You’re nothing more than my past, and that’s where I’d prefer you stay. We had some fun times a few years ago. Sneaking around… fucking behind everyone’s back. Everyone loves the thrill of doing something that’s wrong, the excitement of being caught at any minute.

  "And you’re fucking sexy…What’s not to love about that arrangement? But I have a new life. And speaking of new lives, you’ve had quite a few—I’m sure—since we parted ways. You’ve probably changed identities several times. Which is all you’ll ever amount to.” The unexpected viciousness and cruelty hits home, honing in on all my fears and insecurities, and I finally break down sobbing. “And speaking of identities…” he continues as if trying to prove just how much viciousness he’s capable of, “drop the whole Knightley shit. You’re not a Knightley and never will be. You don’t need to be tied in any way to my family. Just move on with your life. You’re too young to be pining away over someone who doesn’t even want you. You’ve always been too young. Too young, and too immature for me. For this,” he motions between us, “to be anything serious.”

  I sit stunned, my body too shocked to even figure out how to move. He may as well have just slapped me. He could have driven a knife through my heart; it would have hurt less. Suddenly hopping out of the car, he stalks around to my side and opens the door, holding it wide, and orders me out.

  Tentatively stepping onto the pavement, my legs quaking and feeling completely devoid of strength, I follow his request this time. I don’t really snap out of my daze until he reaches out to offer a helping hand to steady me. That’s when reality begins crashing down. Snatching my arm back as if he just burned me, I give him my final, final words.

  “Fuck you, Gray. I hate you,” I practically spit at him, staring straight into his eyes, even through my muddled teary vision.

  With hands trembling from the intense energy flowing through me, I slip the ring from my finger and shove it at him. I contemplate throwing it, risking the chance it might smack against his chest, clattering to the pavement and rolling into the nearby drain before he could catch it. For two seconds I like the idea much more than I should.

  But something stops me. Losing a family heirloom like that would hurt more people than just Gray. He stares at the sparkling object, seemingly in shock. When he refuses to reach out and take it from me, I drop it into the crisp pocket of his dress shirt.

  This is it. I know it in my soul. There will be no granting of my previous hopes and dreams for us. All those 11:11 and shooting star wishes, wasted on something that was ultimately doomed from the start. I watch as his eyes glaze over momentarily before hardening again. And I hate that in that moment, everything in his stature, presentation, and delivery, tells me that he just meant every word he said. Except his eyes. Those delectable, whiskey colored eyes hold an intense and inexplicable pain behind them.

  No longer my concern.

  I turn and walk away, slowly at first until I’m certain I won’t collapse at any given moment. As I do, I could almost swear I hear the faint reverberations of someone cursing and pounding against something.

  A dashboard maybe?

  But that’s probably more a case of my mind playing tricks on me; the stupid thing still holding out some confounding grain of hope—which I’ll need to squash very quickly if I’m going to be able to function.

  Like a cadaver, purged of life and soulless, a surging coldness seeps deep down into my bones. I wander around for God knows how long, and somehow manage to make it back to my doorstep sometime after dark. I shed my clothes, turning the shower on slightly hotter than I can even stand at first. I stay there until it turns cold again. For the first time all day, I glimpse myself in the mirror once I get out. And damn it if I don’t see it—the marking of my flesh, no doubt a purposeful doing of Gray last night.

  Fucking bastard.

  When did he become this person so intent on causing me pain in every way possible?

  What happened to him in the past three years?

  The weight of gloom pressing down on me is so deadweight and burdensome, I stare at my reflection not even recognizing myself. I stare at his brand, purple and angry on my creamy flesh. It’s a painful reminder of all the what-ifs. I know that in a couple of days the mark on my skin will fade as is the nature of such things. The mark he’s made on my heart, my soul, my entire being, however, will not. It’s here to stay with me; a part of me I can never shed and will be doomed to carry around forever. A part of me I can’t erase as if it’s fused with my DNA. Like the tone of my skin; the shade of my hair.

  My eye color…

  Gray.

  Chapter Nine

  THE NEXT FEW weeks drag by, and as much as I attempt to save face in front of my mother, I know she can tell something is up. My ever-robust appetite has disappeared, and everything I consume is bland and tasteless. I try to go for a false air of cheerfulness, but even though I force myself to smile, I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. And it doesn’t help that every time I steer our conversation toward Mom and what she’s been up to, she volleys it right back to me. She’s relentless and undeterred in attempting to discover why exactly I’m so down-in-the-dumps.

  In my head, I’m counting the days since Gray walked out of my life—for good. Every morning when I wake up, I acknowledge which numbered day it is A.G.—After Gray.

  And today makes Day Thirty-Five A.G.

  I’ve called out of the library again today. I’d be surprised if they let me come back, even if I am just a volunteer. The past few days have been monotonous except for dragging myself out to meet up with Mom for a bit. I only stay long enough to be acceptable. I’ve gotten up each morning, taken a shower, and then put on a clean pair of pajamas. For entertainment purposes, I’ve been reading, writing, and staring at the T.V. for hours on end.

  But this morning, I’ve made progress. I’ve added a new activity to my regimen. I lay back on my bed listening to my Depressing Playlist. Yes, that’s actually what I named it. Poison & Wine by The Civil Wars fades away to be replaced by I hate u, I love u by Gnash featuring Olivia O’Brien.

  I stare at the ceiling and, logically, I know that I should do whatever it takes to remove myself from this ridiculous stupor I’m in. Logically, I realize I can’t live off a cup of yogurt, some crackers, and a banana each day; but I don’t feel like putting effort into making myself anything else. Even ramen or microwave-dinners would be too much of a hassle.

  My eyes stare unblinking at the ceiling so long, they turn dry and red. As I glare at the tiles above my bed, that’s not what I’m seeing at all. I’m replaying all the memories I have with Gray starting from the beginning up until Thirty-Five days ago, in fast-forward, slowing down and really focusing on my favorite parts. And when I get to the end, I rewind it back again. Who knew your brain
could do such a thing? Apparently, when someone has been cut deeply by someone or something, it’s easier to hone in on certain events that are otherwise more difficult to recall.

  A sharp rapping at the door drifts from the front of the apartment, but I choose to ignore it. Maybe if I pretend I’m not here, she’ll go away. Another song plays in its entirety, but the person—who I can only imagine must be my mom, seeing as how no one else could have such an annoyingly melodic pattern to their knock—just keeps at it. I groan as I drag myself out of bed and shuffle toward the annoying racket.

  “Coming,” I shout angrily.

  Bang. Tap. Tap. Bang. Tap. Tap. Bang. Tap. Tap.

  I jerk open the door and glare. “I said I was coming,” I grit out.

  Mom narrows her eyes and purses her lips, dragging her gaze up and down at my still-present pajamas despite the fact it’s now mid-day.

  Before she can say anything, I state for the record, “These are fresh. Not the ones I slept in.”

  She quirks an eyebrow. “What’s crawled up your ass? You just got off your period a week ago, so clearly that can’t be your excuse.”

  Mom hardly ever curses, so the fact she just did—no matter how inconsequential the word is on the expletive Richter-scale—clearly shows how unimpressed she is with my attitude. Pulling the door open more, I motion her inside.

  “Are you sick?” she asks, scooting past me.

  “No.” I follow her to the kitchen, just now realizing she has bags in her arms.

  She throws me another speculative glance. “I swear to god, Valley, if you have been seeing someone in private and got pregnant I am going to kill you. You can’t have a kid in this kind of situation we’re in!” She raises her voice a few octaves.

  I’m not sure what angers me so much about her words. Maybe it’s just that I’m moody as hell, or maybe it’s because I feel like she doesn’t think I’d make a good mother or would be able to pull it off.