And that’s because she’s been in love with me for the past eight years.
She’s in love with me.
With me.
She’s stupidly in love with a man who knows nothing about love. Who knows even less about it and relationships than a fucking four-year-old.
Jesus Christ, Salem.
Baby, you’ve fucked up. You’ve fucked up so bad.
I bark out a laugh.
For some reason, I can’t stop laughing tonight.
For some reason, it hurts every time I do.
It hurts to be hunched over her scattered notes.
It fucking hurts to read her words over and over, while rocking back and forth as my reborn heart bangs against my rib cage.
She loves me.
She. Loves. Me.
Why does she love me?
Why does it hurt that she does?
Why does it hurt that I can’t be anything other than what I am?
Why can’t I breathe? Why the world is still closing in at the thought that I’m The Blond Arrow?
The fucking perfectionist who can’t love the girl who’s in love with him.
I once heard a song about a girl dancing on landmines.
Slow dancing.
Because she wanted to hold on to this boy she was in love with. And holding on to him was like holding an explosive in her hands. So she’d tiptoe around him all so she could love him. Until one day everything blows up in her face.
Things explode and she catches fire.
Well, what else do you expect when you fall in love with a grenade?
What else do you expect when you fall in love with the sun?
It’s what the sun does.
It burns everything. Melts everything. Turns everything into dust.
That’s why Icarus, the fool who flew too close to the sun with wings made of wax, was stupid.
That’s why I am stupid.
And miserable and sad.
But what I’m not is angry.
I’m not angry at him. For being who he is. For being the sun he is.
I try though.
Especially the next day when I wake up and see, through the bars on my window, there’s no snow on the ground. It’s not that I love the snow or anything. It’s just that I thought there would be some evidence of what transpired between us, me and him, only a few hours ago.
Some evidence of the chill, the wreckage.
Even his love bite is gone. I don’t see it sitting on my neck, in the mirror.
As if I imagined everything. Imagined his teeth. Imagined the snow.
Again, I try to be angry at something.
At him.
But I can’t be because it’s not his fault.
It’s not his fault that he doesn’t want love. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t even know what to do with it.
It’s not his fault that he’s The Blond Arrow.
He trained for it his entire life. He worked for it.
I have seen it with my own eyes. His dedication, his determination.
His single-minded focus.
So it’s not his fault that in the pursuit of all that he forgot to be anything else.
To be anyone else.
It’s not his fault that he’s lost.
Because that’s what he is, isn’t he?
After what happened with my sister, what she did and how their relationship turned out to be. Even I’m lost because I, too, thought their relationship was perfect.
Arrow didn’t do this to himself; it happened to him.
So I can’t be angry at him.
But I am sad.
And turns out that it’s also something I shouldn’t be.
Because I already knew that there was very little chance that we’d ever get together. Very little chance that he’d ever love me.
Someone like me. Someone so opposite of him.
And I’ve known this ever since I was ten.
But my heart, my fucking heart, doesn’t understand that. It doesn’t understand logic and rationalizations and all the explanations I’ve been giving myself ever since I turned around and left him standing in the snow.
Because ever since I was ten, I’ve also wanted just one thing.
Him.
To be perfect for him. To be special to him.
Yeah, my heart is stupid and it hurts.
It hurts so bad that I walk around St. Mary’s with perpetual water in my eyes.
My tears sit there as I work in the garden with the rest of the girls. When I secretly clip a gardenia and pocket it, one spills out and flows down to my trembling lips. Another spills when I do my trig homework later in the library and get all the questions wrong because he isn’t here to teach me.
The girls are as supportive as they’ve ever been.
Especially when I tell them everything.
I tell them that I’ve loved him since I was ten and that I shouldn’t have because he was with my sister. Then I tell them that last night when I yelled I love you to him, he told me to get lost.
I don’t tell them about the breakup though, and all the other secrets that he has. Because I will never tell, not in a million years. I know that without filling in those gaps, I might come off as a girl with a witchy heart who goes after her sister’s boyfriend.
But like him, they don’t judge.
Like him, they absolve me, which is something I haven’t really thought about, him absolving me, I mean. Because if I do, I might never get up from my bed. I might never stop crying for what he did for me.
Something wonderful.
Anyway, my friends listen and when I cry for the thousandth time, they wipe my tears. Then Poe says that we’ll be going out tonight.
Because I could use a distraction.
Actually, I’m not the only one. Callie could use a distraction too.
Because her mood is like mine.
Her mood is blacker, actually.
Maybe because for the past two days, she’s been kinda sick. I mean, it comes and goes. Like yesterday, she was throwing up in the morning but she was fine all day after that. Today too, she had a bout of vomiting before walking over for breakfast.
I don’t know what’s going on.
Maybe it’s some kind of a stomach bug.
But whatever this is, we have decided that if it doesn’t get better soon – as she keeps insisting – we’ll drag her to the nurse ourselves.
So maybe going out is a good thing.
Although I don’t think anything can cheer me up, not for a very long time. But if it helps Callie then I’m all for it.
That’s why hours later, I stack my pillows on the bed and cover them with a blanket before tiptoeing out of the room. I walk down the darkened hallway and meet the girls at the exit.
However, instead of pushing the door open, they all give me grave looks.
Callie, who looks as healthy as ever, even after what happened in the morning, is the first to speak. “Okay so, don’t freak out.”
As soon as she says that my heart starts pounding and it must be visible on my face because Poe swats Callie’s arm. “You’re freaking her out by saying that.”
Callie grimaces. “Yikes. Sorry. I honestly just wanted to curb the blow.”
The blow.
My heart gets stuck in my throat at this and I slip and stutter with my words. “W-what…”
When I can’t complete my sentence, Wyn steps in. “You’re both freaking her out.”
She grabs my arm and smiles. Although there’s nothing happy about it as she says, “He’s leaving.”
“What?”
Poe touches my shoulder to get my attention. “I heard it through someone last night. Arrow’s leaving. Coach TJ is gonna be the main coach until they can find a replacement. They’ll probably make the announcement tomorrow.”
Callie gives me a sympathetic look. “We didn’t wanna say anything before. Be
cause you wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.”
“But you can now,” Wyn says.
“Yeah, go to him.” That’s Poe.
They’re all standing around me, holding some part of my body, my arms, my shoulders, as they tell me that I should go to him and do something about it.
Only I don’t know what.
I don’t know what I can do if he’s leaving.
He’s leaving.
Leaving.
I mean, I knew that he was gonna leave but I didn’t know it was gonna be this soon. That it was gonna be just two days after I told him that I love him.
That’s why he’s leaving, isn’t he?
Because I told him I loved him.
Because now he thinks that I’m gonna be declaring my love to him every two seconds. He probably thinks that I’m gonna throw myself at him like I’ve done countless times before.
Take your love and get out of my face…
And oh God, I have to tell him.
I have to tell him that I won’t. That I won’t bother him or make his life harder.
I won’t go to him or talk to him or be all dramatic about it.
In fact, I promised myself that I won’t even watch him around St. Mary’s. I won’t watch him in the hallways or in the dining room, in the library or on the soccer field.
So this is stupid, him leaving.
“I have to stop him,” I burst out, finally coming to a conclusion.
I also do it loud.
Louder than I should have because the girls quiet down around me. They all give me startled looks and I shake my head. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to be so –”
“No, it’s okay. Go.” Callie squeezes my shoulder.
“Yeah, I called you a cab. So you should be good,” Poe tells me with a determined nod.
“But… what about us going out?”
Poe waves her hand. “That was just a hoax. Something we had to tell you so you’d be ready at midnight.”
Wyn smiles proudly. “I came up with that.”
Despite everything, I chuckle.
Gosh, they’ve thought of everything, haven’t they?
My friends, and they don’t even know the whole story yet.
Who would’ve thought that I’d make friends at a reform school? That I’d love them all to pieces.
And that they’d push me out the door when I just stand there, feeling overwhelmed and flabbergasted, so I could go and stop the love of my life.
But as soon as the night air hits me, I take off at a run.
I’m filled with determination and purpose.
I’m filled with calmness. Or as much calmness as I can be filled with at a time like this. At a time when he is leaving.
Because I declared my love to him.
God.
What an idiotic thing to do and what an idiotic way to react.
But it’s okay. I’ll stop him.
I don’t remember giving the cabbie his address but somehow, I’m here.
I’m in front of his gray door and I’m knocking.
I realize I’ve never done that before, knock on his door I mean. Whenever I came here, to this L-shaped building with its gray railing, overlooking the highway, he was always with me.
So I think it’s going to be a little shocking when he sees me on his doorstep.
And it is.
It is shocking when a second later, Arrow opens the door and finds me – the girl who loves him.
He actually draws back an inch and I fist my hands at my sides.
I’m probably the last person he was expecting to see and yet, here I am.
Complete with my love and all.
Complete with my messy hair and freckles and chunky sweater and soccer cleats. And out-of-control pounding heart.
In my defense, I do try to control my heart and not ogle him. Which is very difficult because he doesn’t have a shirt on.
His hard muscles are on display and they’re sweaty. Also, they are panting and heaving.
I try not to look at his expanding ribs and hollowing out stomach and the way he’s frowning at me, mouth open, nostrils flaring.
Because he doesn’t need that.
He doesn’t need me to look at him with puppy dog eyes and his next words prove it. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I try not to flinch, but I can only do so much in this moment. “I –”
“How did you get here?” he asks but then doesn’t give me the time to answer him because he pokes his head out to glance up and down the sidewalk as if to check on things.
As if just by looking he can deduce how I came to be here.
I move back slightly while he does his inspection. While his musky scent fills my nose and his chest almost grazes mine.
Because again, he doesn’t need that.
When he comes to stand straight, he warns, “Salem.”
Breaking out of my stupor, I say, “I… You’re leaving.”
At my words, his jaw tics and he asks again, “How the fuck did you get here?”
“I took a cab.”
He stares at me, immobile and frozen, his eyes dark. “Come in.”
“I don’t –”
“Just…” He sighs. “It’s cold. You’re shaking. Come inside.”
As soon as he says it in his rough, gravelly tone, I feel the first shiver roll down my spine. The first tremble of my legs, my belly.
And I realize that he’s right.
I am shaking. I have probably been shaking this whole time without my knowledge.
But it’s not the cold.
It’s him.
It’s from the sight of him, all sweaty and so familiar in his dark gray sweatpants, hanging low on his pelvis, and his bare feet. His dirty blond hair that appears dark brown right now, matted across his forehead.
I bet he was trying to kill himself again, by working out too hard.
When I still don’t move, he steps away from the door and holds it open, his biceps flexing. “Would you just get inside?”
“Right. Sorry,” I mumble, trying again to act unemotional.
Just get your shit together, Salem.
Wiping my hands down my cargo pants, I duck my head and step inside, careful, extremely careful, not to touch him.
When he shuts the door, I turn around to face him and repeat, “You’re leaving.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
His eyes go back and forth between mine for a second before he replies, “Because that was always the plan. Because I was always supposed to leave.”
Plan.
Yeah, he’s obsessed with planning.
“What about your therapist?” I ask, again all calm like.
“What about her?”
“Isn’t she supposed to have a say in when you leave?”
He stares at me for a beat. “No one has a say in when I leave.”
Right.
Not even me. Not that I ever had it but still.
He sighs again.
Although I don’t think it helps with loosening him up at all. His body, his muscles are as tight as ever. They’re almost straining from whatever is going on inside of him.
“Besides, I can find another therapist,” he says, standing tall and straight. “In LA.”
“And your team?” I swallow. “Are they fine with you coming back so soon?”
“I was always going to go back one day. So yeah.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my lips from trembling and my eyes from filling up. “But one day, right? Not right now.”
“One day. Today. Right now. What’s the difference?”
He asks the question calmly.
Very, very calmly and I bet he doesn’t even have to go to all the lengths that I’m going to. To appear this way.
Because suddenly it hits me.
He’s acting like the old Arrow. The one
who used to be unruffled and determined.
Like the snow and the bite of his love that disappeared the next day, the new Arrow – my Arrow – is gone. In his place is the Arrow that I fell in love with but had no clue about who he was.
It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
A sour taste.
Like I’m drinking my own tears.
“Is it because of me?”
At this, I see a flinch.
I see the bare muscles of his stomach tightening and standing up in stark relief like I’ve punched him.
But his face shows no effect.
“What makes you think it’s because of you?” he asks in a rough tone.
“Because I love you.”
I suck in a breath at my declaration.
At my stupid, stupid declaration.
God.
No wonder he’s leaving. I just can’t stop saying it.
I just can’t stop telling him how much I love him.
When I came here I thought that I’d simply imply it. But turns out it’s super easy to say it now that the secret is out, and it’s super hard for him to hear.
Because his abs tighten up again.
So I clear my throat and amend the statement. “I mean, because I told you that I love you.”
“And?”
“And you’re leaving two days later,” I almost snap out at him, my hands fisted and my legs wide.
He notices it.
He notices my battle stance and something about that makes him sigh again.
This time though, the sigh works and he loosens up a little.
Making me wonder if this is what he wanted.
To provoke me so I’d lose my calm and become the crazy, dramatic Salem that he knows.
“Again, what difference does it make? I was going to leave anyway,” he says.
It makes a difference because I don’t want you to go, you asshole.
I wish I could say it to him.
I really, really wish that I could say it, scream it at his face and shake him.
But I can’t.
“If you think,” I begin, licking my lips, “that I’m going to throw myself at you again or declare my love to you randomly walking down the hallway or something then you’re wrong. I got the message. I got it, okay? You don’t want my love. You don’t need it. You don’t know what to do with it. So you don’t have to leave town, the whole freaking state, just because I told you my feelings.”
Okay, I didn’t mean to go off there at the end. I shouldn’t have raised my voice and bent my neck and clenched my teeth.
My Darling Arrow Page 31