by Monroe, Max
“Indy?” I ask. “Why do you have this?”
“I went to see Adam’s family.”
“Okay…”
I look down at the letter again, and my eyes latch on to my signature.
My Eternal Gratitude.
AB
“His mother wanted to show me the two letters she’d received from the recipients of Adam’s organ donations,” she whispers and her voice cracks. “One letter from a thirty-year-old woman who received his heart and…this.”
This. Mine.
I glance down at the letter and then back at Indy.
Tears stream down her cheeks in steady waves, and I’m too fucking shocked to react to anything.
Her fiancé was my donor.
Her fiancé was my donor.
Her fiancé was my donor.
Over and over again, my mind gets stuck on that one reality.
Oh my god.
Because of her fiancé dying four years ago, I gained my sight back.
His death, his eyes, they gave me my life back.
And, in an instant, everything makes sense.
Why I couldn’t stop seeing her.
Why I painted her.
“God, Indy,” I whisper her name like a prayer. “I don’t know what to say.”
Because I don’t. It’s too much to wrap my head around. It feels like some kind of cosmic joke. Like the stars aligned just to fuck with me.
I am in love with her, so damn deep in love with this woman, yet I can’t shake this feeling that I am a part of her pain. I know I didn’t have a role in Adam’s death, but I feel accountable for the agony that’s sliding down her cheeks right now.
“I’m so sorry, Ansel,” she says through another onslaught of tears. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
Sorry? Why is she sorry?
I try to stare deep into her eyes and search for answers, search for what she is thinking and feeling, but she keeps averting her eyes from mine.
Fuck, can she even look at me now without thinking of him? Without it causing her pain?
I see her drawn, defeated shoulders painting a picture of her heart. And in her blue eyes, I see her mind has built new walls with her so lonely, so sad on the other side.
I want to remove those walls, brick by fucking brick, but I know I can’t.
Not when I’m the cause.
“This is so hard,” she whispers. Tears flow unchecked down her cheeks and drip from her chin. She’s too sad to cry out or wail, and she just stands there, still as a statue, while the magnitude of her hurt sweeps over her.
This is so hard. She is in pain right now, and it’s because of me.
My heart feels like it falls out of my fucking chest and onto the floor. I look away, and then I look at her again.
“I’m so sorry, Ansel.” A sob spills from her throat, and she lifts up her hand and swipes the tears away from her cheeks. “I don’t know what to say. It’s just too overwhelming. Too hard. I can’t…”
Too overwhelming. Too hard.
The walls of her apartment are closing in around me, and my heart is pounding so loud in my ears, I can’t hear anything else.
It doesn’t matter how much I love her. Knowing I’m carrying a part of her dead fiancé with me is too hard.
I have to get away from here.
Her tears, her pain, the photograph, the fucking letter… It’s all too much.
I can’t, she said.
“I’m sorry, Indy,” I whisper and set the letter and the photograph on the kitchen counter. “I’m just…so fucking sorry.”
Next thing I know, my feet are moving toward her door.
And I’m opening her door and moving down the hall and to the stairs.
Then, I’m outside. And my feet are pounding against the pavement and my heart is beating so loud it might have actually invaded my skull, and I can’t do anything but keep walking.
When my phone starts ringing in my pocket, I turn the fucker off.
And instead of taking the subway, I hail a cab because I just need to get out of here.
Away from Brooklyn.
Away from the girl who can’t look at me anymore without it causing her pain.
Indy
Before I know it, before I can process what’s happening, the letter and photograph are back on my kitchen counter and my front door is closing.
I call out for him, but Ansel is already gone.
When I open my front door, the cold air of the hallway permeates my bones, and he is already disappearing down the stairs.
I yell for him again, but he doesn’t stop.
My stomach is in my damn feet. My heart is in my throat. Endless tears stream down my face. I rush upstairs to throw on some clothes, any fucking clothes I can find, and I run back downstairs in a panic.
I grab my phone and I call him.
It rings once, twice, three times, then it goes to his voice mail.
I try again, but this time, it just goes straight to voice mail.
Fuck.
I’m out the door again and walking as fast as I can toward the subway station I know he’d have to take to get to the Village.
The wind is so cold, it’s damn near blistering, but I hardly register my pathetic attire of a flimsy sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants.
Time is going too slowly, and I pick up my pace until I’m pretty much sprinting as fast as my legs will take me.
One block. Two blocks. Three blocks.
My lungs burn and my heart is banging against my rib cage, but I just keep going.
When I reach the station, I frantically search for him.
Left. Right. Every-fucking-where.
But he’s nowhere. Just…nowhere.
And when I reach the platform he would take, there is no Ansel to be found.
I try to call him, but it goes straight to voice mail…again.
He doesn’t want to talk to me.
He doesn’t want to be anywhere near me.
A sob escapes my lungs, and I lift my hand to cover my mouth, to try to stop the emotional hurricane threatening to make landfall.
But it doesn’t work.
It’s too much for him. The letter. Adam. It’s all too much for him.
One tiny sob turns into two which turns into three, and then it doesn’t stop.
And within those wretched sobs is the sound of my heart breaking.
Hearts don’t snap like hard pretzels or burst like an overfilled balloon.
No. A heart breaks in the heaving waves of a new reality. A tragic reality that has arrived uninvited. A heart breaks when you’re forced to face the possibility of a life you can’t bear to fathom.
A life without Ansel.
Indy
Seven days have passed, and each day I greet the sun like a climber greets their rope, fingers holding on as tight as fucking possible despite the pain.
But it’s no use.
I’m just a shell of a woman.
I can’t eat. I can’t be awake without thinking of Ansel. And I can’t think about Ansel without crying. It’s a vicious and what feels like infinite cycle of hell.
It’s Friday, and I’ve called off work every day this week.
Canceled all of my after-school music lessons.
Claimed I have the flu.
But, in reality, I have something much worse than the flu.
The flu is awful, but it goes away. Each day, you begin to feel better until, eventually, you’re back to your old self.
But heartbreak does no such thing. It is a never-ending, boundless sadness.
God, the word sad sounds so childish, like something flimsy. Something I should be able to change with a happy thought or a smile. But sad is nothing of the sort. It sits inside your soul like a seed of depression, and with the right conditions, it spreads its roots and chokes the hope out of your heart.
In this sadness, this heartbreak, I can’t see a past or a future. I’m merely living by the moment. And every day is measured from the
second I wake up into this new reality and until my body can no longer take it and sleep lets my weary mind and aching heart rest.
Several knocks to my door and I turn up the television.
What’s on the TV? I don’t have a fucking clue. But whoever is on the other side of the door needs to go away.
Unfortunately for me, whoever it is has a key.
A minute later, my sister’s voice is bellowing from the entryway, and the front door is closing with a resounding click.
“Indy!” she calls again. “Where are you?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I pull a pillow from the couch and put it over my head.
Maybe if she doesn’t see me, she’ll go away.
Her footsteps get closer, and I hold my breath.
But it’s no use.
“Indy, what in the hell are you doing?” she asks, and the pillow is yanked from my hands.
I groan. “Go away, Lil.”
“Good God, this place is a mess.”
I ignore her. Even though I know she’s right. My kitchen and living room are a shrine to barely eaten takeout containers, dirty laundry, and unread mail.
“Fucking hell,” she mutters and starts walking around my apartment, picking up garbage.
“Just go home, Lil,” I say, and she tosses a glare my way.
“Yeah, right,” she retorts. “Like I’m going to leave you like this.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s fine?” Her eyes go wide, and she pointedly looks around my apartment and holds up an old pizza box in her hands. “You sure about that?”
I sigh and avert my gaze back to the television, and Lily continues to clean up my apartment until she appears happy enough to sit down beside me on the couch.
“Have you gone to work this week?”
“No. I haven’t been feeling well. I think I have the flu.”
She snorts. “This isn’t the flu, honey.”
I glare. “It’s the flu.”
“Pretty sure when you say the flu, you really mean heartbreak.”
I roll my eyes. “Why are you here?”
“Because I haven’t heard from you all week, and I was worried.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m fine.”
Lies, it’s all lies coming out of my mouth, but my lies and pretending I’m fine are all I have right now.
“Indy,” she says quietly and wraps her arm around my shoulders until I have no choice but to go into the hug she’s started. I rest my head on her shoulder, and she brushes her fingers gently through my hair. “You’re not fine.”
She’s right. But I don’t have the words to explain just how much I’m not. Wordlessly, I hand her the letter.
Her brow furrows as I hand it to her, and tears are already pricking my eyes thinking about the words, the signature, inside that letter.
“Just read it,” I whisper, and she does.
I’m left to watch her eyes consume the words, moving down, down, down the page, until she reaches the end.
“Oh my god,” she gasps. “That’s…” She pauses and meets my gaze.
“Ansel Bray.”
“Oh my god, Indy.” Tears fill her eyes, and she glances between the letter and me. “I don’t even know what to say. I mean, I thought the first part of this story was a lot to take in. I was even starting to feel like your life was a bit of a fucking mess, but this—” she holds up the letter “—this is nearly unbelievable.”
“Four years ago, Adam dies. And four years ago, Ansel regained his sight,” I whisper for the sole purpose of trying to make myself come to terms with it. “Ansel’s eyes are Adam’s eyes.”
“Ansel’s eyes are Adam’s eyes,” Lily repeats my words. And like a bullet to my gut, it spurs another wave of nausea to hit, and I have to lie back on the couch just to gain my bearings.
Tears fill my eyes, but I blink them away. I’m so fucking tired of crying.
“Have you talked to him?” she asks, and I shake my head.
“He doesn’t want anything to do with me now.”
I silently pray she won’t say his name out loud again. I don’t think I could take it.
“I don’t think that’s true, sweetie.”
“It is,” I retort. “It’s too much for him. And honestly, I can’t even be mad at him. I understand why. But it still doesn’t stop the pain, Lil. And fuck, it hurts so much.”
“I know it does.” She rubs her hand gently on my back. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you need to get out of this apartment.”
“I’m not going anywhere tonight, Lil.”
“Not tonight,” she says. “Tomorrow night.”
“What’s tomorrow night?”
“Shawn Messi is having a party at Ultra for his fortieth birthday.”
Shawn is a popular nightclub owner in NYC and someone my sister has grown to be friends with over the years. Their friendship is merely based off personal gain, though. Where Shawn loves the publicity Lil’s column gives his clubs, my sister loves the VIP access to some of the city’s most popular hot spots.
“That sounds like the exact opposite of what I want to do tomorrow night.”
“Indy,” she whines. “Come on. It’ll be good for you to get out of this apartment for a few hours.”
“Not interested.”
“There will be dancing.”
“No thanks.”
“There will be free alcohol.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Ansel
The music is so loud it makes my skin tingle and my lungs feel like mush. The bass forces my heart to thump in time with its rhythm, and I tip my fourth—or is it fifth?—glass of whiskey back and let the amber liquid flow down my throat.
Over the roar of music, a distant, hazy chatter can be heard, but I can’t make out what’s being said. I look over to see Bram and two of his bandmates—Nix and Lee—standing in the corner of our VIP booth, schmoozing it up with three women. Bram grins, says something, and the women laugh, acting like he’s the most entertaining bastard they’ve ever met.
Fucking groupies.
Fucking Bram.
The bastard barreled into my house this evening on a goddamn mission, asking a hundred questions about why I haven’t been answering my phone for over a week.
Because I don’t fucking want to.
Because I can’t stand to be around anyone or anything.
Because I can’t stop thinking about Indy, and just the thought of her damn near chokes me.
I told him it was because I didn’t feel like talking to him, but he called bullshit and let me know Luce and Nigel have also been trying to reach me.
And my mom too.
Ever since I left Indy’s apartment, since I walked away from her, since I removed myself from her presence so I wouldn’t cause her any more fucking pain, I’ve been a real pathetic asshole.
Instead of forcing my misery on other people, I’ve stayed holed up in my brownstone, alternating my time between my bed and my studio.
Although, even when I’m in my studio, all my fingers seem to want to paint is her.
But my sheets are still covered in her paint, and all my studio does is remind me of her. It’s a fucking disaster.
And now, because of Bram’s fucking insistence, I’m sitting in some nightclub called Until or Ulta, fuck, I can’t remember. All I know is that it’s for some rich guy’s birthday. Apparently, said rich guy owns the joint and wants to spend the whole night flaunting how great he is and how much money he has.
One of the cocktail waitresses sets a fresh glass of whiskey on the table beside my chair, and I don’t hesitate to lift it to my mouth.
Happy birthday to the owner of this club. Cheers to you, you pretentious douchebag. I hope you go bankrupt.
I laugh at my own joke.
“What are you laughing about?” someone purrs into my ear, and I look up to see a blonde with big, fake tits and plastic lips smiling dow
n at me. Her hand is on my shoulder, and she’s rubbing at my skin.
“Nothing,” I respond.
“What?” she asks and flutters her eyelashes. “You don’t want to tell me?”
“Nope.”
She pouts. I look away.
Fucking Bram. I should’ve stayed home.
The only reason he got me out of the house was because he mentioned whiskey.
I figured, what the hell. I’d drink a few and then head home.
Little did I know he was bringing me to the land of annoying music, pretentious assholes, and aggressive-fucking-women who either don’t realize I’m not interested or they don’t care.
“What’s your name?” the woman asks.
“Chuck.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not your name.” She slaps my shoulder on a high-pitched giggle. “You’re Ansel Bray, right?”
“Nope.”
She giggles again. “You’re so funny.”
Funny? This chick has a weird fucking sense of humor.
She takes it upon herself to sit down right beside me on the black pleather couch. If she gets any closer, she’ll be in my fucking lap.
“What are you drinking?” she asks and puts her hand on my thigh.
“Whiskey.”
“Mmmm,” she says through a little moan. “I love whiskey.”
Liar. Only alcoholics or people trying to escape their fucking misery—people like me—like whiskey.
“Good for you.”
She giggles again and reaches across my body, brushing her hand over my chest, and takes my glass from the table. She lifts it to her lips in a dramatic display, takes a drink, and licks her lips.
Immediately, I wave down the cocktail waitress and ask her to bring me another glass.
“Aren’t you going to ask my name?”
“No.”
More giggles.
“It’s Serena, by the way.”
I don’t respond. And, hopefully, in about thirty seconds, I won’t even remember her name.
The cocktail waitress brings me a fresh drink, and I make damn sure it’s out of what’s her name’s reach. I prefer my alcohol devoid of lipstick, desperation, and collagen, thank you very much.
“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” she asks. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind.” She rubs her hand up and down my chest. “I love the broody, mysterious type.”