The Truth About Heartbreak

by Celeste, B.

  But I can’t.

  Stepping away from his touch, I blink past his blurry figure. “But you’ll always be mine, Everett.”

  Because you love her.

  His throat bobs and brows pinch in as he takes me in. My heart hurts on a whole different level right now and I worry it might shatter me completely. Art can’t fix what we’ve broken.

  “I see.” He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his navy slacks and it’s a bad time to notice how good he looks, but he does. He looks amazing. All business. Sexy and sinful, with his muscular body filling out his work attire. I think he works out more than he ever has before, and I wonder if it’s his way of coping like painting is mine.

  It makes this hurt more.

  “You should go.” My traitorous voice cracks, revealing how much this hurts me. If he thinks I’m doing this because I want to, he knows the difference now.

  I’m doing this because I have to.

  For the both of us.

  He doesn’t say one word as he turns on his heel and walks out. He doesn’t slam open the door or bang it closed. Externally, he’s poised, together, calm. Internally, I know him better than that. He’s facing as much turmoil as me; burning, breaking, pleading.

  When he’s finally gone, I allow myself to speak the words he didn’t need to hear. “I miss you, too.”

  20

  Everett / 27

  I’ve learned how to absorb a lot of blows in life, but River may just be delivering the hits that take me down for good. I was too young to remember my parents’ death, and only have Granddad’s passing to compare it to. Because that’s what losing River will feel like; death.

  She may not know it, but she’s been the one consistent thing in my life for years. The only other person who comes close to that is Oliver, but he doesn’t even surpass his little sister’s place in my life. And that’s the fucking problem.

  I can respect River’s choice to push me away. A long time ago she asked me if I rejected her because of my friendship with Oliver, and while I told her that wasn’t completely the reason, it was a big portion. We’re all friends, and anything between us could risk that dynamic. But something already happened, and there’s no fucking way I can forget it. Even if she wishes I would.

  Nineteen days without a single word spoken between us felt like three weeks without everything that’s essential to me—sun, water, oxygen. It’s cheesy as hell acknowledging that the only decent thing in my life is her, but it’s true. Issy can give me her body, her opinion, and her attitude, but not even she can give me her heart. I think she’s stopped trying. Deep down, she knows I don’t want it.

  We’ve been together nearly ten years, and neither of us can move forward. Three years ago, I almost bought her a ring. Two years ago, I almost let Margaret give me her old wedding band to give to her. One year ago, I wondered what the hell I’m doing with my life for the millionth time.

  I haven’t thought anything like that so whole-heartedly again until nineteen days ago when I met River James at the Landmark Café. Her usual lavender tea sat in front of her with a chocolate scone on a plate left untouched. She got it for us to split. It was supposed to be an innocent meeting—two people catching up.

  River left with Stephanie Malone over the Christmas holidays, leaving me without air for over two months. It left me worried, despite her being tagged in photos of the grown women smiling and playing tourist at the usual landmarks; the Hollywood stars, the Hollywood sign, Warner Bros. Studio. Realistically, I knew she was fine. But no amount of reassuring texts or photos could make me believe it until she was back.

  Subconsciously, I was more worried she wouldn’t return after getting a taste of freedom. But she did. Because, like she always says, Bridgeport is her home.

  We sat at the café for three hours while she told me all about her trip. Where she stayed, what she ate, the places Stephanie dragged her to. She said it was fun, but she missed us. Missed me.

  Despite how that night ended, in a tangle of tongues and limbs, I know she still feels the same way. She didn’t have to say it back when I told her how much I missed her, I saw it in her glassy eyes as she fought with herself. Do I or don’t I. She chose not to feed the growing tension, but I heard her heart, felt it beat wildly when her chest was pressed against mine.

  That day at the café, I’d given her a present. A welcome home gift, I told her. But really, I just wanted to buy her something special. I’ve given her things during the holidays and birthdays, I still sneak candy to her when she least expects it because I know she’s still obsessed with M&M’s, but I couldn’t resist buying her a new charm for her necklace when I saw it in the jewelry store’s window in town.

  The charm is silver like her other one and the chain, but this one signifies more than she can ever know. Next to the paint brush and painter’s pallet I know rest between her breasts is a broken heart, split right down the middle with a jagged line.

  My heart. Because this is as close as I can ever get to giving it to her.

  I took it off her that night.

  Nothing but skin. That’s what I needed between us. Not the necklace, not the memory of our youth, just bare warmth. And I saw the silver chain still hanging around her neck yesterday at the studio, which only cements what I already know.

  River James will always be mine, even if she doesn’t want to be. Even if she can’t be.

  So, no. I don’t blame her for what she said. I don’t blame her for one goddamn thing. The night we shared was one of the most consuming experiences in my life, like two halves of a whole finally forming for the first time. She can live in her make-believe world where she pretends it never happened, where I was never inside of her. But in the real world, the memory of her calling out my name and tightening around me is burned into my brain for all of eternity.

  I’ll have River James.

  Even if it completely ends me.

  Over a week after the encounter with River at Painter’s Choice, I walk into my apartment a little before ten o’clock to see Issy waiting for me. She’s sitting in her usual skimpy pale pink pajama set at the small table offset by the kitchen, a cup of hot water with lemon steaming in front of her. It helps her sleep.

  Dropping my keys onto the counter and peeling off my itchy blazer, I walk over to the sink and fill a glass of water. She hasn’t greeted me, I haven’t greeted her. I know something’s wrong.

  When I take a seat beside her, she finally looks at me. I’m surprised to meet hollow eyes that are usually full of sass and attitude. Isabel’s face is bare like it usually is before bed, but she looks ghostly.

  My throat tightens when I swallow, and I wonder if she can hear my heart.

  “You okay?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady.

  Say yes.

  Isabel has gone through just as much hell as me over the years, probably more. After she got a degree in fashion design, she interned for a local artist specializing in custom attire made for Broadway shows. The business was shut down for some embezzlement scheme and she lost her credentials. After working for her father as a secretary for a year, she found a job similar to the one she interned for in the town over. But that’s not what makes me respect her.

  She can face the deepest pit and still come out alive, climbing, fighting, and doing what it takes to survive. That’s the way Issy’s always been. It’s why we always find our way back to each other when we separated. It’s why I made the promise to her after what we lost.

  I’ll always be here for you, Issy.

  I never go back on my promises.

  But sometimes … fuck, sometimes I wish I could. Because the tension that rises whenever we’re in the same room with our clothes on transpires into something darker and painful when those clothes are off. We connect physically, sometimes mentally in our endeavors, but never emotionally.

  “You’ve been working late,” she comments quietly, her fingers lifting the teacup to her lips. Their natural rosy pink color looks lighter, paler. />
  “Robert’s deal with Steinburg, Inc. went through a few days ago, so we’re swamped sorting through the paperwork and making sure the proper forms are signed.” It’s a big deal for JT Corporations to have one of the largest pharmaceutical companies linked to us. It means triple the funding, and more chances for raises and promotions.

  She nods once, setting the cup down on a coaster. I think it’s stupid we have them. Who cares if the furniture gets marked? It’s mine anyway, not hers. But she likes them, so I don’t verbalize my distaste. I have no right.

  Clearing my throat, I stare at my untouched water. I’m parched for reasons I can’t think about now. Not when I’m looking at the woman I broke in more ways than one.

  “Where do you go?” she finally asks.

  “When?”

  Her shoulders rise. “When you’re here but not here. You’re just … gone. I don’t even remember how long it’s been like that.”

  I don’t answer her.

  Her eyes lock on mine. “Aren’t you going to say something? Anything?”

  My dry lips part, then close.

  She grips her cup a little too tightly. “I always do the talking for us and I know you hate it. You hate a lot of things, Everett. But I’ve tried over and over again and why? What’s the point?”

  “I don’t know what—”

  She holds up her hand. “All I want is to see you put effort into our relationship like you used to. Remember when you’d take me out on dates? When you’d pick me up flowers or chocolates or presents? That stuff is nice. It’s what boyfriends do for their girlfriends.”

  Swiping my palm down my clean-shaven jaw, I let out a soft exhale. “I’ve been so busy with work and the fire department that I haven’t been giving you enough attention. I’m sorry.”

  Her jaw ticks. “Believe it or not, I don’t always expect attention. Just something to make me believe that you’re here for a reason. Hell, that you’re here at all.”

  Anger bubbles in my veins. “I am.”

  She glances away, lips pressed in a firm line as she contemplates something. “You were at the fire station the past few weeks, right? Like last week? You were helping Steve train the newbies.”

  “For a while, yeah.” I only spent about forty minutes there last week before leaving for the studio because Steve had it handled and two of the trainees didn’t even show up. We weren’t both needed there for what little was left to be done.

  The fire department became my home away from home shortly after Granddad’s cabin caught fire from faulty wiring a few years back. Thankfully, not much damage was done. But the more I spoke to the chief, the more interested I was in volunteering. Now I’m there at least once a week, sometimes more, depending on what’s going on at work … and home.

  Her head tips once. “Good.”

  I don’t say anything.

  She closes her eyes and grabs the cup, finishing off her drink. “Sometimes I wish you would just explode whenever I tell you off. Get angry, Rhett. When you just sit there and take it … it makes me feel …”

  “It makes you feel what, Isabel?”

  She just shrugs.

  “Why do you want me to get pissed?” I doubt quietly. “What the hell will that do for us? Nothing will change if all we do is argue.”

  Her lips twitch, then flatten. “Nothing is changing now when we’re not. We’re stuck in the stupid cycle like we have been since—”

  “Don’t,” I crack.

  Her eyes narrow. “Is that what it’ll take? Reminding you that we screwed up? That we’re never going to be whole? You know why I want you pissed, Everett? Because then I’ll know you care. That you feel something.”

  Once again, I’m silent. Not to piss her off, but because I’m afraid of what will leave my mouth if I open my lips. The truth lingers in the pit of my chest, straining to break free from the cage it’s locked in. I’m in a deeper part of hell than Lucifer, but I can hear his satanic laugh.

  She pushes off the table. “Why doesn’t anything I say make you react anymore?”

  Finally, I say, “They’re just words.”

  She shakes her head, moving away from me and toward the bedroom. “Well you should really think about that, Everett. Because they shouldn’t just be anything.”

  Raking my fingers through my hair, I rest my elbows on the edge of the table.

  “I’ll pick up dinner tomorrow,” I offer weakly, knowing damn well it’s too late to make amends for everything. For us. For years worth of bullshit. For not being able to feel anything for her despite what I’ve put her through.

  “Don’t bother.”

  Our bedroom door clicks closed and the soft sound of the lock turning crushes any ounce of hope I had left for some form of relationship with the woman behind the oak wood.

  I set up the couch with a pillow and blanket and fall asleep to the utter silence of the apartment.

  21

  River / 23

  Oliver is always a welcome face to see. When he went off to Penn State for college, I missed him like crazy around the house. When he’d come home for breaks, I would run into his arms at full speed. Now he visits once or twice a month since he lives a few cities over with a girl none of us have met. It makes his visits that much more exciting. He catches me when I throw myself at him, grunting but still spinning me around in circles.

  “You’re not as light as you were, Riv.”

  Frowning and brushing my frizzy red hair behind my ear, I peer down at myself. “Are you calling me fat?”

  When I was thirteen, I barely weighed one hundred pounds. All my bones stuck out because I’d been starved at my last home. Hell, at most of my foster homes. It wasn’t until my first physical that Bridgette took me to shortly after my fourteenth birthday that the doctors discovered just how brutally I’d been treated. I made Bridgette stay in the room with me, where she held my hand and held back tears when she saw the truth hiding beneath my clothes.

  Not just my malnutrition, not just my scars, but the misshapen formation of my bones where they’d been struck, broken, and apparently healed wrong—the dips of my ribcage that belts and fists and other objects hit and cracked and broke. Bridgette learned the truth that day, saw it for her own eyes. And she didn’t see me as some broken, hideous monster like I was afraid she would. She cried for me, for not being able to stop it from happening. The tears she shed were for the present and the future, where I would never have to worry about another mark again.

  And for the first time ever, I cried in front of not only her, but the doctor. She promised I wouldn’t have to talk about it to anyone unless I wanted to, which is another reason therapy didn’t work. I never spoke a word to the professionals.

  My body will always hold the marks, although some are faded, but I don’t look the same despite them.

  Oliver rolls his dark eyes playfully. “You’re the farthest thing from fat, River.”

  I give him a tiny smile.

  Bridgette and Robert come into the room next and greet him with big hugs and bigger smiles. It gives me time to really look him over. His dark hair is chopped short and professional looking, but his style hasn’t changed. He’s sporting jeans and a black long sleeve shirt and a pair of gray Converse I think he’s had for at least four years now. Maybe he wears business attire at his job, some tech company, but I doubt it. Oliver isn’t anything like Robert. He tried working for his father, but it only lasted a month before he accepted a job that led him to where he is now.

  To my surprise, he’s got dark scruff lining his jaw that matches the color of his dark brown hair. It looks weirdly good on him, especially when he smiles, and his right dimple pops out. He’s happy, which makes me happy.

  Bridgette keeps hounding me for answers on his girlfriend because she thinks he’s told me about her. I don’t even know her name, just that she’s pretty and works at the company with him. Over the years if he was catching up with Tommy and Quinn, his old high school buddies, they would brag about all the gir
ls they’ve hooked up with. He was no different, but he would always give them a scathing glare if I was within hearing distance. I would always ask him for the most details, which riled his friends up and earned me a narrowed eye from him. For someone who constantly brags about the notches in his bedpost, he sure doesn’t like talking about the details.

  Darlene still cooks for the James’ part time, so she prepared a big dinner for Oliver. He says he has big news to share with us, so I thought he was bringing his girlfriend home to introduce her to the family. I guess I’m sort of still a hopeless romantic despite my poor taste in men.

  Internally, I cringe.

  Everett isn’t a bad person, but what transpired between us is horrible. It grates on me that I still have feelings for him that tingle and flutter if he’s around or if someone says his name. I tell myself it’s my body’s way of remembering what transpired between us, a natural reaction.

  But it’s not.

  I want to tell someone. Steph would die if she heard what I did. Not just because she used to have a crush on Everett, one that lasted until he graduated and it was “out of sight, out of mind” for her, but because I’m not this person. Well, I guess I am. But I’m the last person she would expect to do something so drastic.

  I can picture it now, the twenty questions. After Asher, she asked me things that made my face set on fire. Not from the memories of our time together like how I feel thinking about Everett and me, but because I was embarrassed and ashamed.

  “How big was he?”

  “What did he do to prep you?”

  “Who was on top?”

  Those were G rated questions compared to what she would ask now. Over the summer, I experienced grown up Stephanie in full force. Like when an L.A. native asked me out to coffee and offered to show me around the city and Steph practically shoved me at him and told me to tell her what kind of package he carried. I’m so inexperienced that I legitimately thought she was talking about an actual package.