by Karole Cozzo
They have to count for something; they have to have some power to outshine some darkness. They have to!
Jake hangs his head, chin tucked, and I see his silence as an opportunity.
I stride toward him, grabbing his wrists, ducking down so I can look up at his face. “We’ve put so much time and heart into this,” I remind him. “Don’t give up now.”
Don’t pull the carpet out now. Don’t make me start over again with nothing. You can’t.
He sighs through his nose, his whole body wilting with apparent fatigue. “I’ve been trying, Lys. I really have. You have to know that. You know I’m not just giving up.”
And this time when Jake looks at me, I realize the wall between us has come down, that all this time it was built out of these things he was not saying, and now that he’s saying them, I can see him again. The real him, the person I fell in love with, who hasn’t really come around in a long time. It hurts like hell.
“You have a good heart. You have the best heart,” he whispers. “And you deserve someone who will be able to give you one hundred percent of his heart. One hundred and ten percent.”
With this, the tears come. I struggle to speak through them. “You can’t say things like that. You can’t say things like that and expect me to believe that this is what you want. What I deserve is you!”
Jake doesn’t answer me.
I brush furiously at my tears, the problem-solving part of my nature desperate to find a solution to this. To make this go away.
“Tell me specifically what it is. Tell me what I need to do to make you feel happy again.”
His eyes close. “It’s not like that. It’s not as simple as that.”
“Yes it is,” I insist. My hand finds his cheek. “Talk to me. Tell me what. If you care about me like you say you do, then tell me specifically what would fix this. I’ll do it.”
“I know you would,” he says, gently peeling my hand off his face. “But … I don’t think this can be fixed. I don’t think it can.”
I take the smallest step back. “What does that mean?”
Jake stalls a moment. Then he raises his head and looks me in the eye. “We’re not going to get married like Kallie and Luke. There’s not going to be a fairy-tale wedding. There’s not going to be any wedding.”
His words feel like a bomb launched at my midsection, hitting its mark.
His gaze drops to the open binder on the floor. “Those dreams you have, they’re not going to happen with me. That’s not how this story is going to end for us.” Jake’s face crumbles as he looks back up at me. “I know you want that and I’d do anything in my power to deliver it for you, if it was right. But more and more … I’m just … convinced … it’s not.”
I squint up at him. “Because of me?”
Irritation, or frustration, or something flickers in his eyes. “Not because of you. Because of us.”
“How long have you felt this way? Honestly?”
I have no idea why I’m asking a question I most certainly do not want an answer to. But I can’t stop myself from exacerbating the hurt.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, looking away.
“Yes, you do.”
“There’s not some exact time, Alyssa. I can’t pinpoint it like that.”
“Tell me,” I insist. I step forward and shove at his chest a little bit. “Just tell me.”
Jake backs up into my bookshelf. “You want me to be totally honest with you?” He throws his hands up. “I’ll be totally honest with you.” He takes a quick breath. He shakes his head. “I never really expected this to go past last summer.”
Now I falter backward.
My knees turn to Jell-O. “What?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “The whole reason I was down here last year. It was supposed to be … fun. And it was. It was so much fun being with you.” This time when he looks at me, I swear he looks a little guilty. “Then summer ended, and I was going home, and I sort of thought it would fade out naturally.”
I shake my head, trying to clear it, trying to make any sense out of what he’s saying. “Fade out?”
“But you…,” he continues. “You were so sure about us. You were so passionate about a future, and I … I thought maybe, or, I don’t know.” He exhales a long sigh of frustration and turns back toward me. “Maybe I was wrong, or maybe I was an asshole. But you were like this … butterfly. So lovely and pure and well meaning.” He shakes his head again. “No one would willingly crush a butterfly. And I didn’t have the heart to crush you, your hopes, your faith in us. Even though I sort of knew”—he pauses—“that you probably weren’t the person for me.”
“So you just lied to me for a year?”
“I wanted to believe, too! You’re an awesome person, and when we were apart, it was hard to tell what was what. Distance relationships are hard inevitably. I let myself think maybe, when I came back down here, it might be different. But … it hasn’t happened like that. It’s sort of been the opposite.”
The question is out of my mouth before I can even consider it. “Why am I not good enough for you?”
“For Christ’s sake,” he grouses. “That’s not at all what this is about.”
“It has to be. If I’m not the right girl for you, it’s because you think I’m not good enough for you.”
“Those are two very different things,” he says. It sounds condescending.
“I’m not sure they are,” I counter. “I’ve never been smart enough for you, you think my devotion to this job is silly and unimportant, you think my major is a joke, that I’m too worried about my appearance.” I manage to lift my chin. “You think you’re so damn smart, you’re going on to do such important things, and me … I’m just not good enough to be part of that life.”
His eyes have hardened a bit in response to my little speech. “Don’t do this, Alyssa,” he warns me. “Don’t make it go down this way. It’s the last thing I want.”
“Stop being nice to me!” I shout in response to a new onslaught of tears. Because this is really happening. “You’ve been lying to me all year. Stop trying to be nice about it!”
“I haven’t been lying about caring about you.” He steps toward me. He reaches for me, trying to comfort me. “I do. Please know that I do. I know I’ve acted like a jerk lately, but that was just my frustration with the situation, with holding these things back. It wasn’t you.”
I shield myself with my arms. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you touch me!”
So he stands there, awkwardly, as I hold myself instead, trying to keep from falling over as the tears threaten to take me under. I sob into my hands, body shuddering, shoulder blades jutting painfully against my skin.
I hear him reaching into his pockets, fiddling with his keys. “Maybe I should leave,” he finally murmurs.
I wipe my nose with the back of my shaking hand. “Maybe you should.”
Don’t go. Please God, don’t go.
“I never wanted it to happen like this.”
I stare at him through puffy eyes. “Clearly, you did.”
Don’t go. Then this will be real.
Jake gives me one final sad look. “I’m sorry you’re hurting now.” He drops his head. “I hate that. I really do.”
Then, he actually does it. Jake brushes past me and leaves.
* * *
I DON’T MOVE for ten minutes. I can’t. I stand there like a statue, clutching my ancient, raggedy Cinderella plush with the missing eye. But she brings no comfort this time, and I realize I’m digging my fingernails into her torso.
This hurts too much, I think. I can’t do this.
And suddenly I’m darting out of my bedroom. Maybe he hasn’t even left yet; maybe he’s sitting behind his wheel, rethinking what he did. Maybe …
I fly through my apartment as quickly as I can, wanting to get away from my bedroom, where I swear our heartbreaking exchange is still lingering in the air. Before I close the door behind me, I catch a whiff of Jake�
��s cologne, the kind he’s always worn, and the visceral pain of it pierces my gut. I can’t. I hurry down the hallway.
I stumble down the stairs, looking toward the parking lot through the dark distance, trying to see if his car’s still here. I’ll go to his apartment if I have to, but I really, really hope he’s still here.
I see it! He hasn’t left! Thank goodness.
Then, as I reach the bottom step, I see something that yanks me backward, and I cling to the banister to keep from going forward, to keep from inserting myself into a scene from a movie.
My blood turns to ice within my veins.
I’d just been hoping he was still here.
Be careful what you wish for.
He is in the courtyard, shadowed by the high wall that borders it. I can still see him, though.
And I can still see her. Harper.
There’s a certain intimacy two people have when they’ve shared personal space before. Their bodies come closer together; they’re oriented toward each other a certain way.
I saw it when he helped her in the tunnel, and I saw it when they were talking at the bar. I saw it again and again and told myself I wasn’t seeing anything.
My legs give out, and I collapse onto the step, hands still clinging to the banister like it’s a lifeline. I want to run, I want to close my eyes and erase the sight from my memory, but all I can do is sit there and watch.
Listen. The breeze carries their words in my direction.
“Why didn’t you come over instead?” she asks him, glancing around nervously. “It’s not right being out here.”
“That wasn’t right, either,” he murmurs. “In the same building. With her friends.”
It makes me feel sick, them talking about me.
“And I know I said I would,” he continues, “but I couldn’t tell her the whole story. I just … couldn’t.”
Harper sighs in frustration. “I get it. But she deserves the truth. And I mean … we didn’t do anything. We never did anything. So we wouldn’t feel any worse about it.”
All I hear is “we.”
The word slices me in two.
We.
And if I couldn’t imagine feeling more pain tonight, suddenly I do.
Because I’m staring right at Jake, and he’s not even a bit my Jake anymore. He’s been transformed into a stranger right before my eyes. He’s someone else. He’s we. With her.
There had always been something weird between them, something that made me suspicious, but it was Jake, my boyfriend, and it was scholarly, innocent Harper, and never in a million years would I have actually thought … this. What it was.
I should go out there, I think. I should go out there and let them know I do know, that I did know, and even though they were too chickenshit to tell me, there’s no hiding anymore.
I half stand on rubbery legs, assessing my courage, trying to make myself move forward.
He pulls her into an embrace. His hand goes over the top of her head, gently. He tells her, “I just want this part to be over. It sucks.”
And she hugs him right back. She tightens her arms at the small of his back. I’m pretty sure I used to do the same exact thing. “Things will work out the way they’re supposed to. They will. And it’ll be okay.”
Her nerve! Like it’s that simple. Like I don’t even exist.
My foot hits the concrete. Their heads whip around in unison. Harper actually gasps.
I stare at her. I stare at him. They are still embracing, and the sight of them … Jake … Harper … Jake and Harper … it makes me want to throw up.
I don’t know what I wanted to say, but now all I want to do is go. Go. Go! I turn, retreat up the stairs as fast as my legs will carry me, calves burning, and sprint down my hallway, opening the door and then slamming it behind me. I sink back onto my ankles, face falling into my palms, a tight, frantic sob escaping, giving way to an onslaught.
Through my tears, I see my foot, my stupid crystal sandal. I stare at it, crying ugly tears, chest heaving, sliced in half by the pain of the memory of the first day we met, when he slid the shoe back on my foot and I thought it meant something.
Fool.
Look at me now.
Look at me.
All I’d ever done was try to see the best in people, to treat them with kindness, to believe that in turn, people could all be a little more loving and kinder to one another.
I’d believed in dreams, and happily ever after, and believed that by believing in them, I gave them the power to come true.
And now I am getting punished for it.
Fool. I’m a damn fool. I’m every bit as stupid as the two of them must believe.
I’d tried and tried, done everything in my power to make things work, and it did nothing for me. Except blinding me to the sad truth of what was really going on.
I remove my shoes and toss them out of sight. I cry into my shaking hands, where I stay until the first sign of dawn insinuates its way through my window.
PART II
the beginning
chapter 13
It is two weeks postbreakup, and I am a Hot Mess, capital H, capital M.
It’s to the point I’m not sure if my hermit-like behavior has caused my hermit-like appearance or if my hermit-like appearance has prompted my hermit-like behavior. Regardless, these days, I make a point of avoiding social interaction at all costs.
After toughing out Kallie and Luke’s wedding, solo, in a dress I picked out the night Jake and I broke up, telling lies about his “sudden sickness,” I was spent. Since then, I’ve continued to evade my friends down the hall, despite the fact that in addition to calling and texting, they’ve left small gifts outside my apartment—a bouquet of daisies tied with burlap, a tube of matte lip gloss—and knocked persistently on my door many more times than that. I hide, motionless, on the other side and wait them out.
Their gestures, their gifts, let me know they know. And at one point, the thought occurred to me, What if they knew before? What if Harper had confided in one of them, or all of them, and they’d been in on keeping the secret? What if their gifts were given out of guilt? What if everyone knew what a fool I was while I didn’t?
I can’t stand to face the possibility. I can’t even stand to tell the story of what happened, the true story, not some made-up one, so I dodge them. I show up on set in the nick of time, hiding in my dressing room until I know Chrissi is already in place. I pretend I’m late for dentist appointments that don’t exist, cutting her off at her first attempt at conversation postshift, hurrying away from Rose when she appears in the doorway of their apartment. I take random, out-of-the-way paths through the park and avoid the cafeterias.
Which also serves a dual purpose. Of avoiding Jake and Harper. Possibly together. The mere thought kills my appetite straightaway, anyway, so … no need for the cafeteria.
One day I make up an excuse for visiting HR and peek at their schedules so I have a heads-up on how to avoid them for the week ahead. So with planning, and care, and a little luck, I can avoid people and avoid reality. I throw all my energy into being Cinderella, and I forget about being Alyssa. I mean, her life kinda sucks right now.
It becomes gym, work, gym, sleep. Repeat. I feel like a ghost of the girl I used to be, and my appearance in the mirror reflects that sentiment. Today, after dressing for my morning trip to the gym, the girl I see looking back in the mirror startles me. I’m fully made up and still look awful. A flash of panic makes my heart pound as I remember something. Oh my God. I have look-overs on Monday.
For the first time since I’ve started working at the Enchanted Dominion, I’m not sure if I’ll pass them. Looking at the crown of my head, the line of demarcation is a solid inch and a half past my roots because I haven’t bothered to touch them up since … I can’t remember when. There are a few pimples along my jawline. I still have dark shadows under my eyes, which seem more pronounced because of the weight I’ve lost.
I lift the hem of my shirt and
turn away at the sight of my rib cage. I look downright gaunt, and it’s not a good look. It’s been anything but intentional. I just don’t have much of an appetite these days, and I’m at the gym more than ever simply as a means of filling the hours and staying distracted. I’ve stopped stepping on the scale because I’m afraid its numbers will be really upsetting. I’m supposed to stay thin, but I’m not supposed to be a waif. And I’m scared of what I might hear on Monday, but the thought of eating a cheesecake alone in my apartment is just too depressing.
I grab my gym bag and step away from the mirror. Maybe if I fiddle around with the weight machines today that will be more helpful, a last-ditch effort to add some bulk to my frame. I leave the bedroom, purposely ignoring my poster of Miss Hepburn. I know I’ve let her down.
* * *
IT’S ONLY SIX thirty when I walk into the fitness center. The early morning crowd is a different one from the group I used to work out with, and I prefer it these days. Fewer princesses, less small talk. The Lakeside residents and cast members working out at such an ungodly hour are focused, here to get in and get out before the day actually starts. No one bothers me.
I stick to my plan and head for the weight machines, but very quickly, and very sadly, I realize I don’t have the energy or strength to actually make it work. My triceps and shoulders shake and my hamstrings ache as I try to move the machines, even at the lowest weight setting. Feeling pathetic, I throw in the towel and head back to the trusty row of ellipticals, amping up the resistance as an alternative to the machines.
As I’m programming my workout, from the corner of my eye I see Miller enter the gym. He shrugs out of his sweatshirt and slaps hands with a few of the guys congregated in the weight area. I notice him noticing me, feel the weight of his eyes upon me as his gaze lingers, and I angle my face away from him, furrowing my brow in put-on concentration as I push the buttons. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him here during my early morning stints, and it’s not the first time I’ve done everything in my power to avoid him. My attempt at a happy facade would be weak, and I have this sense he’d see through it. Shoving my earbuds in, I turn the volume all the way up and force my weak body into motion.