Playing With Her Heart

by Lauren Blakely

  “I know,” I say with a heavy sigh.

  “Why don’t we go somewhere and get a drink?”

  “I cannot think of a better thing to do right now. I need a whole fucking bottle, in fact.”

  “Then a bottle it is.” She leans forward and gives the driver the address of a bar a few blocks away. Then to me, “Good thing I know all the best places in Manhattan for drinking and eating. This is the perfect spot to forget about a girl. Want me to call Clay to join us?”

  “Let’s make it a party,” I say dryly, and she calls Clay and tells him his presence is required.

  Soon we pull up to The Last Stand on Lexington, and the name is apropos. I toss my bow tie and jacket on the seat of the car, unbutton the top two buttons on my shirt and head inside with my sister.

  The Last Stand is like a railroad apartment, long, narrow, and all bar. There are no cozy booths for intimate encounters, or low-lit nooks where you’d take someone you’d want to touch under the table. This watering hole has one purpose—to get smashed.

  “Glenlivet?” Michele asks.

  “Fuck Glenlivet. I’ll take a Macallan tonight.” I don’t need anything to remind me of her.

  Clay joins us, and it feels right to be with these two people right now. People I know, people I trust. Soon, I’ve downed my third glass and my head is feeling fuzzy, and the vise around my heart is starting to loosen as we drink and talk about everything except show business.

  At two in the morning, the bartender says it’s last call and far be it from me to deny The Last Stand another chance to pour another drink. We finish off a final round, and stumble out into the middle of the night.

  “You guys take my car uptown. I’m going to take the subway.”

  Michele raises an eyebrow. “In your state?”

  “The subway was made for times like this.”

  On the train, there’s a woman in a nurse’s uniform dozing off a few seats away, a hipster in a hoodie listening to music on his phone, and a skinny guy weaving down the car who’s probably had more drinks than me. I slump down in my seat, the guy in the tux who spoke at the Plaza, who dedicated a song to an actress.

  Who’s heading home well past midnight, in a lonely subway car.

  * * *

  Jill

  It’s better this way. It’s better this way. It’s better this way.

  I repeat that all night long as I sleep fitfully. I say it over and over in the morning as I run along the West Side Bike Path. I mutter it under my breath as I head over to Central Park.

  This is who I am. I am a girl who runs, and today some of the ladies I coach are running a half-marathon so I am here to cheer them on. I blot out the fact that they didn’t expect to see me at the finish line. That I told them I had an event the night before but would be rooting for them from far away. But this is where I should be because there’s no room in my life for anything more. There’s no room in my heart for Davis, or Patrick, or anyone.

  My fate was sealed long ago, and I’m better off this way. When I am alone I can’t hurt someone again. As the first of my gals cross the finish line, I raise an arm in the air and cheer wildly, as loud as I possibly can. I jump up and down to prove how goddamn happy I am. She sees me and smiles broadly.

  “You did it!”

  She jogs over to me and collapses into my arms, and I hug her.

  “I’m so happy for you,” I say, because I am. I am happy, I am happy, I am happy.

  This is my life. This is safe. Running.

  But after they’ve all crossed the finish line, and celebrated, and had their pictures taken, and high-fived each other, they disperse. Heading home to families. Heading elsewhere. And I am where I’ve always been.

  Alone, with this bruised and worn-out heart of mine.

  I leave the park, and though I’m tempted to walk past The Plaza, what would be the point? I can’t have him, I can’t have us, and I can’t bear the reminder so I walk down Broadway, thinking that I could get lost in the theater district, that I could buy a ticket, catch a matinee, and let myself believe that the razzle dazzle of Chicago or the underground lake in Phantom could take all my cares away. So I make a go of it. I head for the scene of the crime and buy a nosebleed seat for the matinee of Wicked at the Gershwin Theater and settle in to watch the witch fly across the stage and fall in love with the hot guy, but remain misunderstood even through the end.

  For a few hours, I forget about the past. But when the curtain rises and the actors take their bows, I am reminded that I’ve been there, done that, and still have the empty space in my chest to prove that my tricks and techniques don’t always work. I leave and wander downtown.

  I check my phone once, but he hasn’t called, and he hasn’t texted. Not that I expected either. He’s not a texter, and I don’t deserve a call.

  I don’t deserve him.

  There is nothing left to save me from what I did, and maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow I’ll man up and say I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to say anything more than that. Since I can’t have him.

  I return to my apartment. It’s early evening now and Kat is curled up on the couch watching You’ve Got Mail, one of her favorite movies ever. One she made me watch a year ago, and I fell in love with too.

  “Bryan’s out of town for the weekend,” she says, patting the couch. “Come join me.”

  I shake my head. “I’m tired.”

  She hits pause on the laptop, and eyes me up and down, taking in my fleece jacket and running pants. It occurs to me that I went to the theater dressed like this. It also occurs to me that I don’t care.

  “Have you been running all day long?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Hey, you don’t seem like yourself. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you, Jill. Did something happen with Davis at the gala last night?”

  I flinch, but then turn stoic. “No. Nothing happened. It was fine. We had a fine time. I’m beat though. I need to go nap.”

  I don’t nap. I shower, put on pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, and settle into my room. I read Aaron’s last letter again and again, and I watch a video where the woman my brother loves shares her whole heart on TV. And I wish I could find a way to be like her. But that’s not a choice I have.

  CHAPTER 21

  Davis

  The punching bag swings wildly after my final hit. I’ve been pummeling it for the last hour, but as I unwrap my hands, zip up my sweatshirt, and leave the gym, I feel as if I’m the one who’s been pummeled.

  I’ve somehow made it through the day though, and each one that follows will be easier. I return to my loft, strip off my gym clothes and take a long, hot shower, washing away the remains of the day.

  I pull on jeans and a casual button down, but don’t tuck it in, then find my phone and dial the nearby Chinese takeout. I place an order, but when I hang up something feels eerily familiar and I can’t quite place it. I furrow my brow, trying to pull the memory to the surface. Then it’s there as I flash back to a few nights ago. When Jill said Chinese takeout was her favorite food. When she also said she thought about us so much it scared her. Then I remember last night on the dance floor when she very nearly told me how she felt.

  “Do you think everyone knows?”

  “Knows what?”

  “How we feel.”

  Those words echo loudly, clanging in my head, reverberating around my whole apartment. Like neon lights blaring on. Like a goddamn marquee in Times Square. The sign that was in front of me the whole time, but I didn’t see it until now.

  We.

  How we feel.

  I rewind the night once more to be sure, replaying every moment with her, every word, every second. Then further, back to the diner when she told me she wasn’t going to spend time with Patrick anymore, then to the restaurant when she told me about the last guy she was with.

  How she hurt him.

  I’ve always sensed she’s hiding something, h
iding her true self. I’ve always believed she wants to be seen, wants to be understood, wants to be known. And now, twenty-four hours after she ran away from me, my gut is finally talking to me and it’s telling me loud and clear there’s something else going on.

  I’ve always known when she’s acting. She wasn’t acting with me.

  Jill wasn’t using me, I was never a career move for her, and Michele’s advice isn’t the reason she took off last night. When she bolted it wasn’t about me, or us, or what’s been happening over the last several weeks. It was something that goes back much further for her. It’s about her, and it’s about why she hasn’t been close to anyone in a long time.

  Whatever it is, I’m not walking away without understanding her.

  I reach for my wallet, slip on a pair of shoes and grab a jacket. Then I leave, and hail a cab. On the way, I call the Chinese takeout and cancel my order. I don’t call Jill because I don’t want to talk to her on the phone. I want to see her in person.

  Soon, the taxi pulls up to her building in Chelsea, and I’m at the door in seconds, pressing the buzzer.

  “Hello?”

  It’s not Jill’s voice.

  “Hi. I’m looking for Jill. This is Davis –”

  But I don’t even finish. I’m already buzzed up as a voice calls out through the speaker, “Second floor.” I head up the concrete steps, my shoes echoing in the stairwell. I reach the second floor, and I realize I don’t know the number of her apartment, but I don’t need it. There’s a woman with light brown hair holding open a yellow door.

  “I’m Kat,” she says and extends a hand, and it’s weird that we’re shaking hands at a time like this. But formalities still exist even when the woman you love is running from the world.

  “Davis Milo,” I say. “But you knew that, evidently.”

  “I had a feeling you might be coming. Come in.” She ushers me inside and it’s strange to get a glimpse of Jill’s life and where she lives, and immediately I survey the living room with its old beaten up couch, a coffee table with a silver laptop on it, several necklaces, and a vase of flowers. There are framed posters on the wall of Paris and a photograph of the first woman to run the Boston Marathon.

  “She’s kind of a wreck right now,” Kat adds, then gestures for me to follow her down the hall. “She didn’t really feel like talking to me. But I have a feeling she probably wants to see you.”

  I stop walking. “Really?”

  Kat nods. “She likes you. A lot. And I’ve never seen her like this. She’s usually the happiest person in the world.”

  I nod, but say nothing. Because she can be the happiest person, and she can also be the saddest.

  Kat knocks on the door to Jill’s room, and I wait, more nervous than I’ve ever been. Because I don’t know what to expect.

  “Come in.” Her voice is empty, devoid of any emotion.

  Kat opens the door, lets me in, and closes it behind me, leaving us alone.

  Jill’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail and her face is scrubbed free of makeup. She’s clutching a letter in one hand and her phone in the other as she watches a video. Next to her on the red comforter is a brown box that’s been opened and looks to hold mementos, photos and letters.

  “You’re here,” she says in a monotone.

  “I’m here,” I say, and I have no idea if she wants me to stay or to go.

  “My brother’s coming to town tomorrow,” she says in the same dead voice.

  “Yeah?”

  I lean against the closed door. I haven’t been invited in technically so I don’t want to sit next to her, even though all I want is to be with her.

  She nods, staring at the screen on the phone. “Have you seen this video?” She doesn’t look up at me.

  “What’s the video?” I ask, playing along, even though I really want to ask what the fuck is wrong, and why she ran out, and when’s she going to tell me what the hell is going on in her head. But the moment is a delicate one, and she’s not even truly present. She’s someplace else, and I have to find a way to bring her back.

  “My brother. Well, his girlfriend. She was on the Helen show a couple months ago.” Then she plays the video on the phone and I hear the talk show host saying in an affable, friendly voice, “I can’t imagine you’ve had any trouble finding takers though. So where do we stand in your quest? You’ve been dating JP and Craig and this guy Chris, but we never saw the video from that date. Are you really going to go through with this? Are you going to walk down the aisle?”

  There’s silence from the woman in the green shirt sitting next to Helen, so the host continues. “What I really want to say is can I help you pick out your dress? Maybe help you get a tiara for your hair, a little princess crown or something? And maybe we can schedule your wedding to the Trophy Husband winner to air on TV too?”

  Jill stops the video, but she still doesn’t look at me. “They’re happy,” she says in a barren voice. “He’s so happy with McKenna. And Reeve is with Sutton. And then, look at Kat. She’s so happy it’s like she has extra servings.”

  She lifts her eyes to me, and I’m jolted. I’ve never seen her so heartbroken. Even in all the scenes she’s played where Ava is bereft, she has never looked this ruined. My heart pounds with the fear that I’ve lost her. That she’s completely slipping away. Still, I have to ask.

  “Are you happy?” I brace myself for whatever she might answer. “Were you happy?”

  She just shrugs, jutting up her shoulders. Then she tosses the phone on the cover of her bed and grips the letter tighter. “How can I be? I can’t be happy. I can’t be happy because of this. Don’t you understand? Don’t you get it? It’s not possible. I can’t have this,” she says, gesturing from her to me, the look in her beautiful eyes so immensely sad. This isn’t the woman I know. But this is the woman I fell in love with, and I want to do everything I can for her.

  “Can’t have what, Jill?” I take a tentative step toward her bed, and when she doesn’t recoil, I take another step, then sit down on the corner of her bed.

  “This. You. Us.” She says each word like she’s biting off something bitter.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m damaged. Because I’m broken. Because nothing good can come from being with me,” she says, and now her voice is breaking, and tears well up in her eyes. She thrusts the note at me.

  “Do you want me to read it?” I ask her, carefully.

  “Yes.”

  I unfold the note, well-worn over the years with tattered edges, and thinning paper. It’s a short note, on a sheet of lined notebook paper, written in blue ink with slanted, choppy handwriting.

  Dear Jill,

  I guess I always knew I loved you more. Somehow, I knew I loved you more than you’d ever love me. But I learned to live with it. I was OK with it just to be with this girl I was crazy about. And then you broke my fucking heart when you left me. You just ripped me apart and for no good reason. I don’t get it. I’ve tried everything to get you back, and all you do is tell me to leave you alone. You tell me to stop calling, stop talking to you. Well, you’ll get what you want now. You’ll get everything you ever wanted, and all I ever wanted was you. I can’t imagine being without you, but I am, so I’ll stop imagining.

  I’m outta here.

  Aaron

  In an instant, I understand everything about her.

  Jill

  Nothing hurts anymore. Because I won’t let it. I can’t let it. I can’t stand feeling.

  But then he lays the letter on the bed and looks at me with such care in his eyes.

  “Jill,” he says, softly. “It’s not your fault.”

  “IT. IS.” I shout at him. I push my hands into my hair, holding tight and hard to my scalp. “It is my fault. It’s there. In writing. In black and white. Letters don’t lie. I got this after the funeral. One day later in the mail. I had sat there in the cemetery, my brothers next to me, my
parents there. We all knew him. He was my high school boyfriend, and he killed himself. Because of me.”

  “It’s terrible, and it’s tragic, and I’m so sorry he made that choice, and I’m sorry for him, and for his family to have to live with that. But you didn’t cause it.”

  “But I did! He said I did! I broke up with him three months before it happened. Because I didn’t love him,” I say, and hold my hands out wide, balling my fists in my frustration. With myself. “That was the problem. If I had loved him like he loved me, this would never have happened. But I didn’t feel the same things for him that he felt for me. And I ended it, but he kept coming round, and he got crazier and needier, telling me he couldn’t live without me, and he would track me down after school, and he would find me after cross country. And I kept pushing him away. I even met him down at the bridge in Prospect Park to ask him to please stop. But he wouldn’t. He kept showing up. And he started freaking me out so I went to tell his parents. I told them what he was doing, and the things he was saying, and how scared I was for him,” I say, and there are potholes in my voice as I recount the story, the day I will never forget from the very beginning.

  Aaron had left me another note, and the tone had grown more desperate, ending with the line I don’t know what I have to do for you to love me again…

  Those words had sent a ripple of fear through me when I found the slip of paper in my locker in the morning. My hands shook as I read the note, and my heart beat wildly out of control with worry, like a deer trying to cross a congested highway, not knowing which way to go. The bell had rung for first period, but I stayed frozen in place, my mind racing with what to do next. As the halls thinned, I turned on my heels and headed straight for the guidance counselor’s office. Because that’s what you’re taught to do. Say something. But she was out sick that day, so I tried another option. When he was at swim practice after school, I walked to his house, knocked with nervous fingers, took a terrified breath and then stepped inside when his parents answered the door.

  I tried to explain what was going on. But I didn’t even truly know what was going on. Aaron had never threatened to take his life. He’d never hinted that he’d had enough of this world. But his behavior had grown so erratic, so confusing, that I had to let someone know about the notes, about the calls, about the desperate ways he kept trying to get my attention.