Playing With Her Heart

by Lauren Blakely

  “I’m worried about him,” I said in a small voice as I picked at the worn cuticles on my hand. “I don’t know what’s going on, but he doesn’t seem like himself.”

  His mom gave me a sympathetic smile, as if I were overreacting.

  Now, I look at Davis, and he’s listening, patiently letting me tell the story. “And you know what they said when I told them that?”

  He shakes his head. “No, what did they say?”

  I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I’ve never said these words out loud. They’ve been buried so deep inside me I don’t know that I can exhume them because I’ve never told anyone what I said to Aaron’s parents. That I warned them. That I was terrified he was depressed and would do something to hurt himself. That he needed help. That he needed someone to talk to. “They said he was just a heartbroken teen.” I press my lips together trying to stem the tears that threaten to break. The lump in my throat. The stinging in my eyes. “That’s what they said. That he was just still wrecked over me. And that he’d be fine. And then, three days later, he took an overdose of pills.”

  “Oh, Jill. I’m so sorry for your friend,” he says, and he reaches across the bed, but doesn’t take my hand. Just rests his near mine. All he wants is to comfort me, but I don’t deserve it. I swipe a hand across my cheek.

  “He’s gone. He’s gone because I didn’t love him enough.”

  “No,” Davis says firmly. “No. That’s not why he’s gone. He’s gone because he had an illness. He’s gone because he needed help and he didn’t get it. He’s gone because there were other things at play in his head, and in his heart. He’s not gone because of you. You did everything you could.”

  “But it wasn’t enough!” I shout, and slam my fist into the bed. Then in a low voice, laced with pain. “It wasn’t enough.”

  He inches closer. “And it might not ever have been enough. You might have knocked on their door every day. You might have warned them every day. And it still might have happened. But you told them. You did what you were supposed to do. And I’m not blaming them, no one’s to blame. But you tried and they didn’t see what was happening, and even if they did they might not have been able to stop it. That’s the absolute fucking tragedy of all of this. That far too many people feel things only inside themselves,” he says, and he taps on his chest to make his point. “And they don’t tell anyone. They don’t share. He was going through something awful in his head and his heart and he didn’t know what to do. And now you are. And you’ve been beating yourself up for years over this, haven’t you?”

  I sigh, a long, low keening sigh full of years of regret. “Yes,” I whisper.

  “But you have to let it go. You have to move on.” He reaches for my hand, and I hate and I love that contact from him is what I need. I hate it because I can’t rely on anyone. And I love it because I want to rely on him. I let him take my hand and when he does, I don’t feel numb anymore. I scoot forward and throw my arms around him, bury my head in his chest, and let all the unshed tears fall, until his shirt is streaked with my regret.

  “You have to forgive yourself,” he whispers as he holds me tight, rocking me gently. “Life is tragic. I know that firsthand. But things happen. And this happened. And all you can do is keep on living, because you did do everything you could. And sometimes everything you can do still isn’t enough, but that’s life. And that’s death. And that’s the way it is.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, as if I can hold in the one thing that’s still gnawing away at my heart. “But what if I can’t love you like that? What if I can’t love you enough? What if it happens again?”

  He places his fingers under my chin and makes me look at him. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, the slightest trace of a smile on his face. “Jill, when I said I can’t imagine being without you, it’s a figure of speech. It’s because I don’t want to be without you. It’s not because I’m going to kill myself if I can’t. I like myself too much. Trust me, I won’t go quietly from this lifetime. I will be kicking and screaming. I will be fighting and working and loving until my last dying day. I want you, and I want you to be mine. But you have to know I only want you if I can have you, all of you. I want your body, and I want your heart, and I want your mind, and I hope you feel the same,” he says, then takes a beat to make sure I’m still here, still listening.

  I meet his gaze head on, and he keeps going. “But if you don’t, I will survive, and I will keep on living. You don’t have to put me on a pedestal and love me from afar like you did with Patrick so you wouldn’t get hurt, and so you wouldn’t hurt somebody,” he says to me in the most tender gentle voice. But one that cuts through all my defenses and walls. One that understands deeply how I’ve lived my life for six years. I’ve never told a soul why I thought I loved Patrick, and yet he understands, because he knows me better than anyone ever has. “Because we will hurt each other, and we will fight, and we will argue. And sometimes it’ll be less than perfect. But it’ll be real. Every second of it will be completely real.”

  Real.

  That word echoes in my mind, and in my body, and all the way through to my heart. To my frozen, make believe heart that’s been on standstill for six long years. That’s been protecting me, and saving me from the possibility of heartbreak, the possibility of pain. But Davis is right. I did everything I could, and I can’t keep punishing myself by living a life of make believe. I might do it on stage, but I don’t want that when the curtain falls. I want a real life, and real love, and real pain.

  I fidget with the collar on his shirt then play with top button. I am all nerves, but also determination, as I let go and place my hands on his cheeks, looking at him. My throat feels dry and raspy, and no amount of acting, or singing, or running has ever prepared me for what I’m about to say. I’m winging it, improvising and going completely off script, as I speak from the heart.

  “I think I’m in love with you too,” I whisper.

  He plays with a strand of my hair as he raises an eyebrow. “You think?”

  I nod, and manage a smile. “Fine,” I say in a faux begrudging voice. “I know.”

  Then I wrap my arms around him and everything—Every. Single. Thing.—about this moment hurts and feels right at the same time.

  “Will you spend the night?” I ask. “But just to sleep. That’s all I can do right now.”

  “Of course.”

  I undo my ponytail as he takes off his shirt and jeans and leaves them on a chair in the corner of my room. He’s wearing only snug black boxer briefs, and even though I’ve been so ready to get him undressed, I’m glad he is right now but for a different reason. So I can feel the closeness with him, the connection between us with his warm body next to mine, skin against skin, as he joins me under the covers, holding me near all through the night.

  CHAPTER 22

  Jill

  “I like your casual shirt, but you looked pretty good the other night in a tux too,” I say as Davis buttons his shirt the next morning. “I don’t think anyone has ever looked so good in a tux before.”

  “Because it’s tailored for me,” he says with a sly smile.

  I pretend to smack my forehead. “Of course,” I say and roll my eyes playfully. “Of course you own a tux.”

  “What? You think I’d rent one?”

  I shake my head and laugh. “God forbid.” I watch him as he tucks his shirt into his jeans. “I’m really glad you came here last night.”

  He smiles softly. “Me too.”

  “I mean it,” I say in a firm voice, as if I’m giving a speech. But one that comes straight from the heart. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. I was lost. I was totally lost, and I had no idea how much I needed you until you walked through my door. I’m so glad you found me.”

  “You weren’t that hard to find. I knew your address,” he says and cups my chin tenderly.

  I shake my head, giving him a fierce stare, my eyes blazing. “I know, but that’s not what I mean. What I mean
is thank you for not giving up on me.” I grab his shirt and grip it tightly for emphasis. “Thank you for knowing me better than I knew myself. Thank you for not letting me slip away. Because I am so in love with you. I am so completely in love with you.”

  He pulls me close, and wraps me in his arms. “That’s why I didn’t you let slip away. Because you’re worth it. You’re worth everything to me.” Then he bends down to kiss me on the forehead. “But I need to go. I have a meeting.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  He nods. “Yes. Amazingly, I still have to work on Sundays. My lawyer and I are meeting with some producers about doing Twelfth Night in London soon.”

  “Really?”

  “They happen to like their Shakespeare across the pond.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be leaving New York soon?” I ask, and my heart’s beating faster now. I don’t want him to leave when this is starting.

  “I don’t know. That’s what the meeting is about. But if I go to London, I’ll return,” he says, and curves his hand around my neck. “I won’t be able to stay away from you, Jill.”

  I loop my arms around him. “I feel the same, but I still don’t want you to go.”

  “Would you rather I stay here and do the film?”

  I sneer. “No.”

  “Maybe I’ll just do nothing then for a few months. Take some time off. Sit in the park and feed breadcrumbs to the pigeons.”

  I laugh. “As if you could do nothing.” He buttons the second-to-last button on his white shirt. He has one-day stubble on his jawline, and it’s so sexy. I’ve never seen him in the morning after he’s gone without shaving.

  Then I remember something I read in the trades about Twelfth Night. “Hey, isn’t that actress Joyelle Kristy supposed to be interested in doing the play? I saw her at the gala the other night.”

  “I’ll find out in my meetings today. When will I see you tonight? I believe we have unfinished business,” he says, then kisses my neck and I shiver.

  “We do. Can I come over after I see my brother?”

  “Yes.”

  I run a hand through his hair. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “This is kind of awkward, but I figured we should just get it out of the way.”

  “Why yes. I do require the extra large condoms,” he says.

  I swat his arm playfully. “Hey! How did you know what I was going to ask?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “But it’s on that subject,” I say tentatively at first, but then I just rip off the Band-Aid. “Here’s the deal. I haven’t been with anyone in years, as you know. And I’m clean. And I’m also on the pill. So what I’m asking is—”

  He answers quickly. “Yes. I’m clean. So are you saying?” He lets his voice trail off.

  I nod. “I don’t want any barriers.”

  He presses me against his body. “God, how am I going to get through these meetings today?”

  * * *

  I fling a hand over my eyes dramatically when I walk into Wendy’s Diner and see Chris.

  “Don’t even tell me. No. Don’t even tell me you are actually playing Qbert on your phone.”

  My brother gives me a sheepish grin, tosses his phone onto the table and stands up to wrap me in a huge hug. “What can I say? I like Qbert. And I have to keep up my skills so I can always stay ahead of McKenna.”

  “As if anyone can ever beat you in a game,” I say, and then hug him back harder. “I miss you, you knucklehead. Why do you have to live so freaking far away?”

  We pull apart, and I sit down across from him. Chris flashes me his signature smile, all gleaming white teeth and twinkling green eyes. He shrugs. “I hate the cold. Speaking of, what the hell? How do you survive in this weather? It’s like thirty degrees out.”

  “That’s nothing. Some days, it gets as cold as—gasp—five degrees.”

  He pretends to shiver. “Brutal. Can’t believe I ever lived here.”

  “Want pancakes?”

  “Always.”

  We order, and spend the next thirty minutes catching up. I learn that things are going so fabulously with McKenna that he’s even taught her dog to surf and he shows me a picture of the blond lab-husky mix riding a wave on a banana yellow surfboard.

  “Damn. And I thought it was impressive when you built that tree house when we were twelve. But a surfing dog?”

  “I know,” he jokes. “Some days I amaze myself.”

  “So how’s your woman?”

  He blushes for a second or two, and I point a finger at him. “You still haven’t gotten over that blushing thing you do?”

  “You do it too!”

  “Yeah, but I’m a girl.”

  “Don’t make me put you in a choke hold.”

  “Ha. I learned how to get out of them like a ninja.”

  “Yeah, you learned from the best. Me. Anyway, she’s great. I’m crazy about her.”

  “I’m so glad you found her.”

  When we finish with breakfast, I take a deep breath. I can’t just tell Davis all my secrets. I have to be open with my family. With my brother. Because I want to have the kind of relationship with him where I’m not harboring lies and secrets.

  “There’s something I want to tell you.”

  Then I tell him all the things I never said to him when I was seventeen. His eyes widen with shock when he learns of the letter I received, then he drops his head into his hands when he hears that I kept it with me for years, in its own secret little chamber by my bed. He wraps an arm around me as I share how I felt about myself for all that time. He shakes his head over and over.

  “I wish I’d known, Jill. I wish you’d let me help you get through all that.”

  “I know. Me too.”

  “But I’m here now. For whatever you need.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I want to help you. I wasn’t able to be there when you went through it, but I think there’s one more thing you need to do. To finally put everything behind you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sort of like a memorial. A ceremony. A last goodbye.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He tosses some cash on the table and hands me my coat. “You need to get rid of that letter. You need to stop holding on to it and set yourself free from the past. Set him free too,” he says, softening his tone on the last words.

  I balk at the idea initially, as I stand up and slide my arms into my jacket. The letter is like a part of me; it’s been my weight, my debt. “I don’t know, Chris.”

  But he nods, resolute with this plan. “Look, I know it seems scary. But it sounds like it’s been haunting you. You carried that letter, slept with it next to you. We need to say goodbye to Aaron and to all the guilt you carried around, okay?”

  Haunting me.

  He’s right. It has haunted me, and I know that this is how I can finally forgive myself.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later we are in our hometown, the borough of Brooklyn, and Chris is holding my hand as we walk across the cold grass in the cemetery where Aaron was buried. As the wind snaps cold air, I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck. Gravestones stretch far across the hills, row after row of markers, of memories. We find Aaron’s headstone, and I kneel down and trace the numbers of the year he died. My chest tightens, and my throat hitches, remembering the good times. I’m glad to see a bouquet of lilies on the ground that must have been left here a few days ago. From someone who still thinks of him. Still cares for him. I add another bouquet, this time leaving forget-me-nots. Because I don’t want to forget him, and I don’t want him to be forgotten, despite everything that went wrong.

  “Goodbye, Aaron,” I say, my heart heavy, but this time for the right reasons. This time because I’m not hiding how I’m feeling.

  Rising, I reach into my purse, find the letter and hand it to my brother. It feels like a strange part of me that I’m giving up, but I know I need to let go of those wor
ds that I carried around for years like a chain. Just like I had to say goodbye to my ideal of Patrick.

  Chris opens a matchbox we picked up at a nearby deli. He flicks a match across the strip on the front, lighting it. Then he brings the small flame to the corner of the paper, and I watch, solemnly, as the paper curls into the orange light, turning black and becoming ash in my brother’s hand. When the flame reaches the final slip of white, Chris flicks his wrist, putting out the match. Then he dusts off the tiny bit of ash in his hands.

  And I say a last goodbye to all that I held onto. To all that I don’t need anymore.

  * * *

  Later that day, we’re in Bryant Park watching some young guys scooter around the library steps when Chris turns to me. “So I have a favor to ask you now,” he begins.

  “Sure.”

  “McKenna’s joining me here later this week, so we can see your show on opening night. And this might be totally crazy and you can absolutely say no, but I have this idea of how I kinda want to ask her a big question.”

  He shares his plan and my eyes go wide, and I punch him. But it’s a happy punch.

  “Well, I happen to have an in with the director,” I say. “Let me see what I can do for you.”

  Before we part, I reach into my purse and hand him a book. “I thought you might like this.”

  “Yes! The new Carl Hiassen. Awesome!”

  I smile, knowing the book has found its proper home.

  CHAPTER 23

  Jill

  As the industrial elevator chugs upward, I watch the numbers on the dial trudge closer to his floor. With a loud groan, the elevator settles onto the fifth floor, and I am so jumpy inside that I think my internal organs are conducting an impromptu musical chairs. I’m a mix of nerves and excitement as the doors open and I step into a brightly lit hallway with four doors. Each loft must have its own corner view.