This level of delusion can’t be real, can it?
I feel him watching me. I prickle for no reason. I stiffen at the slightest noise. I believe, no matter how insanely impossible, that he’s close by.
And now this?
I truly am losing my mind.
My bed was made when I came home, and I swear I left it a mess.
The bathroom smells like tropical disinfectant, not the faint must of mould that lingers in the grout around the tiles.
How is that possible?
Why do I keep deluding myself this way?
He’s gone!
He’s gone!
I need someone to scream that in my face and then maybe the folded threadbare towels will make sense, or the fact that if I stand still and inhale, my nose fills with his woodsy, wild scent instead of stale passing of lonely time.
I smell him.
And I don’t know what to do anymore.
I came here to put things behind me, yet everywhere I turn, the past keeps dragging me back.
I haven’t said it out loud since he left—not that I ever said it out loud—but sitting here in my bedroom that Ren helped decorate, looking around the apartment Ren helped make a home, I can’t pretend anymore.
I’m still in love with him.
Even more than before.
I’m still furious at him.
Growing hotter by the day.
And I’m afraid.
I’m so afraid I’ll never be able to get past this, that my future is a merry-go-round of prickled skin for no reason, smells of Ren in the air, and the unnerving sense that he hasn’t truly gone, after all.
Maybe he died out in the forest, and his ghost is haunting me.
Maybe this is what everyone goes through when they lose someone so damn special.
Either way, I can’t do this anymore.
I came here to burn you, and that’s what I’m going to do.
And then, I’m going to sell every piece of furniture and leave.
I can’t be in this town another moment.
Screw my creative writing course. Screw being brave. Screw lying. Screw everything.
I can’t do it.
I can’t stay.
I’m running…just like he did.
It’s finally time to say…goodbye.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
REN
* * * * * *
2018
STEPPING INTO THE place I used to live with Della was excruciating.
Every day was the same; the pain never got easier, or the sensation that I was missing something fundamental any gentler.
She was the reason I went to work.
She was why I remained in a city I couldn’t stand rather than return to the forest I loved.
And she didn’t even know I was back because I was too much of a pussy to face her. I wasn’t ready to accept her anger at my weaknesses, to bear the brunt of her disappointment, or to stare into her eyes as I lied about what I felt for her.
I wanted that lie to be truth when I next saw her.
I wanted to hold love in my heart and no lust. I wanted to hug her hard and feel connected and comforted and not consumed with the desperation of spilling everything.
Of confessing that I loved her in a totally different way.
That I couldn’t exist without her.
That I was willing to do anything to have her back.
I hated how incredibly wrong it was to fall for the girl I’d raised, yet my body said it was unbelievably right. That it had been waiting for that moment to finally come alive and shout yes to finding everything I never thought I’d find.
My eyes glued to the carpet where she’d fearlessly stripped and offered every secret and vulnerability. And just like every day, I cringed in horror knowing that, despite the fact she’d moved on and my vow to pretend my love hadn’t changed for her, if I could rewind time, I would gather her close and kiss her.
I wouldn’t wait for her to kiss me.
I wouldn’t make her put her entire heart on the line.
I would meet her halfway because our entire lives had been a partnership, and it was up to me to carry half her burdens.
My boots were heavy and droplet stained from washing windows as I trudged down the tiny corridor to her—my—bedroom.
Wait.
I froze as the sounds of splashing water came from the poky bathroom at the bottom of the hall. Light glowed beneath the door.
What the hell?
I’d grown so used to having sole use of this place, I hadn’t considered what I’d do if she suddenly returned.
I backed up, my heart racing into overdrive.
Shit.
I’d caught her in the shower.
I didn’t know her to shower at dusk—she was normally a morning person—but if she’d had a long day at college or a fight with David or whatever other reason had brought her here, I supposed it was only natural. Then again, I had no right to know her routine anymore.
I’d left her.
I wasn’t privy to her heartaches. She wasn’t a virgin, after all. She had the man she’d chosen warming her bed at night.
Once again, that knowledge harpooned me, and my steps faltered. She’d grown up beneath my nose and, by the time I’d noticed, it was too late.
Everything was too fucking late.
A painful cough ripped from my lungs.
Turning around, I meant to head back to the living room and out the door, but a stack of papers sat on her desk beside the cheap laptop I’d bought for her birthday a couple of years ago. A few of the keys were missing and the Wi-Fi capabilities were shit, but the thing was well used ever since Della decided to take her skills at telling stories, and my past of sharing tales, and enrol in creative writing.
The laptop hadn’t been on her desk when I left this morning.
She’d brought it with her.
Was it an assignment?
Was she hard at work on a project, and this was the printed results ready to hand in tomorrow?
Looking back at the bathroom door, the sound of running pipes and groaning water pressure said I had enough time to spy.
I shouldn’t.
I should run before it was too late.
Just the action of stepping into her room uninvited—the same room I’d slept in for the past few months—and glancing at the discarded bra on her dresser, the pink panties on the floor, and strewn jeans on her bed made my hands clench and belly knot with dangerous things, but the fat stack of pages and bright green Post-it note on top beckoned me forward.
My eyes widened and my heart beat with a different panic as I noticed my old lighter propped on top with a sketch of a fire and the words, ‘It’s been fun cutting out my heart, but it’s time for you to burn. I’m ready to leave and be done with this.’
The words were written in marker, deep and black and full of sharp pain.
Leave?
She couldn’t leave.
Where would she go?
Who would be there to keep her safe?
I stopped breathing as my eyes fell to the title page beneath.
The Boy & His Ribbon
by
Della Wild
My heart froze as the title harpooned me in the chest.
She didn’t.
She couldn’t.
She promised.
Our secrets were our lives.
No one must know.
No one must guess.
I’d taken her against the law.
I’d kept her from everyone’s knowledge.
I’d fallen in love with her even though she was practically my kid.
And yet…she’s written it all down.
Every sordid, broken, pure, delicious thing.
I couldn’t stop my shakes or urgency as I grabbed the paper, tossed off the lighter, and ripped over the first page.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
REN
* * * * * *
2018
I’D NEV
ER BEEN the best reader—no matter how much time Della spent teaching me—yet reading that manuscript, I absorbed the words through my fingers as well as my eyes.
The story leapt from the pages, latching sharp fangs into my heart. Every emotion and carefully fabricated lie ripped apart my life, dousing me in blistering honesty, pouring its black and white truth into the wounds it left behind.
It wasn’t just words that sliced me, but Della’s voice. Her vibrant honesty. Her fierce tenacity reading aloud the secrets she’d written.
…that was what he did to me, you see? He made my entire life a jewellery box of special, sad, hard, happy, incredible moments that I want to wear each and every day.
*
I can honestly say Ren is my favourite word.
I love every history attached to it.
I love every pain lashed to it.
I love the boy it belongs to.
*
To me, Ren was magical.
He might not have been able to read and write, but he was the smartest person I knew.
*
I wish I could paint a better picture of how much I looked up to him.
How much I worshipped him.
How much I loved him even then.
*
Amazing what love can make someone do, right?
In my toddler brain, I associated him calling me Ribbon with his admittance of loving me. He’d accepted me as his own. He no longer needed to remind himself that I wasn’t born to be his.
*
Sometimes, and don’t judge me for this, but sometimes, I would do something naughty just to have him yell at me. I know it was wrong, but when Ren yelled, he drenched it with passion.
*
How many times do you think a person can survive a broken heart?
Any ideas?
I would like to know because Ren has successfully broken mine, repaired it, shattered mine, fixed it, crushed mine, and somehow glued it back together again and again.
*
I was jealous that he was close to another when I was supposed to be the only one. I was angry that he turned to another for comfort and didn’t come to me. But most of all, I was in shattered pieces because I wasn’t enough anymore.
*
I’m in love with Ren Wild.
It looks even worse in bold, doesn’t it?
It looks like a life sentence I can never be free of…which, in a way, is exactly what it is.
*
But what I do know is I will always love Ren.
I will always be in love with Ren.
And I also know I will never have him.
*
Why do I do this to myself?
Why do I insist on slicing through the sticky tape on my constantly breaking heart and stabbing it over and over again?
Can you answer me because I’m honestly at the end of my limit.
*
The next time Ren and I ran, I wanted it to be for good. I never wanted to tie him to a new place so I could go to school. I never wanted him to feel as trapped as I did. I wanted to be free because maybe, just maybe, away from people and rules and constant reminders, Ren might slip enough to realise he loved me, too.
*
That was my true performance because he never knew how much I sobbed the moment he closed the door, promising to be home soon.
I sobbed so much I couldn’t breathe, and my tears were no longer tears, but great heaving, ugly convulsions where hugging myself didn’t work, where lying to myself didn’t work, where promises that it would get better definitely didn’t work.
I’m sure you can probably guess what I did next?
If you can’t, then you’ve never been in love with someone who was off making a future with someone else.
My breath roared in my ears. My limbs turned shaky and liquid.
I only had minutes to read, but I skimmed as fast as I could, absorbing letters of pain, heartache, and confusion.
I recognised the moments she wrote about.
I remembered the attitude she gave me around Cassie. The jealousy she tried to hide. The possessiveness she never stopped nursing. The obsession of keeping our family just us and no one else.
I had no fucking idea her withdrawal and moods were because she thought I’d replaced her with Cassie. I was so naïve to think she hadn’t seen me sneaking off to make out time and time again.
Fuck.
Even with the kiss she’d given me when she was thirteen, I’d believed her when she said it was purely growing pains and learning what attraction was.
An experiment, she called it.
I’d believed her when she lied point-blank to my face.
I’d chosen to trust what she said rather than focus on what her body language told me. What her eyes screamed. What her sighs whispered.
How could I be so fucking stupid?
How could I be so blind?
How had I not seen how distraught she’d been the night I went out on that second date with some woman I couldn’t remember? How had I not heard her tears or run back to her to stop her from losing her virginity instead of forcing myself to believe I was doing the right thing by finding comfort in arms I was allowed rather than dying for the ones I wasn’t?
My hands curled around the pages, wanting to wring her neck for years of bullshit, while at the same time, wanting to clutch her close and say I finally understood. Understood the unrequited pining. Understood the burning jealousy at the thought of anyone else having her but me. Understood the epic heights of such sweet agony and the almost addictive properties of loving someone you just can’t have.
The night she lost her virginity, I’d done that. I’d pushed her into doing something final by believing I was the only one hurting. That I was the only one struggling with right and wrong.
Fuck!
I spun around, one hand latched around the pages and another tangled in my hair.
I needed to get the hell out of here before I did something unforgivable.
But…everything locked into place.
My heart stopped beating. My body stopped shaking. I swallowed a groan as Della stood dripping wet in a towel, glowering at me in the doorway.
We stared.
And stared.
And stared.
I didn’t move.
She didn’t move.
I hadn’t heard the shower turn off.
I didn’t feel her arrive.
I’d been too focused on learning the years of pain I’d put her through to focus on the present.
She’d been in love with me. Was she still? When did she know? How long had she lied? How badly had I ruined this?
Slowly, my heart tripped into beating again, wary and worried, quiet and quick.
With blazing blue eyes and wet blonde hair plastered against creamy shoulders, she padded barefoot toward me.
I stumbled backward, my knees giving way at the delirious perfection of seeing her again, of her seeing me, of us being alone together—away from others and judging opinions.
My lips parted to speak, to say something that could delete the years of agony, soothe months of hardship, and have her love me the same way she did before I’d stupidly run.
But my voice no longer worked, my lungs no longer operated. She closed the distance, bringing familiar smells of vanilla and melon until she reached out and snatched the pages dripping with secrets from my hands.
I flinched as if she’d punched me in the gut.
Tears glittered in her gaze as sadness so deep and cloying seemed to blur her before me. “You read them…” Her whisper fissured with soul-breaking disbelief.
And for the first time…I saw her.
Truly saw her.
Not as a baby.
Not as a toddler.
Not as a child.
I saw her as Della.
Herself.
Her own creation.
A creation I’d had no hand in, no part in nurturing or raising. She was no longer mine; she
belonged only to herself, and she’d utterly crushed me beneath her written honesty.
“Ribbon,” I breathed. My voice shook. My hands curled into fists as I took in her wild, wet, blonde hair, the sharp wings of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts beneath the towel, and the long willowy strength of her sun-kissed arms and legs.
The first time I’d used her nickname in far too long.
But I had no choice.
The word was torn from my entire being as I stood staring at the most stunning creature I’d ever seen.
How had I prevented my eyes from seeing?
How had I believed she was merely pretty—just my little Della who needed me to survive?
How had I convinced myself that she loved me only as a friend when everything between us flared hot and forbidden with years of pent-up desire?
She was never innocent like I believed.
She was never pure like I hoped.
She was none of those things.
Not anymore.
She was sin and sex and such sizzling chemistry, my entire body burst into flames.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
I couldn’t breathe as explosion after explosion hit me, realisation after realisation, acceptance after acceptance that I’d loved this girl since I’d stolen her yet…here now, this very fucking moment, I fell head over heels, madly, desperately, horribly in love with her, and it fucking ruined me.
Her words…her confessions…I didn’t stand a goddamn chance.
I shot forward, grabbing her tight and clutching her to me.
A hug.
Our first hug in so damn long.
Her body was unyielding—no longer open to my touch. She was braver, stronger, sexier, and having her in my arms, my body shook off the shackles I’d always locked tight and fell away.
I hardened, I groaned, I buried my face in her hair and allowed myself to shake with fear of losing her.
She didn’t move in my embrace. Her back bowed as I pulled her closer. Her breath caught as I wedged us tighter, no longer keeping propriety between us, allowing her to feel how affected I was having her in my arms, wanting her to know I was done lying to her and myself.
That I felt something I shouldn’t feel.
That I’d felt it for years, and this was my confession after reading all of hers.
The Girl and Her Ren Page 6