For The One (Gaming The System Book 5)

by Brenna Aubrey

  “Liam…do you want to talk about it?”

  “We are talking about it.”

  “About Jenna.” He’s giving me his serious look.

  I sip my beer some more. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to describe what it is I feel. I’m living the same life I’ve always led, but now it feels like there’s a giant hole. Like a huge part of me is missing. During that week before the Festival—when I chose not to see her—I’d missed her deeply. But now…

  It’s a little bit like how I imagine missing a physical part of me that I can no longer see, feel or touch. Like having a limb removed. It’s like that.

  “Why did you and my mother divorce?” I suddenly ask, shocking myself even more than my dad. That’s saying a lot because, with raised eyebrows and an open mouth, he appears pretty startled.

  “Uh…” He leans back and sets the beer down, rubbing the dark stubble along his jaw. People say I look like my dad and I take that as a compliment, though I’d be more proud to be as good a man as my dad is. “We didn’t communicate very well…and I was spending a lot of time getting the firm up and running. She had two little ones at home. It was a lot of stress with me gone so much.”

  Even now he won’t blame her—like couples who break up usually do. But not him. That’s my dad.

  “And having me. I’m sure that was additional stress.”

  His brows come down sharply. “No more than any other young child.”

  “Statistics say that parents of autistic children—”

  He makes a sharp chopping gesture with his hand. “I don’t care what statistics say. It wasn’t your fault, Liam. There are a lot of different factors that determine whether a marriage will work or not. We just weren’t as good a fit as we initially thought we were. Things change when you start your adult life. We were young and ambitious. We took on a lot—parenthood and a new business, among other things. It was no one’s fault, Liam. Or if it was anyone’s fault, it was mine and your mother’s. You were just little when we split up.”

  “But—”

  “Is this what you’ve thought all along? That she left because of you?”

  I shrug and sip my beer.

  His shoulders are rigid as he rocks in his seat. “Your mother’s relationship with you—or lack thereof—had nothing to do with the divorce,” he states. Then, he gets out of his seat and starts walking around the room. Mercifully, he knows better than to pick up my things and put them down. That really bothers me.

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and says, “I wish I could have done more to make things better between you and her. I thought I was protecting you.”

  I think about that for a minute. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

  “I could have not interfered.” He hung his head for a moment before straightening to look at me. “I saw what it did to you the few times she made plans that fell through, so I…discouraged her from making plans after that.”

  I’m silent for a moment, trying to recover from my shock before he notices. But he’s watching my face and he’s almost as good as Adam at sensing other people’s feelings. He starts talking again before I can think of anything to say. “I screwed up, and the damage was done by the time you were old enough to understand. I think I was hoping things would get better between the two of you when you got older, but…”

  “But you didn’t know she was going to die.”

  He was studying a painting on the wall, the signed and numbered Meyers print that I’d purchased last year. “It wasn’t all her fault, Liam. I share the blame in that, too.”

  “Don’t blame yourself for her failings as a person.”

  He turned back to me. “We all have failings, Liam. We’re human. Yes, she had hers, but I have mine, too.”

  I blink, thinking how much those words sound like what Jenna said to me. You’ll never forgive any mistake I make—any human failing I have. It bothers me and I don’t know why. Tipping my bottle back, I finish the last of the beer.

  A half hour later, I escort my dad to the door. He stops and asks for a hug, which I concede. “Love you, son,” he says as he grips my shoulders.

  “I love you, too.”

  “Liam,” he says, pulling back and looking at me directly. My eyes lower to his shoulder. “Try to forgive your mother. It will help a lot. I know she’s not here anymore, but…she’s your mother. She deserves your forgiveness. And as for your life, well… You should talk to Jenna. Sort this all out. She seems like a very sweet girl.”

  “She’s a woman.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, you know what I mean.”

  I do, but it’s easier to correct him than to address the rest of what he said. It’s true, I could talk to her…but would she only hurt me again?

  ***

  Another week passes. Another week of my comforting, regular routine. It’s during our usual Wednesday morning breakfast meeting that I finally summon the courage to bring up the subject with Mia.

  “How is Jenna?” I say as quietly and as blandly as I can manage. As if my next breath isn’t hanging on the answer. But my voice still sounds like it’s strangled.

  She stares at her breakfast plate for a long time, cutting everything up into smaller bites than she usually does. Then she sits back, suppressing a yawn with the back of her hand. “Sorry, I had a bad night last night. Up late studying.”

  I fork a bite of sausage and pop it in my mouth, waiting for her answer.

  “So, um, Jenna left.”

  Suddenly, the sausage tastes like ashes in my mouth. I stop chewing as everything inside me tightens. And yet—I knew it. I knew she would leave. But somehow it still hits me like a ton of bricks.

  “The Renaissance Faire doesn’t move on until the end of June, though,” I say once I’ve managed to swallow that dry lump of sawdust.

  Mia looks away with a sigh. “No, I mean she left the country, William. She went to Bosnia early to spend time with her mom and sister before the wedding.”

  “Did she say when she’d be back?”

  “She didn’t, William. I’m sorry. She said that…there’s a possibility she might stay there permanently with her family.”

  Suddenly, I’m done with my breakfast. I sit back and push my plate away, then quickly excuse myself. I do have lots of work to do, but I can’t think about anything else the rest of the day. Not that Jenna was far from my thoughts before this, but now she’s halfway around the world and I can’t stop thinking about how permanent this is. I’ve lost her forever.

  I can’t explain why, but that night when I get home, I open the drawer that holds the stack of cash and birthday cards from my mother. After opening them at my dad’s house, I brought them to mine. They are still arranged in order from my sixth birthday to my twenty-first. I read through them in that order until I reach the last one—the one I didn’t read the night I was with Jenna.

  The one Mother sent me only months before she died.

  Liam,

  It’s too late. I know that. I wish I could go back and change everything between us, but by the time I was in a place to try, you were too old and too hurt by things that happened when you were a child. I’m sorry I wasn’t a good mother to you. I regret that every day. But I was young and human and imperfect. Your dad was so much better with you than I ever was. He did a good job raising you and I’m proud of all you’ve accomplished, though I really have no right to be.

  Someday, perhaps after I’m gone, I hope you will forgive me.

  I love you. I always have.

  Mom

  There it was—the one I’d been looking for. The message I’d doubted she ever penned. And had I opened it the day I received it, there would have been time. Time for me to pick up the phone and call her, to meet with her, to forgive.

  But because I’d let my anger and resentment rule me, that opportunity had been lost. Forever.

  As I stand in my bedroom, my face is wet. I’m crying while thinking about how much I wanted her love when I was you
ng. About how she didn’t love me because I was broken…different. All the words that had been heaped upon me during childhood—spaz, freak, retard, Liam the Loon.

  In the middle of my room, I stand there and cry like a baby for almost an hour. Because I’ve realized that my stubbornness has caused me to miss out on the opportunity to forgive my own mother while she was still alive.

  The Buddha once said that holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.

  I remember Jenna’s words from the night we read the birthday cards, and I know then that I’ve been judging Jenna based on what my mother did. That I’ve been expecting her to run away from me, and in so doing, I pushed her away.

  With my face in my hands, I picture Jenna the last time I saw her, pressed against the door, her face wet, her eyes red and swollen from weeping.

  And my words…so cruel. So heartless. Just like a robot.

  But what can I do?

  Jenna is gone, and she might never come back.

  Have I lost her for good? And if I find her again, would she even want me back?

  The only thing I can do is try.

  Chapter 37

  Jenna

  My stomach churned as the bus made its way along twisting mountain roads. Only two hours remained of the lengthy trip from Belgrade to Sarajevo.

  Just five hours before, I’d said goodbye to Helena and Vuk at the bus station. It had been a quick and exhausting few days in Serbia, meeting their family members and touring the city. And now here I was—alone—once again, with only my thoughts and no possibility of escaping them.

  The past few weeks were a blur—a sore, painful, and then numb blur. Helena had been worried about me, checking in like a concerned mother several times a day. She’d kept her distance until Alex spilled the beans when I didn’t get out of bed one day. That’s when Helena decided to make arrangements for us to fly out a week earlier than planned.

  Yet despite the whirlwind surrounding a trip overseas, I missed William terribly. I’d wake in the morning after dreaming of him, feeling his ephemeral kiss on my lips. And as the Dream Wil faded and reality set in, I’d die a little when I realized that he hated me still. That I could never erase the image of his face when he left my apartment weeks ago. Pain and disappointment. Disgust.

  I shook my head, fixing my eyes on the beautiful, green and hilly countryside of the land of my birth. Bosnia-Herzegovina was a country of rugged, verdant beauty. And until darkness fell, I lost myself in the gorgeous views while trying to forget the slowly dulling heartache.

  I’d decided it was time to find some permanence, and there was a strong possibility that my real home would never be in Southern California. Maybe my destiny lay here after all. I’d decided to give it an honest chance, anyway. Maybe the reason I’d never set down roots in the US was because I truly was Bosnian. After all, I had family here who cared about me deeply.

  Maybe Bosnia was my future.

  Seven long hours after boarding the bus in Belgrade, I finally arrived outside of Sarajevo. The last time I’d been here was nine years ago, and I’d let my older sister handle everything. But now it was just me…all alone.

  I’d exchanged some money before leaving Belgrade and thus was able to negotiate a cab ride. The driver flirted with me and called me “American Girl,” despite the fact that I spoke to him in fluent Bosnian.

  I supposed I had an accent now.

  This only emphasized that feeling of never fully belonging in either place. Maybe because I hadn’t allowed myself to belong? Maybe it was time to let myself do just that.

  You deserve permanence, and I want to be the man who gives it to you.

  Maybe I did…but apparently, I didn’t deserve him.

  Twenty minutes later, I handed the cab driver my money and popped out of the taxi. He unloaded my suitcase and set it beside me on the sidewalk. “Hvala,” I said, thanking him.

  “You speak Bosnian very well, American Girl.”

  With a sigh, I picked up my suitcase, entered the apartment building and then climbed the steps toward Mama’s apartment.

  Mama and Maja were both home, having taken the day off from work to wait for me. When I showed up at the door, Mama and Maja pounced on me immediately with screaming, crying and kisses. Mama, with tears in her eyes, smooshed my cheeks together and said I was beautiful but way too skinny.

  Maja introduced me to her fiancé, a tall, thin, dark-haired man with crooked teeth and a sweet, soft-spoken voice. They told me Sanjin was a beautiful singer in the church choir, which reminded me that I probably needed to attend church while I was here. It had been ages.

  “Janjica, I can’t believe it. I can’t. You’ve come back to us at last,” Mama said.

  Maja smiled at me, tugging playfully on a lock of my hair. “Sanjin has four brothers. We should introduce them. Maybe we’ll find you a Bosnian boyfriend, Janja, so you won’t go back to America.”

  That sharp pang in the center of my chest made it a little harder to breathe. I sighed. “No boyfriends for me. But I do want to stay for a while.” Sanjin grabbed my suitcase and carried it up a floor to Maja’s room, where I’d sleep in the extra bed they’d borrowed for me.

  That night, we stayed up way too late drinking wine, eating amazing food—ćevapi and somun, kebabs and flat Bosnian bread—talking and laughing. It felt so good to be here.

  I spent my days exploring Stari Grad—the oldest district of the city, dating back to the fifteenth century—along with the Baščaršija, one of Europe’s most ancient bazaars. I also ran pre-wedding errands for my sister while she was at work. In doing so, I discovered that my Bosnian vocabulary was painfully lacking, so I attempted to relearn my own language and culture.

  One night as Maja prepared to turn in, I lay on my bed flipping through one of her books I’d pulled off the shelf. It was a children’s book written entirely in Bosnian-Serb-Croatian, and I struggled to read it. After ten minutes, I slapped the book shut.

  “You have anything to read in English?”

  “A few old books. I don’t read in English anymore.”

  I smiled. Maja now had an accent when she spoke English. Probably the way I had one in Bosnian, I imagined. And yes, everyone in the neighborhood referred to me as either Maja’s American sister or Silvija’s American daughter.

  I smiled as I watched Maja rubbing moisturizer into her face. “You’re going to a beautiful bride.”

  She glowed. “And you, my beautiful bridesmaid! Wait ‘til you see your dress.” At the mention of the dress, I pictured the beautiful blue gown that William had given me. I blinked, frustrated that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get him out of my mind.

  Maja watched me. “Are you homesick?” she asked suddenly.

  I guessed I would be, if I actually had a home…

  But I was starting to question what “home” meant for me. Was it people or a place? My people were scattered on opposite sides of the earth. In Bosnia, in California…

  “Not really. I’m glad to be here,” I hedged.

  “There wasn’t someone special you left behind in California?”

  I rolled over on my back to look at her. “You are so madly in love that you look at everything through love glasses.”

  She gave me a strange look. “You’re as silly as ever, Janja.”

  My eyes wandered up to the ceiling. “I sure am…silly.”

  “But you’re also sad.”

  I frowned. “Yes.”

  “If you’re not homesick, then what is it?”

  I sighed. “There was someone. But it’s over now. And…it still hurts.”

  She came over and sank down on the edge of my bed. “Oh, draga moja.” She pushed my hair back from my face. “I’m sorry. It didn’t end well?”

  I shook my head, suddenly and inexplicably close to tears. My lip trembled and I bit it. That ache returned with a vengeance.

  “Come here,” she said, waving for me to sit up, which I did. Then she to
ok me in her arms and held me tight. “Do you want to talk?”

  Now I was sobbing—for the first time since the day William walked out the door, declaring us a “mistake.” I expelled a long breath, letting the tears flow this time instead of holding them back. I was with my big sister and it felt good. It felt safe.

  “Maja, I love him so much. I just want it to go away. I can’t help but wonder if it will ever feel better.”

  “It will get better with time. It’s still new and raw. I know it’s hard to believe that now.”

  Like with Brock. I still loved him, but that crippling pain I felt after his death had eased with each passing year until he’d become a sweet, aching memory.

  Would it be that way with William someday? More importantly, did I want it to be? Wishing for the pain to go away was a double-edged sword, because it would be wishing for these feelings to fade, too. And these feelings, though they hurt—they stabbed—they also made me feel alive.

  Weeks passed and the wedding approached. Maja and Sanjin would be married in a cute little sixteenth century church not far from the neighborhood where my family resided. Their humble apartment was located in a middle-class section of Sarajevo amongst a mixed population of Serbs, Croats and Bosniaks. As such, there was a Roman Catholic church, an Eastern Orthodox church and a mosque all in close proximity.

  The night before the wedding, I visited the church where Maja would be married. It was quiet, serene and aglow with flickering candles. It smelled of old incense, desperate prayers, crumbling stone and ancient dust that no doubt remained untouched in high places that no cleaner could reach.

  As I sat on the pew staring up at the glittering altar, I wondered about my belief in soulmates. Was Maja about to marry hers? Had I lost mine seven years ago in a random car accident?

  Was I destined to go through this life alone?

  Maybe William was right. Maybe our coming together was a mistake. But if so, it was the sweetest mistake I’d ever made. And though I ached every time I thought of him, I’d never regret the time we spent together.

  I just hoped that there’d be a way to start over again. Because right now, it was looking pretty bleak.