The Fear of Letting Go

by Sarra Cannon

  “I'm scared you'll swoop in and mess with my head,” she says. “Knock me off balance. If I start to factor you into my life in any real way, how will I recover if you're suddenly gone? What happens if we break up and I can't get back on my feet? It's so much easier when I only have myself to rely on.”

  “We haven't even been together for a month, and you're already planning for us to break up?”

  “How else can this end?” she asks. There's anger in her voice and her body is rigid. “The richest guy in town does not start dating a poor girl like me and plan to stick around. That's some kind of fairy tale, and I don't believe in that shit.”

  “Jenna, you have got to stop looking at me like I'm some guy up on a pedestal. I'm not just some rich guy who takes everything for granted,” I say. “Why can't you see past the fact that my family has money? Why does this matter so much to you?”

  “Because I grew up with nothing, okay? I'm the girl who was always on free lunch at school and wore hand-me-downs or shopped in thrift stores. My dad is a piece of shit who could never hold down a job for longer than a couple of months at a time and pawned or sold every single semi-nice thing we ever had so he could buy beer,” she says. She's yelling at me. “My brother and I, we never knew for sure if we were going to come home to find our dad drunk and passed out on the couch, or an eviction notice on the door of whatever apartment or trailer my mom was renting to get away from him. I've never known the kind of stability you have. Not even close. I never had anything I could really call my own until now. What I've built for myself here in Fairhope, this is the first time I've felt like a real person who could be proud of herself. I don't want to lose that. Can't you see that you put all that at risk?”

  I stare at her, my heart aching for the fact that she has no idea how strong or how amazing she really is. And the fact that she thinks I would come in and ruin that for her hurts so badly, I can hardly breathe.

  “This is why opening some box from a boutique in Atlanta, containing a thousand dollar dress, is offensive and hurtful,” she says. Her voice is calmer, but her hands are shaking. She presses them against her legs. “It felt like you were saying I'm just like all those other girls, when I'm not. Not even close.”

  “I didn't mean for it to be like that,” I say. “I know you aren't like those other girls, Jenna. That's why I want to be with you. Not because of money or how you grew up, but because of who you are.”

  “When I saw that dress, it made me feel like I wasn't good enough as I am,” she says. “Like, in order to fit into your world, I have to learn to dress a certain way or act appropriately.”

  “I swear I didn't mean that at all,” I say. “It's just a stupid dress.”

  “The money you spent on that dress could pay my rent for a month or more,” she says. “And I struggle every single month to make those payments. Don't you see how that creates a major imbalance between us? If we started really dating, how long before you decide to start helping me with rent? Or buy me a new computer? Or hell, someone said you bought Bailey a freaking car for Christmas one year.”

  “I'm sorry, I don't understand why that would be such a bad thing,” I say, frustrated that I don't even know how to defend myself against these arguments. “If you're struggling, why would it be so horrible if I helped you out?”

  She stares at me, her eyes are gleaming with tears. “Because I don't want to take your money,” she says.

  “Jenna.” I touch her arm. “What's really going on here? I know there's something you aren't telling me.”

  She shakes her head and looks away. Finally, she turns back and takes in a deep breath. “I don't want to accept any gifts from you, because that's what my mother used to do when she was sleeping with some rich guy.”

  I inhale. This is what I've been waiting for. Some kind of truth about why this is so important to her, and why she's so messed up about it. “I'm listening, Jenna,” I say softly. “You can tell me.”

  She closes her eyes and a tear rolls down her cheek.

  “I can't even believe I'm going to tell you this,” she says. She hesitates for a long moment, and finally her shoulders relax. “When I was little, we had nothing. My mom cleaned houses and my dad couldn't hold on to a job for long. When dad had a job, things were okay for the most part. We'd have food on the table, and things would feel normal for a little while. But we always knew it was just a matter of time before things fell apart again. He'd get fired for coming in late or for mouthing off to his boss, but with him, it was never his fault. He'd come home, yelling about how stupid his boss was or how unfair it was they'd let him go, or how they'd had it in for him from day one. It was always something.

  “That's when he would start drinking again and the real problems would start. The longer he went without work, the angrier he got. When I was really young, it was mostly a lot of shouting between my parents. But as I got older, it turned more physical.”

  “He hit you?” I feel sick to my stomach. I had no idea she'd gone through all this.

  “Not at first,” she says. “At first, it was just my mom. He'd beat the crap out of her and she'd give it right back, punching and throwing and scratching. When it got really bad, she'd pack our things and we'd move out. We never knew if it would be for a few days or a few months, but she always went crawling back to him, promising that this time, everything would be different.”

  “But it wasn't.”

  She shakes her head. “Oh, it would get better for a while. He'd find a job and the cycle would start back up again,” she says. “When I was in junior high, though, my mom started working for this agency that would send her to clean for all the richer families in town. The money was more stable, so we all thought things were looking up. That's when she started coming home wearing things I knew she couldn't possibly afford.

  “A pair of new sapphire earrings. A Coach bag. Red high heels. She always said it was luck that she'd found them at the thrift store in such new condition. I believed her for a while. She was my mom, right? I wanted to think the best of her. But I knew better. As time went on, the gifts got more extravagant. Diamonds. Designer dresses. Her lies got more extravagant, too. The woman I'm cleaning for was just going to throw these out, she'd say. As if rich people just toss their diamonds into the trash.”

  She laughs, but it comes out as more of a choked sob. I reach out to her, putting my hand on her leg.

  “It took my dad longer to figure it out, I think. He was so wrapped up in his own world, he didn't care enough about her to notice. But eventually he did. He confronted her about the gifts, calling her a whore. She denied it, of course, but one day he followed her to work. Walked right in on her having sex with a married man who owned a huge mansion on the side of town. Turns out the agency my mother was working for had nothing to do with cleaning houses.”

  She buries her face in her hands and begins to sob.

  “Jesus, Jenna, I had no idea,” I say, the truth of why my gift hurt her so badly finally dawning on me.

  “Later that night, they had this complete knock-down, drag-out fight that left my mom in the hospital for nearly a week. My father took a knife to her face, saying that no one would hire an ugly whore and that it served her right for doing what she did. My brother tried to break it up and my dad punched him so hard, he broke Dylan's nose. When he started after me, Mom picked the knife up off the floor and told him to get out and never come back.”

  “Oh, my God,” I whisper. “Was your mom okay?”

  “Eventually, but her face is scarred for life,” she says. “I had just gotten out of rehab and had been going through some of my own dark times when everything went down between my parents, but once Mom got out of the hospital, she swore everything was going to be different for us. She picked up some extra jobs, got us into a really nice rental house in a good neighborhood. I was working by then and saving up every dime I could. My brother graduated and got a job working construction around town, so he was able to help out with the rent. But the
truth is she never recovered from what my dad did to her. It broke her spirit, I think.

  “She started drinking and popping painkillers all the time,” she says. “I tried to talk to her about going into rehab and getting help, but she wouldn't listen.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “The fight happened when I was a junior in high school,” she says. “We spent most of my senior year in that rental house, but one day, about a month before graduation, I come home from school to find my dad sitting there on the couch, his arm around her like nothing ever happened.”

  My hand goes to my mouth. “How could she take him back after all that?”

  She shrugs. “I have no idea,” she says. “She told me she was tired of trying to build a better life without him, and that sometimes, you just have to understand your place. That night, she packed up the rental and moved back into my father's trailer. I couldn't stand to go back there, so I went to stay with a friend for a while. I worked extra shifts and saved every penny I could. I got the Hope scholarship and enrolled here at Fairhope Coastal. As soon as I had enough for a small apartment, I moved here, got my job at Brantley's and never looked back. That was almost four years ago.”

  “You haven't been back to see your parents?”

  “I haven't spoken to them since the night I graduated high school,” she says. “They didn't even come to my graduation, so I went over there afterward to tell them I was leaving town, but they didn't even care. My dad was so mad at me for walking out, acting like I had no right to be angry with him for what he'd done. And my mom, I think she was upset I was leaving, but she couldn't stand up for herself against him anymore. I left that night and promised myself I would never be like them.”

  “Jenna, I'm so sorry,” I say. “I can't even imagine how hard that must have been.”

  “Leaving was the easy part,” she says. “It was figuring out how to survive until I could be out on my own that was hard. I've lived in my apartment here in Fairhope longer than any other place in my life. I've paid for it with money I earned from a job I've kept since the day I moved here. I know it sounds like some small thing, but I'm proud of that. I don't want anything to mess me up or take that away now.”

  “I would never do that to you,” I say.

  “I know that, but I need you to understand that it's taken everything I have to create some stability in my life. I had to completely walk away from everything I'd ever known and learn how to start over. I don't want to fall into the kind of life my mother had, Preston, taking gifts from rich men she was screwing. I can't be any part of that.”

  “I don't want this to come between us,” I say. “I swear, I'll never pay for anything if you don't want me to. I won't ever treat you like that again.”

  “I'm not sure that's enough,” she says. “Because it's always going to be there between us. Do you really think I'll be able to casually complain to you about having to eat ramen noodles for the fifth night in a row without you feeling the urge to fill my fridge with groceries?”

  I look away. I hate to admit she has a point. I've never dated someone who struggled with money, but yes, if I heard her complaining about not having food, it would only be natural for me to want to help.

  “That's what I thought,” she says before I even get the chance to speak for myself. “You're so used to showing affection through gifts and taking care of things. It might start with dinner or groceries, but it would escalate. My truck would break down and you'd want to buy me a new car. I'd be late on rent and you'd want to cover it or have me move in with you. I can't live like that, because it would feel like I was becoming her.”

  I sit quietly for a moment, thinking about what she's saying. I've gotten so used to paying for things for my girlfriends and even my friends that it's become a part of my nature. I have extra, so why not? It never occurred to me that someone could be offended by that.

  “I want you to know I'm listening to everything you're saying, and I think I understand how you feel, but I hope you can see that what we have is nothing like what your mother got involved with. I'm not buying you things so you'll sleep with me. The things I do for you aren't payments, they're expressions of affection. It's completely different.”

  “I know that,” she says. “I know it's not fair for me to blame what I'm feeling on you, but you have to at least try to understand where I'm coming from. My mother liked to pretend she belonged in those diamonds, but it was all a lie. If I put on that expensive dress, I'd feel the same way.”

  “What if we came up with some ground rules? I never offer to pay any of your bills or buy you expensive gifts, and you promise to invite me over for ramen noodles.”

  She smiles and wipes a stRob tear from her cheek. “You really don't want to have to eat ramen,” she says. “Trust me.”

  “If it means I get to hang out with you, I'll eat ramen noodles every day for the rest of my life,” I say. I reach over and take her hand in mine. She's trembling and cold so I wrap both hands around hers and pull her closer. “You are nothing like your mother, Jenna. She was with all those men because they had money. That's not why you're sitting here with me right now. I know that and you know that. You're here because what's happening between us is real.”

  I run a finger along her cheek and she looks up at me, our hearts racing.

  “Even after you know all this about my family and my past, you still want to be with me?” she asks softly.

  “More than ever,” I say.

  I pull her to me, and her kiss says everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jenna

  I shiver even though the wind coming off the waves is warm for spring. My hair is blowing all around my face and Preston gently runs his finger across my cheek, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. He cups my cheek in his hand and leans forward.

  My eyes close as our lips meet. I have never felt so open and vulnerable. I can't tell if the buzzing across my skin is from fear or excitement. All I know in this moment is that I want him. Despite everything I once believed about him—and about myself—I trust him. If he could listen to that story and still want to be with me, knowing that my mother was a prostitute and my father an abusive nightmare, he must really care about me.

  It could be the biggest mistake of my life, but I know I couldn't walk away from him if I tried.

  His tongue slides across mine, and his fingers tug on my hair, pulling me closer. Heat flares through me, lighting me up like a bonfire. Our kiss deepens. My hands find the waist of his jeans and slowly pull his shirt out. I want to feel his skin against mine. I lay my palm flat against his stomach and his warmth feels like heaven.

  I push him back against the blanket, my legs sliding over the top of his until I'm above him, straddling him with both hands firmly against his chest. His breath comes hard and fast, and the look in his eyes is pure hunger.

  The wind whips my hair back and forth, wild in the shadow of the sea behind us. I hesitate, my breaths matching his. My desire matching his. I know if we go any farther, we will go all the way. And unlike the other men I've been with in my life, I know this time it will be different. There will be no turning back from this one. No pretending it meant nothing, come morning. If we do this, it will leave a mark on me forever.

  “Jenna, I want you,” he says, his voice low against the sound of the wind in my ears.

  I have never connected with someone on this level. Never told anyone how much my past has wounded me. In some ways, that connection makes this more terrifying than ever. If I give myself to him now and he breaks my heart, I don't know how I'll ever manage to put it back together.

  But isn't that what love is all about? Taking risks, even when you know it's dangerous?

  I take a deep breath and stare into his deep brown eyes. It's time I stopped denying the truth. I want him so badly, not even a hurricane could move me from this spot.

  My heart is beating so fast against my chest, I'm high on the adrenaline. Who knew anticipation c
ould be the strongest drug out there?

  Slowly, I reach for the edge of my sweater. With a single, fluid motion, I lift it up and over my head, tossing it into the sand beside us. I'm not wearing a bra and the moment the air hits my nipples, they tighten.

  Preston's eyes flash with desire and his hands move to my waist, his fingers digging into the skin just above my shorts. His lips part and his eyes roam over my body. Beneath me, I feel him growing harder.

  I tug at his navy coat, sliding it from his arms. When my hands roam over his chest, I can feel his pulse drumming against my fingertips. He's wearing a white t-shirt and he sits up slightly to pull it over his head. He flings it to the side and lifts his hands along the skin of my back, exploring greedily. His mouth finds mine again, and on instinct, my hands go around his neck. I wrap my legs around him tightly, grinding my body against his as our mouths do all the talking.

  His bare chest against mine is on fire except for the cold metal of his grandfather's dog tags that press against my stomach. I run my hands through his hair, down his back, across his shoulders, wanting to memorize each muscle. One hand moves between us and he cups my breast. He tilts me backward and lowers his mouth to me, his tongue drawing circles of fire across my taut nipple.

  I lean my head back, my eyes closed, letting my desire for him pulse through me. The waves crash on the shore a few feet away and I find myself rocking against him to the rhythm of the sea, our bodies reduced to nature.

  His mouth moves to my other breast, leaving one nipple cold and exposed in the spring breeze. The contrast between warm and cold rips a moan from my throat. I'm not sure how much more of his teasing I can take.

  I push his shoulders back and take his mouth again. My fingers dig into the flesh of his back as my hips rock against him. Preston lifts me up and lays me back against the blanket. He runs his hands up and down my stomach, and my skin jerks in anticipation as his fingers find the button on my shorts. He slides them down over my hips and legs, tossing them aside to join our pile of discarded clothes. He lowers himself beside me, propping his head on one hand as he lazily runs his fingers across my skin. He traces the outline of my tattoos, his eyes following his fingertips. I feel completely exposed, heart and soul.