Pieces of Eight

by Whitney Barbetti

  My belly was full of hot air, but I couldn’t seem to take enough breaths. Six was walking around the gallery, looking at my paintings and taking thought and care in the way he looked.

  He’d once called me a thunderstorm, on the verge of unleashing its fury. I understood that and knew that fury could mean a dozen things other than anger. Right now, that fury was feelings.

  “Do you think it would be shitty if I left?”

  She blinked at me, trying to understand why I’d gone from okay to ready to run in a second. “I mean, you’ve been here three hours. It’s your night, Mira.”

  “So that means I can do what I want, right?” I asked. I needed someone to give me permission to run. In the heels and the black dress, surrounded by people and especially Six, I was suffocating.

  “I guess… I mean, it does seem to be dying down.”

  “Great,” I said, lifting my skirt with one hand and sprinting the fuck out the door, into the night.

  25

  It wasn’t mine, and I didn’t belong there, but I found myself inside of the house I’d once shared with Six anyway. I closed my eyes and inhaled the dust, the old and stale air. I inhaled the cold. I let it burn with its bite.

  I kept the lights off but turned the thermostat on as I warmed myself up, walking around the space that had once been mine, with Six.

  Thirteen years ago, I’d been an empty well. Thirteen years ago, I’d met Six, and he slowly began to fill it.

  Three years ago, I closed up the well.

  Reflecting now, I thought of the well inside me. I had thought there was nothing worse than feeling that haunting emptiness, that quiet inside of me, untouched.

  But now, with my well filled to the brim, I thought differently. It was worse to have a well filled with memories, with love that was only past tense.

  To know that there had been a we and now there was just me. In the house that once was ours.

  The back door, the one I’d broken into with my credit card, opened. Wind whipped my hair around my face, and I brushed it back, away. It whipped again, stronger, louder. I smelled leather and spice.

  I didn’t turn, not right away. But my fingers clung to the kitchen counter, cold stone biting through skin and blood, down to my bone.

  His voice was soft behind me. “You like the dark.”

  He’d said those same words to me years before, in this exact spot. “You do, too.”

  I’d said those words back.

  I decided to change the dialogue this time. “Should you be here?”

  I waited for a “Should you?” to illustrate the point that I was in his house, but instead he said, “Yes.”

  The words stole my breath, made my stomach weightless.

  “Aren’t you engaged?”

  “No.”

  “When?”

  “What when would you like me to answer?” he asked. He knew my question, though one word, was loaded with weight.

  “When did you break it off?”

  “Shortly before we met outside my mom’s house that night.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  I could feel the warmth from his breath when he said, “I didn’t know if it would matter to you.”

  Closing my eyes, I waited for his arms to close around me. Waited for his warmth to envelope me, to fill my well. When he didn’t, I gripped tighter on the counter, feeling the pain in my fingers. “Why?”

  It was a loaded why.

  Why didn’t you get married?

  Why did you come into my life?

  Why did you stay?

  Why do we always find each other in the dark?

  Why are you here?

  Why me?

  “Why?” I asked again, when he remained silent.

  “Because you push me. Because you hurt me. Because you know you can.”

  My eyes opened, and I felt full and empty at the same time.

  “Because I didn’t want her to know my family. Because I knew that something wasn’t right, me and her. Because I can’t compare how I love you to how I love her. It’s not fair to her, or you.”

  Against my chest, my nails dug into fabric.

  “Because when I looked in her eyes, I tried to feel something—anything—of equal measure to the way I felt when you pushed me away. Because she couldn’t hurt me. Because she didn’t have the power to. Because she was too safe, too easy, and because she wasn’t a six, a seven, an eight, or a nine. Because there was no risk of ever reaching a ten, with her.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said you’d never be my ten. That’s right. I don’t want you to be. I don’t ever want to stop growing with you, falling madder in love with you. The space between nine and ten is infinite. But she would never have made it that far.”

  “On a scale of one to ten,” I asked him, “what do you love me at?”

  “A nine,” he said, without hesitation. “I love you, Mira. My mistake was trying to make room to love someone else when you’d already, selfishly, taken up all the space there was.”

  I closed my eyes again, breathed in and out. “I’m a tumor.”

  “You’re not a tumor. You’re an organ.”

  I turned around. The wind from the door wide open whipped around our heads, sending my hair in a million directions.

  He was ten feet away from me, wearing his leather jacket and a beanie. His hands were stuffed in his pockets. I hit the hidden switch on the island, covering us in light.

  The way he looked at me was the way I’d wanted for years. The aching, the hurting, the healing—it’d all been redeemed by just this look. His lips were soft, his green eyes brilliant in their dark sockets. And there was an unmistakable love that lived there, a love that had always only been mine.

  “Because I saw something in you that I wanted. Because I needed you.” It was an answer to several questions. “Because we both made mistakes, and I don’t want to live with this particular kind of regret.”

  He took a step closer, and I leaned back against the island.

  “I canceled my wedding because it’s my favorite holiday.”

  “I thought it was your least favorite holiday.”

  He shook his head. “It’s my favorite when I’m with you. And I ended my engagement because you were right. She wasn’t want I wanted. You’ve imbedded yourself so deeply in me that I can’t seem to shake you.”

  “So, what, we just start over?” I asked. My breath hitched. A new season. “You like beginnings.”

  He squinted his eyes, just slightly. “And you’re shit with endings.”

  I let out a suppressed breath. “We should avoid another ending then.”

  “We never had one.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he stopped me. “No.” His voice was quiet, solid. It was heavy. “We never ended, Mira. We can’t.”

  “I pushed you away.” My teeth chattered, but it wasn’t from the cold.

  “But you never left me. You were always there.”

  I thought of my semicolon tattoo. Better than a period and yet not quite a beginning following it.

  Six took another step closer, and I closed my eyes. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I said, my voice thick. God, how I wanted it. I wanted him. I wanted the life we’d begun to build before I’d taken it from us. I opened my eyes and found him right in front of me, in my space.

  “You can, Mira.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I bought your unfinished painting. The swirl one.”

  My ribcage squeezed. “Why?”

  “Because, it’s us. We’re the swirl. You didn’t end it, there was no clear end.”

  That was intentional. I hadn’t finished it on purpose. Six was right. The painting was a symbol of us. I couldn’t finish it because it hadn’t been finished. How will I know when it’s done? I’d asked Elaine, years earlier. She hadn’t answered me, because she knew I’d figure out the answer myself. I would know when it was done.

  The painting had never been completed beca
use the story hadn’t either. Our story.

  His voice rose above the thrum in my chest. “I didn’t want anyone else to have it.”

  It was if he’d read my mind. Though I’d added that painting to the showing, I hadn’t truly wanted it sold. I guess I’d wanted someone to see it and understand it. And of course the person who understood it was the person it was meant for.

  Six stepped closer so we were chest to chest, standing on the edge of a promise I knew was coming.

  He lifted his hands, cradling my face. “You’re still my Cecaelia. Your tentacles are still wrapped tightly around me. Even when you pushed me away, you didn’t truly let me go.” He moved his hands into my hair, holding the sides of my head tightly. His eyes moved from my hair to my eyes. “And I’m not going to let you let me go.”

  “Everyone has a choice,” I reminded him with a soft voice.

  His eyes glittered. “Okay then. You have two choices. You can stay or you can try to walk away.” His lips lifted slightly, before going back to a flat line. “But you can’t choose the second one, unless you want me to follow you.”

  I knew even if I wanted to walk away, I wouldn’t get far. I didn’t want to. I closed my eyes, breathed out deeply from my chest. Opening my eyes, I said, “I can’t promise I won’t fuck things up again.”

  The relief in his eyes was unmistakable. “We’re going to fight. We’re going to hurt one another. It’s just as inevitable that I’m going to love you through the hurt, in spite of the hurt. Because we’re not easy.”

  “I don’t want easy.” My hands came to his shoulders, glided up his neck. “I want you.” I stood on my tip toes and pressed my forehead against his, needing the connection to be all consuming. Skin to skin, chest to chest. Lips to lips. “I want you. Just. You.”

  Under the glaring bright light of the kitchen and with the wind howling through the door, Six kissed me. Finally. And I knew he was right. We’d never had an ending, because this kiss didn’t feel like a beginning. We felt way too deeply for this to be a beginning.

  I need you.

  You need me.

  I love you.

  You love me.

  We’ll never be perfect.

  But we’ll always be a we.

  This

  is

  not

  an

  ending;

  Afterword

  Normally, this is where you’d find an epilogue, however, I did not give this book one. When I wrote about Six and Mira’s future, everything felt contrived—like I was forcing a bow on a package that didn’t need one.

  I have written and rewritten this story eight times—yes, how appropriate is the number eight? Many things changed between the versions—including the original, confusing, non-linear storyline that was these books: past/present/past/present, repeated, over the course of two-hundred thousand words.

  The one thing that remained consistent was the ending. It was always a part of their journey to find one another after much turmoil and even more healing.

  Sometimes, the best epilogue for a novel is the one you choose. This was always a story about Mira first, and their love story second. In my heart, their journey apart and back to one another is satisfied. I hope it is for you too.

  If you or someone you know is in crisis, whether you/they are considering suicide or not, please call the toll-free Lifeline to speak with a trained crisis counselor 24/7.

  The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline:

  1-800-273-8255

  Trained expert advocates are available 24/7 to provide confidential support to anyone experiencing domestic violence or seeking resources and information.

  The National Domestic Violence Hotline:

  1-800-799-7233

  Acknowledgments

  This book is the end of four years of struggle to tell this story. My heart breaks a little as I write this, because during those four years, when I had to put Mira aside to focus on my other stories, she was always with me. It’s the longest time I’ve carried a character with me. I know her story better than I know the story of almost anyone else, and even though I created her, she took on a life of her own with me as the guide to telling her story.

  Because of this, I have to thank my family more than anyone else. Each book is a sacrifice, not just for me but my whole family. I missed many museum, movie, Bear World, park, and other dates. My husband stepped up, being mom and dad when I had to lock myself in my office for an entire weekend. I couldn’t dedicate an hour a day to Mira. She was all-consuming, taking on her own life really and once I was in that headspace, I was wholly dedicated to it. My husband missed Comic Con so I could write. If that’s not sacrifice, I don’t know what else is. My kids missed valuable mommy time, and that I mourn for so deeply that I grieve for it as I write these acknowledgements. The process of writing this book has brought me to many discoveries about the choices I’ve made to put writing ahead of my family and my friends, and if I’m grateful to Mira and Six for anything, it’s for reminding me of the reasons I wanted to write: to support the beautiful and incredible family I’ve helped create and to tell the stories that exist in the darkest parts of my soul.

  I hesitate to say that writing this book was like writing through an exorcism, because the very word implies evil or dark. But Mira haunted me, more than any character has. She’s the heroine I’ve always wanted to write, because I’ve been self-sabotaging, I’ve been unkind and cunning and villainous and cruel at moments of my life. Maybe this book is my penance for all the wrong things I’ve done to others, for how much this book tested me and will forever color my writing going forward. I’ll never be able to write another Mira, and that’s a good thing. Because writing her blurred the lines between who she is and who I have known myself to be. Readers often tell me how much of Mira they saw in their lives—the way I see Mira in my own. And that’s who I wrote this book for. So that’s why I dedicated these books to you. I’m passionate about mental health and seeking help. Mistakes are scars on our past, but they’re not the definition of who we are or who we can become.

  I’ve lost mentors and friends over the last four years, and often wondered—like Mira—if people had given up on me. Subconsciously, I wrote my abandonment fears into Mira’s character. When you suffer from mental illness, the part of you that is sick is the same part that has to make decisions about treating that sick part. It’s what’s so baffling about mental illness. When you break your leg, your leg doesn’t have to think independently, to tell you to go to the hospital for a cast. Your brain does. And when your brain is sick, it has to make rational decisions to treat it, too. The same organ that tells me I’m not worthy of love or anything good is the same organ that has to make the decision to seek help. It’s hard for a lot of people to understand that, and even harder to talk about it. But I’m telling you right now, if you’re struggling, there are people who can help you. Who will listen without judgement, who will walk with you when you think you’re destined to travel through life alone. There are resources set up just for people like me, like you. Visit https://www.nami.org/ to get started.

  To my people, the ones who were there during the process that was this book—this story as a whole. I have so much more to say, but some things are private, and will be said to you in your signed copies. To keep it brief:

  Sona Babani, for never leaving me over the last eighteen years.

  Jade Eby, my beebee, for inspiring me with your strength.

  Whitney Giselle Belisle, for your undeniable love and support, and all that you gave to me and to this book. For cheering on this story, even after you read the first (horrific) draft so many years ago.

  Talon Smith, for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself. And for being the world’s best ASSistant.

  Samantha Nania, for being so accommodating and thoughtful with your comments.

  Christina Harris, for talking me off the ledge and for giving so much of your thoughts to me over the course of the last few weeks leading up
to release.

  Kristen Johnson, for talking me through the process and through my grief.

  Tiffany Silver, for telling me what you did about Six Feet Under, and for messaging me with the right things at the right times.

  Amanda Maria, for your honest feedback when I needed it and super quick turnaround.

  Ginelle Blanch, for your selflessness in dropping everything for me, all the time.

  Lex Martin, for being so fucking smart and my main squeeze.

  Cynthia Aponte, for loving Mira and therefore loving me.

  I look at that list of names above and am taken aback by how incredibly blessed I am. This book would not be what it is without each one of you. I’m awed by you and grateful for your passion for this book and for lifting me up when I thought I’d fail. You are the reason this book exists. Thank you, from the bottom of my Mira-sized heart.

  Thank you to Alexander for the beautiful photo,.Thank you, Naj, as always, for your incredible talent. And Nadege for making the print look phenomenal.

  To Lizette, the world’s best book coach—thank you for working on the outline of this with me, and for helping me make the decision to move chapter thirty all the way up to the beginning.

  To M*. What can I say except thank you.

  Thank you to my own counselor, K. You made me realize that this book is something worth doing, and that one day it might make it into the hands it needs to be in.

  Thank you to Jean Marie for helping me and giving it to me straight. I needed that kind of gut-punch honesty to make this what it is.

  Thank you to KP for coming in clutch.

  Thank you, Karen Cimms, for always making me feel like a real writer when I feel like I’m still a kid playing dress up.

  Thank you, Kat, for giving words to Mira’s soul with your poem.

  A million thank yous to Linda with Foreword PR. Thanks for handling all the stuff I did NOT want to do. Thank you for being my cheerleader, for lifting me up when I was down. It is so, so appreciated.