There are, but it’s hard to see it as beautiful at the moment. Not with my stomach sinking like a stone.
“I’m sorry about your mom. I—”
“It’s okay. She gets it.”
She pats the spot next to her.
I drop to the sand.
She turns toward me with a soft smile. “You’re fucking up your suit.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do. I like it.” She shifts, straddling me.
She’s warm. Soft. Everything.
But is she mine?
I don’t fucking know anymore.
Her eyelids flutter closed as she kisses me.
I scrape my teeth against her bottom lip.
I kiss her hard.
I kiss her like the fucking ship is going down.
'Cause it might be.
She pulls back with a sigh. “I had to be sure.”
I reach up, rest my palm against her cheek, rub her temple with my thumb. She’s so fucking beautiful. So perfect. So everything.
It needs to stay like this.
We need to stay like this.
“Leigh…”
Her voice is a whisper. “I am sure.”
“Of what?” The words are heavy on my tongue.
She stares into my eyes.
She stares into my goddamn soul.
“I love you.” Her voice is steady. “I love you so fucking much.”
I stare back at her.
“You’re my first thought when I wake up. My last thought before I fall asleep. When I see my future, I see you. I see us. Until it gets messed up and I see her. I see you loving her forever.”
“I don’t love her anymore.”
“But you’re not over her?”
“I’m almost there.”
“Almost.” Her eyes turn down. “Do you love me?”
I swallow hard. I can’t tell her what she wants to hear.
But I can’t lie to her.
I could never lie to her.
I run my thumb over her temple.
She closes her eyes. Turns to lean into the touch. “Please say yes. Ryan. Please. Please tell me you love me.”
“I want to.”
Her eyelids blink open.
“I want to so fucking badly.”
A tear catches on her lashes. “But you can’t.” It’s not a question.
I answer anyway. “I’m not sure what that feels like.”
She nods, accepting my explanation.
Deeming it inadequate.
A tear rolls down her cheek. Catches on my thumb.
She blinks and her lashes are curtained with them.
I wrap my arms around her. Pull her closer. Breathe in every ounce of her.
That coconut shampoo.
And something distinctly Leighton.
She sinks into my touch.
She cries onto my suit jacket.
Waves crash onto the beach. Moonlight bounces off the ocean. Stars shine against the dark sky.
“I know I said I’d be patient. But I can’t.” Her voice is a whisper. A promise. A plea. “I’m sorry, Ryan. But I can’t do this anymore.”
“Leigh…”
“I want to be okay with it. Really, I do. But I’m not.”
She leans down and presses her lips to mine. It’s a long, slow kiss. It’s everything she has.
It’s everything I have.
But it isn’t enough.
Chapter 43
Leighton
The pineapple print bedspread mocks me. You’re in paradise and you’re crying? Are you ever going to be happy? Is anything ever going to be enough for you?
Try putting down the vodka for once.
Or womaning the fuck up.
It’s been two weeks. So what if he’s confused. Give the guy a little time.
Stop putting your intimacy issues on him.
You knew he was fucked-up when this started. Now you’re leaving him for it? That’s entrapment, honey.
Did you ask him to open his heart just to tear it from his chest?
Did you offer yours just to take it away?
You call that love?
I try to reason with the goddamn comforter. It’s my body and my life. I can ruin it if I want. I can leave my favorite person in the world if I want.
I can run away from the rejection that awaits me tomorrow if I want.
Yeah, I’m second best again.
But at least this time I know it.
This time I’m not spending ten years crossing my fingers, praying he’ll change.
I find my suitcase in the closet. Toss it on top of that stupid pineapple bedspread. Pour my entire underwear drawer into it.
My dress tugs at my hips.
The right strap slips off my shoulder.
This is not how I’m supposed to undress.
This is not how I’m supposed to end tonight.
This is not how I’m supposed to lose Ryan.
Is it really him?
Or is it something about me—some quality I’m lacking?
A sob rises in my throat. I do nothing to choke it back.
Ryan doesn’t love me. And I’m tipsy in our hotel room, unable to pack because my dress is too tight.
Unable to leave because I can’t pack.
Unable to figure out what the fuck all the hurt in his eyes means.
He wants to love me. I know he does.
But I also know that isn’t enough.
My heels sink into the carpet as I cross the room. Then they’re tap-taping against the tile.
I fill a glass with water and drink it in three gulps.
It soothes my throat, but it fails to soothe my heart.
No, I’m making this complicated when it’s simple.
He doesn’t love me.
What else do I need to know?
I slide out of my dress. Fold it at the bottom of my suitcase. Find panties, shorts, a t-shirt, and a bra in the dresser and change.
But now I look ridiculous. Who wears shorts with heels?
I sit on the bed the way I did earlier, when Ryan was looking up at me, sliding my heel on like I was Cinderella.
Fuck these shoes.
I undo the right strap. The left. I kick them halfway across the room.
They bounce off the wall with a thud.
It fails to satisfy me.
He doesn’t love me.
How could anything possibly satisfy me?
Chapter 44
Ryan
The stars keep shining.
The waves keep crashing.
My head keeps spinning.
It’s like the first time we kissed.
It makes no fucking sense.
And every lick of sense in the world.
I’m not enough for her.
I thought things were different. That we were different.
I thought I was okay with my destiny.
No, I was.
Until Leigh.
Until she showed me every scar.
Until she made me realize how badly I wanted to let my walls down.
To love somebody and let them love me.
I love you.
The words still feel like a weapon. They’re poison in the humid air.
I can’t say it.
Can’t think it.
I certainly can’t feel it.
How the fuck do you love somebody?
I don’t know.
Will I ever?
Will I ever be enough for someone?
For her?
Questions bounce around my head as I walk the winding concrete path.
The hotels are alive. Bright. Romantic.
The world is couples. Two people sharing mai tais at the bar, leaning over the candlelight, staring into each other’s eyes.
Jumping in the pool.
Kissing under the moonlight.
I walk until the trail ends.
A cliff hangs over the beach in imposing browns. It screams climb me, I d
are you. You won’t survive. I’ll throw you into the ocean, drown you, smash your body to pieces against the rocks.
It’s gorgeous.
Dangerous.
Intoxicating.
The shining stars promise hope.
But they’re bullshit.
It’s all bullshit.
It’s not enough that she loves me.
It’s not enough unless I love her back.
I want to.
Fuck, maybe I do.
But that word…
It’s still a knife in my chest.
Penny and I traded I love yous every day, without fail. That last year, when she was done with me, she still stared into my eyes and cooed I love you.
And I whispered it back.
But it was bullshit.
She didn’t love me.
And I… did I still love her?
I know what that feels like, that twisted, rote I love you, but the real thing?
I don’t have a fucking clue.
Is it the couple walking hand in hand along the beach, laughing as they dip their toes in the surf, kissing under the moonlight?
Is turning over every little detail? The berry shade she wears on her lips. Her purple hair twirling around her finger. The chipped silver polish on her nails.
The sound of my name on her lips.
The sound of hers on mine.
Is it the hole in my gut, thinking about waking up without her tomorrow and every day after?
Love is supposed to be a good thing.
But it feels more like a weapon.
I’m sorry, but I don’t love you anymore.
I’m sorry. I love you. I need more.
I love you.
I loved you.
That’s why I’m hurting you.
I’m sorry, but I have to twist that knife.
I have to pry your heart open.
And tear it to shreds.
I love you too much to leave it alone.
None of it makes sense.
The walk back to the hotel fails to help.
Leighton is gone. There’s no sign of her in the room. Nothing but the smell of her coconut shampoo on the sheets.
It goes right to my bones.
It tears a hole in my gut.
Is that love—the aching feeling in my chest that begs for her?
I don’t know. But I know love shouldn’t be defined in negatives.
I’m on a fucking cloud when she’s here.
I want to wake up next to her.
I want to fucking dream about her.
I practice the words in my head. I love you, Leighton.
They’re not toxic when they’re about her.
They’re effervescent.
It takes forever, but they find a way to my lips.
I love you, Leighton.
They dissolve into the air.
They hit me someplace deep.
It feels good on my tongue. Like a dirty demand.
Like her name.
But I’m still not sure what the fuck that means.
I pull out my cell and text her.
Ryan: Let me know you’re okay.
She texts back immediately.
Leighton: I’m safe.
Ryan: Where are you?
Leighton: Safe.
She isn’t gonna tell me. I know her that well.
Or maybe I don’t. Maybe Leighton wants me to ignore her boundaries. To fight her no. Plead for a yes. Beg her to change her mind.
But I respect her too much for that.
Ryan: I’ll be here if you want to talk. All night.
Nothing.
I stare at my cell for ten minutes, but it fails to blink with a notification. The humid air—the AC is off—gets warmer.
My suit sticks to my skin. My tie strangles my throat.
Layer by layer, I shed my suit.
I leave it a mess on the floor—what does it matter how I look tomorrow?—and step into the shower.
The hot water washing away the sand and the salt, but it does nothing to erase the day.
When I close my eyes, I see her. The hurt in her blue-green eyes. The tremble of her lip. The heave of her chest as she mustered up the courage to spill those three little words.
My eyes get itchy. Tired. I shampoo, condition, soap, scrub, rinse.
When I’m done, I step out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel, take out my contacts.
My eyes relax behind my thick lenses. The world isn’t quite as sharp. But then it’s not like I can see any of the shit in front of me.
She left because I wasn’t enough.
How the fuck do I deal with that?
Leigh is my best friend. My silver lining. My favorite part of every day.
Losing her as a partner is one thing. But this…
She doesn’t want to see me again.
She wants to run a million miles away.
That’s what she does when someone hurts her. She burns the bridge to the ground.
Unless—
There’s a knock on the door.
My heart thuds against my chest.
My veins buzz with nervous energy.
I close my eyes. Please be here, Leigh. Please come back. Please be mine.
I need a little more time to put the pieces together.
That’s all.
I pull the door open, but Leighton isn’t the person standing in the frame.
It’s Penny.
Chapter 45
Leighton
Palm trees and storefronts blur into the deep blue sky.
Dean stops at a red light. He taps his fingers against the dash in time with the song.
Hawaii’s local rock station is fond of grunge. Eddie Vedder mumbles agonizing poetry over a heavy guitar riff.
Does Ryan hate Pearl Jam as much as he hates Nirvana? Not that Ryan really hates Nirvana. He taps his toe along to Smells Like Teen Spirit whenever it comes on at Inked Hearts.
Which is whenever Dean has say over the music. He’s Mr. Guitar Rock. It’s a bit much for me—how can anyone who did this much heroin be this miserable?—but it’s better than Walker with the metal.
Only I’m not going to stroll into Inked Hearts Tuesday and torture Ryan (and Brendon, if I’m really lucky) with my favorite pop-punk albums.
He isn’t going to tease me about how I can find all these pathetic guys appealing. I know that song was popular when you were in middle school. Not like I missed it. But come on. The guy is begging his ex-girlfriend to fuck him like it’s an insult. It’s pathetic. Does he really think that lowly of his sexual abilities?
I’m not going to say anything about how he should understand how men are always obsessed with who their ex is fucking. Because isn’t he?
Because he is.
He’s the guy in the song who can’t get out of his own way.
And I’m Gwen Fucking Stefani, singing about how I always knew he’d end up my ex-boyfriend.
The song fades into a commercial for the local Honda dealer.
Dean turns to me. Shakes his head with disapproval.
“What?”
He shrugs like he isn’t judging me with his eyes.
Finally, the light turns green.
Dean taps the gas. Drives slightly faster than a snail.
“Maybe you should drive slower. So you can be sure I miss my flight,” I say.
“You know I could be getting laid right now.” He blows air up from his lips, blowing his messy hair from his eyes.
“You know I offered to take a cab five times.” I came close to insisting. But, even with his attitude, I’m glad I didn’t. I’m coming apart at the seams.
The familiarity of my obnoxious, intimacy avoiding friend in the driver’s seat is the only thing holding me together.
Dean Maddox is holding me together.
What a terrifying thought.
“You know Ryan is going to kill me,” he says.
“He’s not. He’s gonna thank you for taking care
of me.” That’s the kind of guy he is.
Dean chuckles. “Yeah. He is. You like that?”
“That he’s considerate? Why wouldn’t I?”
“You broke his heart. He shouldn’t give a fuck.”
“We’re still friends.” In theory. One day.
“You’re gonna be his friend?”
The apprehension in his voice tugs at my heart. I can’t imagine my life without Ryan. But Dean is right. I can’t be his friend right now. Not after that second-choice slap in the face. “I promised I would.”
“But you’re not.”
“Not right away.”
“You’ll ghost all four of us.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Yeah, you would.” He shakes his head. “You forget how well I know you.”
I shrug, playing coy.
“Please, Leigh. I watched you ghost too many guys.”
“Not that many.”
“That many.”
“I couldn’t disappear on guys who knew where I worked.”
“Which is why you stopped dating guys you met at the bar.”
He’s right.
It’s terrifying how well Dean knows me. But I guess we’ve been friendly for a long time now. Four years. And good friends for half that.
I want to disappear. I want to forget about the last two years.
I want to do whatever it takes to make this hurt less.
But I can’t run anymore.
I ran from every guy who ever hurt me.
I ran from my mom’s drinking.
I ran from every design setback.
This… I’m not running from this.
Dean continues. “You know—”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure I know.”
“I heard you and Ryan.”
“You—”
“You didn’t know that.”
“You did not.”
“Yeah. I did. I was coming to your room to pick you up. Could hear it all the way in the hallway. You’re fucking loud, Leigh.”
My sex clenches. My stomach twists. My veins buzz with some horrible mix of misery and desire. “Your point?”
“You begged him to fuck you.”
“I did not beg.”
“Yeah, you did. It was hot.”
“I don’t need to hear that.” Fuck, I already miss him so badly. My pulse is weak. My breath is shallow. My head is a mess.
“Might fuck myself to it later.”
“That’s your brother.” I turn to face him. Try to find the genuine emotion hiding in his playful expression. It’s not desire. It’s concern. Which only adds to the dread in my stomach. “You’re full of shit.”
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