Back to You (Chaotic Love Book 2)

by Claudia Burgoa

“Write a letter to Wes.” I sigh deeply.

  After I told him we were over, I never saw him again. I learned from the hospital administration that he paid my medical bills. Anything that the insurance didn’t cover was paid by Wes Ahern. He’s sent me care packages almost every week, but not once has he sent a note or called me.

  I feel relieved and yet simultaneously abandoned. He’s doing what I asked, letting me be. We’re not together, but it hurts that he’s living his life and I have no idea what’s going on with him. We were inseparable, and now we’re not even speaking. I feel like I’m being selfish, but it’s hard not to need him or miss him.

  — — —

  The paper crumples as my fingers clench into a fist. This isn’t working. I make a paper ball and throw it into the trashcan. This is my fifth attempt at writing a letter that sounds breezy, casual, like it’s meant to say a simple hello, but I’m failing miserably.

  What if it’s too casual or frivolous? Or if it’s too intense and he doesn’t care about what I have to say? What if he doesn’t read it at all? A tiny voice whispers in my ear, you’re being irrational.

  Am I? What if he’s dating someone and he just pushes the letter into the shredder. She’s tall, smart. A redhead. Fabulous, worldly. Not screwed up like me.

  Tears burn in the back of my throat as I think about everything that could go wrong with this letter before I even give myself a chance to start it. Once I’ve slapped away all the nonsense, I grab the pen one more time. My hand trembles as it reaches the paper. Just for once, I want to be a normal person with normal problems and living a normal life without faking anything.

  I’m anything but ordinary and until I can be comfortable with myself, this is how I’ll communicate with him. Today my challenge is to know that I can be as open as possible and trust that he’ll write me back.

  October 10th

  Wes,

  How are you doing?

  I’m not sure how to begin this letter. I haven’t heard much from you. I should thank you for all the care packages you’ve sent me. They mean a lot—not just because of what you’re sending but because they remind me that I’m not alone.

  These days I’m not doing as much as I used to do. My hands are still healing. I’m able to wiggle my fingers and hold a pen. I’m re-learning to use chopsticks and play the piano. I sound worse than a two-year-old slamming her hands against the keys. It sounds silly, but it’s been a long journey. The little purple dots from every stitch look more painful than they are. One of the yoga teachers recommended I use lavender and tea tree oil. The scars should fade with time if I use them often.

  This center isn’t what I expected. There’s always a different activity going on, and I’m only left with a few minutes to obsess about Mom, Shaun or Corbin. However, during therapy that’s all I do. Discuss, analyze, and work my way through every memory and bad moment I dealt with. It’s still hard to talk about the past and how I feel.

  There’s so much going on inside my head. I never realized how deep it cut that my mother ditched me when I was a baby. Even though my grandma was a magnificent woman, there are scars on my soul from my mother’s abandonment.

  The person who was supposed to love me the most, discarded me as if I were worthless. If she didn’t love me, how could anyone else? That’s why I tried so hard to help and tend to everyone I met with such dedication. Because maybe if they saw that I was helpful, they’d love me. Each time a person discards me, I feel my own mother’s rejection. I wasn’t enough for her, so how could I be enough for a stranger?

  I’m glad that I’m finally seeking help—that I have an amazing therapist who I can talk to about everything that’s been hurting me and all the issues I didn’t want to acknowledge.

  The situation with my mother reminds me of what you told me about your biological parents. How anxious you were in your new home because of the fear that Linda and Will would do the same to you, ignore you. I hurt for that boy. But I’m glad you received help at an early age. Thanks to that you grew up to be a wonderful, caring man.

  There’s a technique that Rose, she’s my therapist, taught me. I can’t change the past, but I can imagine myself taking care of the little girl who felt abandoned and rescue her. Reassure her that she’s cared for now. It’s a long journey, but as I said earlier today during therapy, I’m ready to take baby steps, stumble and pickup myself as many times as I need to.

  How are you, Wes? Please, tell me something that’s making you happy.

  Love,

  Abby

  October 21st

  Abby,

  I’ve never written a letter, ever. I hope you don’t mind my handwriting. The best thing that’s happened to me in the past few months is finally hearing from you. I miss you. These months have been hard in many ways. There are days when I believe that they’d be easier if you were with me and others when I’m thankful that you’re not here to see what’s happening. Either way, I’m glad that you’re getting help.

  In your letter, you mentioned my past as if it’s something that’s over and done after the few years of therapy I attended to thanks to Mom. I never told anyone, but for a long time, I carried the fear that they wouldn’t accept me. Dad treated Sterling like shit. What guaranteed that I wouldn’t eventually be treated the same way? What if one day they decided I wasn’t enough.

  I let that stay in my heart for too long. Since I came back from Stanford, I’ve forgotten what I wanted to do with my life. So, I took your advice. I’m searching for what I love and building my own happiness. Dad’s vision isn’t mine. Accepting this is hard, and going against his wishes is even harder.

  How can I be planning my own life when there will be no one left to continue his legacy?

  If I stop, he’ll be disappointed. I know he’s no longer with us, but the kid in me still seeks his approval.

  Some days I wish he was around, so we could argue about my decision. I want him here, fighting me for choosing myself over him. I never told you this, but before he died, I was getting ready to start my own company—in San Francisco, to be close to you. My plan was to leave Denver behind, and start my dreams alongside you. We fought every single day, and a few days later he had a heart attack.

  I carry that guilt. What if I hadn’t done that? Would he still be around? He died upset that I was an ungrateful son, just like Sterling.

  I wish he could be here and say, “Son, no matter what you do, I love you.” But he’s not, and I don’t know what he’d think of everything that I’m trying to accomplish for myself.

  I mourned him, but I think I never really accepted that he’s gone. You’re right, what our parents do affects us in many ways. Dad put so much pressure on me and treated Sterling so badly that I just tried my best to be who he needed. The day I tried to stand up to him, his life crumbled and mine hasn’t been the same since.

  Sterling had it right all along. He learned to find his passion and built his life around it. I want to be like my little brother. For the past few months, he’s been my rock. I have no idea where I’d be if it weren’t for him.

  I hope this reaches you by Halloween.

  Wes

  PS. Please keep telling me how you’re doing. Your words are the closest I’ll be to you until you come back.

  November 1st.

  Wes,

  Thank you so much for the gummy bears. You didn’t have to. It was a nice Halloween treat. I’m so flattered to be the recipient to your first letter. You’re not disappointing Will. He’s proud of you and the man you became. You’re not responsible for what happened to him. Your dad didn’t take care of his health and lived under a lot of stress. He was sick and hid it from all of us. Who has myocarditis and doesn’t tell his family? Please don’t blame yourself for something you had nothing to do with.

  Slugger surprised everyone didn’t he? He seemed like a rebel, but the guy was just following his heart. I’m so happy that you’re doing the same.

  I’ve been checking the stocks, trying to fi
nd Ahern Inc., hoping it’s on top. But I’m guessing from your letter that it’s not happening. Whatever changes you’re making, they must be good—perfect even. You’re the kind of guy who can conquer mountains without sweating or losing any sleep. I wish I could be a little bit more like you.

  So in control.

  I envy your confidence and determination. One day I want to have those qualities. I tried, but back then it was just an act to keep you close. I wasn’t thinking about what Abby wanted or needed, but rather what you and your family would want from me in order to stay a part of the family. For the first time since my grandmother died, I felt safe and cherished. Now I have to analyze what part of that Abby is real and what’s not.

  The lengths we humans go to for approval are impressive. Of course, I’m not the only person who’s become someone else in order to receive a little love. Everyone in this world is just looking for acceptance. Self-love is hard to achieve when we’re too busy searching for approval from others. Meanwhile, we miss the chance to get to know ourselves.

  This place reminds me of Tahoe—our magical haven. There’s something about the lake and being sheltered among those trees that brought me a sense of peace. I wish you were here. You’d love watching the stars at night. I’ve been told that sometimes we can see the Milky Way from here when it’s bright enough in the dark sky. It makes me want to go to Iceland.

  The ambiguity of wanting to be somewhere else with you and yet, never leave this center, is insane. In truth, I really miss you and our adventures.

  One of my biggest goals is to be able to enjoy life and find my happy place. Traveling will have to wait for quite a while.

  I hope you’re doing all right.

  Love,

  Abby

  November 3rd

  Wes,

  I had a nightmare. They still keep coming in sequences of two a night, sometimes three, unless I refuse to sleep after the first one. Tonight, I woke up sweating. My lungs desperately gasped for air. When I opened my eyes, I struggled trying to figure out where I was. My heart thumped a million beats per minute.

  It took some time to control my breathing and find myself at the cabin, alone—without you. I miss your soothing words, your hand rubbing my back in circles while you’d ask me where I was until my mind adjusted to reality and I could finally find my voice. You’d wrap me up in your arms. We’d be in a cocoon where I found peace and the entire world would go away.

  Today, I have to settle with writing you a letter to make sure you’re safe. My nightmares are a mix of memories from my teenage years and my life with you. They start the same as they did for years—in the basement—but then I’m in my room and you’re coming over to save me. But it’s a trap. He kills you because I told you the truth.

  I can’t breathe when I stare at your lifeless body. I scream, asking for help, but no sound comes out of my mouth. Some nights it takes too long to come back into myself and recognize what’s real from what’s not.

  It upsets me that this continues happening nightly. The nightmares were supposed to stay behind, in Denver. That’s how it happened when I went to college. This time, they followed me just like the ghosts of my past. And I cry, hard and long because you’re not here to make it better. How am I supposed to get better when nightly, I relive my past, and I lose you all over again?

  To soothe myself, every night I recount the first night at your parents. You just knew how to calm me. I can still feel the relief and serenity that your arms offered that day and long after. I wish you were with me. I miss you so much.

  Love,

  Abby

  November 5th

  Wes,

  Sorry for my last letter. I shouldn’t have sent it. I still wish you were beside me.

  Love,

  Abby

  November 7th

  Wes,

  Happy birthday! May all your wishes come true.

  Love,

  Abby

  November 10th

  Abby,

  My only wishes are that you stop hurting, and to have you with me. I’d give my life if that would take away the pain that you’re going through. Every night I wonder how you’re feeling and if you’re able to sleep. Each morning I miss you even more. Please, write to me no matter the circumstances. I want to know who you really are, without the mask.

  You’re beautiful inside and outside. I can’t speak for my parents, but since the beginning, I accepted you as you were. Sad, broken, afraid of your own shadow. We found something in common, our love for the mountains and hiking. We drove to a different place almost every weekend. Since the beginning, I enjoyed our time together. Climbing the fourteeners with you was fun. Traveling, finding new places, and conquering mountains was your passion. There’s no way you could fake the joy of reaching the summit and appreciating the view from the top.

  “Everything looks so much different from here,” you said once. “We should always look at everything from a different angle.”

  That word, everything was such a broad term. Did you ever realize how much you like to discover new places and learn about other cultures, animals, and technology?

  I understand how you feel though. It’s what I’ve been doing all my life. Pretending to be the perfect kid for Mom and Dad. For years, I pushed myself to be the son Dad wanted. My biggest regret is never standing up for myself. When I did, he had a heart attack and died.

  I hated him and myself. As he planned the IPO, I was ready to walk out of Ahern Inc. It’s taking me a long time to accept that I wasn’t the cause of his death. He didn’t eat healthy. He had a heart condition he never told us about, and he refused to change his lifestyle the way the doctor had ordered.

  These past months have been hard on me too. Hopefully, I’ll get my shit together soon before you come back. Are you coming back?

  Wes

  November 30th

  Wes,

  Am I coming back?

  That’s a hard question to answer when I don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave this place. Today, I go as far as promising that I’m not giving up on myself. I take it one day at a time. As my therapist says, baby steps.

  How was Thanksgiving? I heard you guys spent it in Arizona with your mom and her new boyfriend.

  Reading your last letter for the fourth time had me thinking, this is the second time you mentioned your dad’s death. I wish you’d told me what happened and how you felt sooner, instead of over letters.

  No wonder you were such a mess and wanted to run away for a little while. I wish you had confided in me. We were supposed to be each other’s confidants. If you’re here for me, I want to be there for you. Please, let me in. I think we’ve been keeping a lot of secrets from each other.

  This might be a big request. I’m not sure when I’ll leave, but I hope that when I’m out in the real world, we’ll be close to each other again. But can we please try to be more open about our feelings and what’s really going on with us?

  Missing you,

  Abby

  6

  Wes

  I feel this blackness come over me. Like a blanket. Not a sheet of warmth, but one of blood curdling coldness numbing me down to my bones. I’m stuck in the conference room again. My father watches; the board members keep demanding that I continue with the plan. I ignore them and leave the room, walking toward the exit and running down the stairs. But I always arrive back at the same spot. My heart races because I don’t have enough time to get to Abby. After a million attempts of escaping this place, I jump out of the window. I land right back in the same fucking conference room.

  I take a few deep breaths, trying to think of a way to reach Abby. She’s in danger, and I’m the only one who can save her.

  “Stop,” My father orders. “I rescued you, so you could be like me. The rest is inconsequential. The company I left you should be your only concern.”

  Paralyzed, cold, and frightened I stare at the man who I loved and called Dad for twenty-five years. With one hand he’s
choking Abby, whose eyes are pleading with me to help her. Suddenly he’s not himself anymore. Instead, a masked man is holding a knife against her throat.

  “Don’t hurt her,” I plea.

  He smirks, running the knife around her smooth, delicate skin ready to pierce it.

  “Abby!” I yell her name, waking myself up. Every sense urges me to claw my way to standing.

  Drenched in sweat, I leave the bed, gasping for air. Immediately, I open my nightstand drawer which contains the letters she’s written me from the treatment center.

  “She’s alive,” I repeat aloud. “Safe and recovering.”

  I wipe the sweat from my face and turn on the light. It’s just a nightmare but as always, it leaves me with not only the worst memories from that day, but also the ache from wanting her by my side. I scroll through my phone looking at pictures of her. My lungs deflate because she feels unreachable. A pang hits me right in the chest when I come across a picture of us kissing. One of our first times.

  That night we lost so much, and I have no fucking idea if we’ll recover what we had. Tears stream down my cheeks when I remember how she looked in the hospital. Tiny, fragile, and in so much pain. She said she had to go and after failing her, I felt like I couldn’t say no. My fucking heart hurts too damn much. I throw my phone across the room. I want to forget everything we lived together because the pain is unbearable. The memories we treasure the most during our relationships become our worst enemies when we lose the one we love.

  I head to the kitchen and grab a bottle of scotch. This is the only way I can soothe the pain that runs through my veins.