Tell Me How This Ends

by Victoria De La O

  “No.”

  “The night you danced with Jude, if he had been willing to try, what would you have said?”

  I dry my tears on my sleeve. “I would have said yes.”

  “And you and Ryan would never have been more than classmates.”

  “But that’s not what happened. So what do I do now?” I ask, not expecting an answer.

  “I don’t know. But you have to stop beating yourself up. Life is messy, and we do the best we can. You are one of the good ones, Lizzie.” She starts to tear up now, too. “I met you at the hospital right after that asshole Luke cheated on me. I was mean and bitchy and grieving and it didn’t even faze you. You accepted me, cheered me up. You helped me get back to myself. I want to do the same thing for you.”

  I lean over and hug Sam, feeling so blessed to have found her.

  When we get back to the apartment, I call Jeff and tell him what happened.

  “Can’t say I’m shocked.”

  “I’m that obvious?”

  He laughs. “Yes, but it wasn’t you; it was them. The way they look at you. Ryan is head over ass for you, but Jude . . . well I felt bad for him at Thanksgiving, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “There were a couple times—I don’t know. He stared at you like he might die if he didn’t breathe you in. Every move you make, every word you say, he’s paying attention, even when he’s not near you. He’s good at hiding it from you, I’ll give him that.”

  “They’re going to get hurt,” I say, trying to calm myself before I lose it again. Once in a day is enough. I lie back on my bed and take a breath.

  “No offense, but they’re not my worry. What about you, Lizzie? Are you taking care of yourself?”

  I’ve never told Jeff about what really happened that time at the lake, but I know he suspects. We used to spend every day of summer in the water and have swim races out to the dock and back. Jeff would always beat me, but never by much. So he knows I am a great swimmer.

  “I am now. I’ll get through it. I have to. Sam will help.”

  “If things get too tough, just come home for a while.”

  If Jeff suspects, then that means he worries, and I feel guilty for making him anxious.

  “I’ll think about it. I love you.”

  “Love you too, baby girl.”

  The funny thing about breaking someone’s heart is that it can be done in so many ways. Piece by piece, in one fell swoop, or even repeatedly. I decide that whatever’s going to happen—whoever’s heart is going to get broken—it’s best if it happens all at once, and only once.

  I am meeting Ryan at his house tonight, come hell or high water, as my dad says. Ryan assured me Jude won’t be there, so it’s the right time to talk. I’ve been thinking nonstop about how to make this work, without any of us ending up with a broken heart or a relationship in tatters. I have no solution. Only the knowledge that I’m the odd man out. I’m the one that has to go.

  The hard part is that I can’t tell Ryan why without screwing things up even worse. I promised Ryan once that I would always be honest with him, but telling him about Jude would be cruel. As for Jude, there’s nothing I could tell him that he doesn’t already know. I hope he understands that I’m trying to save him, and myself, from making a mistake we’d wouldn’t be able to forgive ourselves for.

  When I get to the house, I don’t see any cars in the driveway, so I figure Ryan must have parked in the garage like he does when Jude’s not home. It’s not Ryan that answers the door when I knock, though.

  Jude stands at the door, no emotion in his gaze.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say.

  “Obviously.”

  I walk past him and into the house, toward Ryan’s room.

  “He’s not here.”

  “I’m supposed to meet him,” I say, still walking.

  “His physical therapy appointment is running late.”

  “I’ll wait in his room, then.”

  Jude follows me down the hall. “Seriously? You plan to avoid me forever? What the fuck did I do to deserve this, Elizabeth? You haven’t said a word to me in at least a month.”

  I have no choice but to turn and look at this ridiculously complicated man. At the man I love to the point of ruin. “I’m ending all of this. You. Me. Ryan.”

  “What does that even mean? How is that playing fair?”

  “Fair?” My voice echoes in the hallway, and I start to lose control of my emotions. I turn around and shove past Jude to get some space.

  I end up in the kitchen, which is a mistake, because I’m reminded of all the moments I’ve spent with Jude here. But he’s right on my heels, so it’s too late now.

  “You think this is fair to any of us?” I ask. “I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. Ryan is going to be blindsided. And you . . . I don’t know how you’ll feel.”

  “So you were going to tell him all this tonight, but not me?”

  I grab a glass and fill it with water. “He’s my boyfriend. And what is there to say? You know that you and I can’t see each other again. We shouldn’t even be in the same room.”

  Jude stalks over to me, grabbing my glass. He sets it down too hard, but it doesn’t break. “And why is that?”

  “You know damn well why. You want to hear me say I feel something for you? You know I do. I can’t live like this. I’m telling Ryan tonight that I can’t see him anymore. I won’t tell him why. He doesn’t deserve that. We can go our separate ways, and the two of you can be like you were before I got in the middle.”

  Ryan

  Why is it called “physical therapy,” when my body feels so much worse after? I drive home while popping two aspirin, anticipating the pain that is coming—not just from my body but from Lizzie.

  Something is very wrong. I spent almost every day with Lizzie after the accident, but once I started getting better, she drifted away. I know she’s been working hard and getting her ass kicked at school. But she’s avoiding me and won’t say why. She seems sad and distant, the circles under her eyes growing darker. She won’t tell me what’s bothering her or let me console her, so I can only assume I’m part of the problem. Last week, when we spent Valentine’s Day together, she could barely look me in the eye.

  I’ve been in this spot before with Lizzie, at the beginning of our relationship. I try not to panic, because we were able to work it out then, and I’m hopeful we can work it out now. Hopeful, but not confident.

  I pull up to the house, eager to see her. Getting a half-assed version of her these past few weeks has been miserable.

  The front door is unlocked, but it’s cracked open. Lizzie must have just gotten here. When I go inside, I hear voices in the kitchen—hers and Jude’s. He must not have gone to his happy hour thing at work tonight.

  Lizzie’s voice is almost at a yell, so I hear every word as she tells Jude how she feels about him. This can’t be real; somehow I must be misunderstanding what she’s saying. Amazing how your brain can take in information but not comprehend it immediately—the beauty of shock, I guess. Except, she keeps talking.

  “We can go our separate ways, and the two of you can be like you were before I got in the middle,” she says.

  I feel my life being hollowed out like a jack-o’-lantern. I don’t register the emotion yet—just the monster in my gut and the hammering in my head. I want to storm the living room, smash the lamp into shards, or take a sailboat out to the ends of the earth, like in those childhood stories I loved. All I do is slide to the floor. Then I sit and listen to the only two people I love ripping my heart apart.

  “It will be that easy?” Jude asks her. “We mean that little to you?”

  “Fuck you, Jude,” she yells. I have never heard Lizzie like this—angry, desperate. I try not to feel sympathy. “I’m doing this because of how much you both mean to me.”

  “He loves you. You can’t do this. I won’t let you do this.”

  “I love him, too,” she
says, and her voice starts to break. “But not in the way I need to. What am I supposed to do? You can’t control everything. You can’t stop him from ever getting hurt.”

  “You think I don’t fucking know that? But I can go back to pretending. So can you.”

  “No. You know that won’t work. So far, we haven’t done anything we can’t live with, and I want to keep it that way.”

  “Elizabeth, you chose the right person. You can’t go back on that now,” Jude says, and he sounds almost crazed. “I am begging you.”

  Lizzie doesn’t say anything for a minute, and I can tell she’s trying to keep it together. “He is so lovable. He’ll find someone else to . . .”

  At this, Lizzie breaks down into sobs, and I want to go to her and hold her, even if I hate her right now. But I just sit.

  “I didn’t mean to do it. Please believe me, Jude. I didn’t mean to fall in love with you.”

  I can hear Jude breathe in hard, almost like a gasp. “You don’t love me. Don’t say that.”

  “If you were anyone else, I’d throw everything I had into being with Ryan and forget about you. But you’ll always be here, and I’ll always want you.”

  I hear Lizzie walking toward the living room—and toward me—but I can’t even get up to hide.

  “Elizabeth, wait. Please.”

  She doesn’t respond, but her footsteps grow silent.

  Jude comes closer. It kills me not to be able to see what he’s doing, yet I’m so glad I can’t. I’m resentful that I’m stuck in the middle of their dramatic scene, yet I can’t tear myself away.

  “I can’t look at you right now, but I’ll listen,” she says.

  “Every day that you’re not here is painful. I don’t want you to go. Not for his sake. For mine.”

  I know it’s Jude that’s speaking, but I can’t reconcile this person with my brother.

  “You know this is killing me,” Lizzie says. “I don’t want to hurt him. But you said it yourself: You and I were inevitable. And now I’m losing the two best things that have ever happened to me, and you both still get to have each other. But that’s the way it should be. This was all my fault to begin with.”

  “Always so ready to be the fucking martyr.” Jude’s voice raises. “It’s infuriating. None of this was anyone’s fault. We did our best. God knows, I tried to stay away from you. But I don’t need to be near you to know how much I love you.”

  I put my head in my hands, and the emotions finally come—like a tide that has receded and become a tsunami.

  Lizzie chokes on a sob. “You told me you didn’t believe in love.”

  “That was before you,” Jude whispers.

  “Jude, please. Please. You had your chance.”

  “I know I fucked up. I was too scared to try. And then I thought I was doing what was best for Ryan. I know there’s no hope now. But I needed you to know.”

  A full minute or two goes by in silence—a long time to sit and wonder what they’re doing with each other. I’ve always had a vivid imagination.

  “Take care of him,” she says, like I’m a child.

  “You know I will.”

  I guess he always has.

  “What about you? What will you do next?” she asks.

  Jude doesn’t answer for a minute, and when he does, his voice is hoarse and raw. “I think it’s going to feel like when Mom died.”

  “What do you mean?” Lizzie asks.

  “The cancer took her fast, and everyone said that was a blessing. I know they were right—for her maybe it was. For me, it meant fewer days with her, fewer milestones we got to hit together. You don’t know the value of a day until you’re about to lose all the ones ahead of you.”

  Then, I hear something I haven’t heard in more than ten years. My brother is crying. His voice falters, his words become choppy, and soon he is sniffing. I get sick thinking about Lizzie comforting him, and yet I pray she will.

  “Each day she was sick, it felt like she was disappearing a piece at a time. And I knew one day she’d be gone completely, so I tried to memorize the fragments that were still there. A smile one day, the way she moved her hands the next. When she died, I was in the room with her; I was the one holding her. People pitied me. ‘How terrible,’ they whispered. They had no fucking idea how lucky I felt. I got to keep that final piece—that last breath.”

  Jude has never spoken to me about the moment our mother died, other than to tell me she had gone peacefully. Then again—I never asked for details. I let him shoulder that alone.

  “When you’re gone, who will be there to collect my pieces?” Jude asks.

  Lizzie starts to sob so hard she can’t speak at first. “Ryan will. He loves you, more than anything.”

  “The only thing I’ve ever wanted is for Ryan to have a normal life. And he will, even if it fucking kills me.” Jude must be hugging Lizzie now, because his voice is muffled, probably by her golden hair. “He’ll get over you—fall in love again, get married, have kids. And what I am to him—how we are together—will completely change. That’s how it should be. But for me, there will only ever be you. You make everything seem possible.”

  I hug my knees into my chest and try to curl into a tiny ball—so small that I will become invisible. Like when you’re a kid and you put your hands over your eyes, believing no one can see you.

  “No. I don’t believe that, and neither should you. There’s never just one right person. Don’t be stubborn and waste everything you have to offer.”

  Jude laughs, but he’s still sniffing. “You always were a mouthy one, Elizabeth.”

  “If I don’t leave now, you’ll lose us both.” Lizzie whispers this so softly, I almost miss it.

  “I know.” There is nothing but the sound of them holding each other for a moment. “At least we’ll always have that one dance.”

  I hear Lizzie’s footsteps come closer, and she rushes past me. She shoots out the door, never even noticing I’m there.

  Jude comes into the hall and stares at the door. He hangs his head and stands with his hands in his pockets, his sadness an almost visible anchor. Eventually, he turns around and sees me sitting on the floor, and all the life drains from his face. His jaw goes slack, his eyes go wide and lose focus. He has no idea what to say, and neither do I.

  CHAPTER 15

  Jude

  In the end, she wrote Ryan a letter. I didn’t blame her: Who’d want to go through all that emotional shit twice? She kept it short and kind. Reassuring, but firm. She was vague, but she didn’t lie. She had no idea that he already knew the truth.

  At first, I missed weird things—the smell of her raspberry body spray. The way she would roll her eyes at me all the time. Then I began to miss the way I used to feel when she was around. Alive.

  Ryan and I are staring across the table at each other as we eat. We do a lot of that now. I clean up the dishes while he gets his bag so he can go study.

  “Did you hear back from your credential program?” I ask. “You should make sure to . . .”

  “I know how it w-works. I d-don’t need your help.” The tone of his voice isn’t rude, but it’s firm. Over the past month, he hasn’t asked me for advice about a single thing. He’s been working as many hours as he wants to. He’s been going out with his friends a lot.

  He also doesn’t turn on any music or make any noise while he’s around. The silence is like an unwanted guest—the kind that fucks with your stuff and leaves the kitchen dirty so you always know he’s there. I stand around and wonder what to do with myself, now that Ryan doesn’t need me like he did. Now that she’s gone.

  By nine, I’ve had enough of sitting alone and watching TV, and I need to get out of this house. Ryan and I can’t talk here, in the spot where everything went down. So I pound on his door.

  “Come out with me,” I say when he opens it. He stares at me and then nods.

  I head the car away from downtown, and we drive to the south side and up into the hills. I take him to a spot wh
ere you can see all the lights of downtown twinkling on the horizon. We get out, lean against the hood of my car, and stare into the distance.

  “I’ve n-n-never b-been here,” Ryan says. It kills me to hear him stuttering more. He has always done that during times of stress. When he was in high school, the sound of his voice felt like a judgment on how good or bad a job I was doing. I take a breath and reassure myself that this will pass. It always does.

  “I’ve only come up here by myself.”

  Ryan still isn’t saying much, so I rack my brain for what to do. I’ve tried asking him about school and work and anything else I can think of. I try to channel Elizabeth, since she always brought out the best in Ryan, and I know she’d tell me I have to give a little to get a little.

  I turn to him. “Can I just go on record as saying this has been an epically shitty month?”

  “I w-will agree with that.”

  I grab two beers that I brought from the house and hand him one.

  I twist off my cap, taking a long, needed drink. “Have you run into her?”

  “You asking b-because you w-want to know how she’s doing, or b-because you w-want to know how I’m d-doing?”

  My first reaction is to reassure him—to tell him that this is all about him. But there’s this new voice inside me, and it’s saying that everything’s always been about him. Maybe it’s time it was about me. Maybe I need to be more honest instead of trying to protect him all the time.

  “Both,” I say.

  “I haven’t s-seen her. I g-go back and f-forth between wanting to see her and p-praying I don’t.”

  “I can empathize.”

  “Yeah.”

  I take a sip of my beer and think about how to phrase what I’m going to say next. “I want your forgiveness, but I don’t know how to ask for it. And I want to tell you how sorry I am, but I don’t want to apologize. Not that that makes any sense.”

  “Why d-don’t you w-want to apologize?”

  “Because it feels like I’d be saying that I wished it never happened, and I can’t say that. But I am sorry that it all happened the way it did—that you got hurt. That she got hurt.”