by Elle Maxwell
Okay, so he’s hot. Painfully, scorchingly hot.
But I won’t let my attraction to him erase any of the strength and independence I’ve found over the last few years, the self-assurance that tells me a risk this big is not worth taking. I’ve never been someone who needs to learn a lesson twice—I get burned once and I stay away from the fire forever.
05. HELL YES, I DID
Mackenzie
Although the freshmen in my section would no doubt disagree, I love exam days. There’s something meditative about the energy of a silent room filled with active minds. Today’s test is especially well-timed. I desperately need this quiet hour to think.
For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a veterinarian. I used to play “animal hospital” with my toys when I was kid, and over the years it was always my answer in those “get to know you” games. Now when asked about my choice of major, I tell people that Psych 101—the very class I’m now a TA for—inspired me so much freshmen year that I changed my life plans. It’s not a complete lie; I did enjoy the class and I am still close with Professor Marshaud, who even wrote my recommendation for grad school, but it’s at least eighty percent false.
I’ve never verbalized the real reason I decided to study psychology to anyone but Marisa, on one of our many drunken nights of soul-sharing. I once even flat-out lied when an old friend from high school asked if my choice had anything to do with Graham.
Did I decide to study psychology because I was once blindsided by the love of my life, and now I want to learn all about the human mind and behaviors so I never experience that again? Hell yes, I did.
There are moments in life, as the cliché goes, that irrevocably change everything. Mine was, unsurprisingly, the night of Graham’s arrest. When I got the news that he had been arrested for murder, followed shortly by the revelation of everything he’d been hiding from me as the police searched his car, I was shocked and devastated and angry at him. But more than anything else, I was mad at myself. I’m still mad at myself, even after all this time.
How could I not have known? No one actually asked me the question, but I felt it behind their eyes. Anyone who knew us, who saw us together for even a second, could tell how close we were. How did I not see how badly he was struggling? That he was engaging in self-destructive behaviors? That he was doing drugs?
It made me question not only him, and myself, but our whole relationship. Did I even really know him? If he lied to me about all these things, maybe he’d been dishonest in other aspects of our relationship, even before his parents died.
The only answer I have is that I believed him. I had so much faith in our love that when he told me he was doing okay I trusted him implicitly. I loved him so much that I couldn’t see past those love goggles—and let me tell you, they can distort things even more than beer goggles.
And the even harder truth is that I didn’t want to see. I was self-absorbed—not abnormally or pathologically so, but I was seventeen. I grieved for him, and with him, but I also wanted my life to stay the same. I wanted my boyfriend and the perfect relationship we’d had before, and when he seemed to be giving that to me, I didn’t question it because I didn’t want to.
What he did was unforgivable, but my actions were unforgivable too. He didn’t have anyone else. I was the closest person to him, the one who was supposed to spend my life loving him, and I failed him.
After two days caught up in a whirlwind of emotions triggered by Graham’s reentry into my life, I’ve landed in this state of contemplation and self-reflection. I’ve essentially relived all the stages of grief and recovery from the last five years in hyper-speed, crammed into a couple of days, and now I’ve returned to the place of acceptance I had finally achieved before Graham showed up on my college campus.
I know the next time I see him I won’t run. I am no longer a girl who runs.
I remember encountering somewhere the use of broken bones as a literary metaphor about growing stronger after you’ve survived life’s trials. Though it stuck with me, the metaphor is flawed—when you break a bone, unless you have metal inserted surgically, the place that was broken doesn’t heal to be stronger. If anything, you are more susceptible to break or injure it again.
However, the spirit of the metaphor is spot on—it is possible to become stronger after experiencing pain. That particular spot will always be a weakness, a residual pain point, but the survivors learn how to grow strong around that weakness. You learn to protect it, to bolster the bones and tendons and muscles surrounding it to compensate, to adjust your movements and behaviors so there is less risk of danger to the past injury site.
Graham was my broken bone, but I survived him, and now I live my life with the knowledge of how that pain feels. I grew emotional scar tissue around my heart, and I cast aside my youthful naïveté. And sometimes the old wound aches, but the pain no longer feels like it’s going to kill me.
The truth is that I am stronger now than before Graham’s arrest because I taught myself how to be. I’ve spent the last five years learning exactly who I am and making sure that I will never again need another person to complete me, that I won’t allow anyone to hold such power over my ability to survive. These days I’m more careful about choosing the men I date and the people I allow into my life.
But I don’t lean on them. Because you know what happens when you lean on something and it suddenly disappears? You fall the fuck down.
* * *
I’ve collected the final exam booklet and stacked it neatly on top of the others in my bag. I heft the blue book laden tote onto my shoulder, trying not to think about the weight signifying all that grading I have ahead of me.
Before exiting the Psychology building, I stop to take a quick peek out the window. I may not run from Graham if I see him, but I don’t want to be caught off guard again—a strong defense is a good offense and all that. But I see no head of dark blond hair amidst the small crowd enjoying the afternoon sun in the courtyard. With a sigh of half relief and half—disappointment?—I carry my usual schoolbag and the extra tote of exam books to my Camry to start the drive home.
I’m fumbling with the two bags and reaching for my keys as I walk up the front path to my house, so I don’t see him until I’m almost stepping on him.
Graham Fucking Wyatt. Sitting on my front steps.
So much for not being caught off guard. I am one hundred percent surprised to see him here, so much so that I jerk back in shock and drop the bag of blue books. Half of them go flying over the small front yard, and I let out a curse. Graham’s voice rumbles in a deep chuckle as he unfolds his long legs and starts retrieving books. I hastily set my bags down and race to get them myself.
“I’ve got it,” I say with a little too much hostility. Without responding, he hands over a pile of neatly stacked papers.
I still haven’t looked at his face.
Sometimes being strong is knowing when you need to pace yourself, when to take a breath from the hits before heading back into the ring. And I need to catch my breath right now—both literally and metaphorically. I take my time re-packing the bag and placing it securely next to the steps with my other one. Then with a fortifying breath, I turn around and face him, my arms crossed in front of me, guards back up in place.
“This needs to stop. My school, my work, now my home? This isn’t normal behavior, Graham. Have you considered talking to someone professionally to help you deal with this transition?”
He chuckles again and his deep voice transfers frissons of static that raise little hairs all over my body.
“You offering to be my shrink, Kenz?”
06. THE PRINCESS & THE DRAGON
Graham
Well, those are definitely not the first words I thought I’d say to Mackenzie after five years.
Not that I had a speech planned or anything, but I guess I imagined an epic apology, or declaration of love, or ... fuck, just “hello.”
Mackenzie doesn’t look like she’d respond well
to a “hello” right now. She’s standing there with arms crossed, looking downright pissed as she glares at me with eyes that are filled with fire but also guarded.
It seems she spent these years building walls around herself, and I am clearly on the outside. She’s so much more serious than she used to be, and more fierce. A tough as nails soul contained within the tiny frame of her 5’4” body.
She’s the princess locked away in the castle tower, and she’s also the dragon guarding the thing.
“I am obviously not offering to be your ‘shrink.’ That would be incredibly inappropriate given our history, not to mention that I’m not a licensed practitioner.” Her words are brusque and businesslike.
“I got counseling in prison, but I haven’t looked into a therapist now that I’m out. Maybe I will.”
My honesty seems to take some of the wind out of her sails. Her posture becomes a little less rigid, and I see her eyes soften slightly. She is clearly surprised.
“Oh,” she says. “Well, that’s good.”
“You look good.” It’s not poetry, and it’s not profound, but again it’s the truth.
“You look … good too.”
A slight rosy hue climbs up her cheekbones, and I bite my own cheek to keep from grinning. Reason Number 282 why I love that she’s a redhead: she can’t ever hide her blush. It spills out onto the pale canvas of her skin and paints her emotions for everyone to view.
So, she likes what she sees. That’s good to know.
I’m definitely in the best shape of my life from my solid workout regimen in prison (though I confess that while the abs are a plus, it was really a strategic move to keep guys from messing with me). Regardless, I’ll admit her yoga class last night kicked my ass. It was no joke—I am sore in places I wasn’t aware existed. And I’m sure it doesn’t help anything that I’ve been eating mountains of junk food and takeout for days, catching up on everything I missed while I was locked up. I need to get my ass in gear and start working out again.
Math problem: How many crunches will it take for me to make that blush spread all the way to her thighs?
Of course, now I’m thinking about her thighs, and the way she looked in those skintight spandex yoga clothes. Wait, what were we talking about? Definitely not me getting embarrassingly hard during our first conversation.
“Why are you here, Graham?” she says in a softer voice, though her arms are still crossed in front of her like armor. “What do you want?”
I clear my throat. Hearing her say my name, after all this time … it does something to me. I want to record it and play it on repeat to keep me company at night when I’m alone with the ghosts in my childhood home.
“I just want to talk.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but I cut her off with a sudden sound of frustration.
“Shit.” Roughly raking my fingers through the overly long hair on top of my head, I tug then grip the back of my skull with both hands. “No, that’s a lie.”
Her eyes widen in shock, and she takes a step back that almost looks unconscious.
“And I swore I’d never lie to you again. So, the truth? I do want to talk, but I want so much more than that. I want to know you, to re-learn every detail about you and find out all the things I’ve missed. I want to hold you, touch your skin, feel your hair. I want to be the guy who gets to hear your voice every night and wake up to your face every morning. I want … fuck, I want everything. I didn’t plan to throw all of this at you right now, but it’s the truth. I want to be … us again.” By the time I speak the final words, my voice is hoarse with emotion.
She looks stunned, and for a moment she simply stares at me with wide eyes. I keep palming my own head in a punishing grip, hoping to hold myself together after I just spilled my guts all over her front lawn.
“Graham.” God, again, my name on her lips. “That’s not how it works. Maybe you’ve been holding on to some idea of our relationship, but ‘us’ … it doesn’t exist anymore. It stopped existing a long time ago. We don’t even know each other now. I’m a different person, and I’m sure you’re different too. Plus, there’s too much damage. It’s not like you were away in a war. You were in prison. Prison, Graham.”
She takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes for a second as though the weight of this talk is almost too much even for her ironclad will. Her gorgeous blue-green eyes are miles deep when they reopen and fix back on me.
“At this point, I’m not sure our relationship, that ‘us,’ was real. I don’t think I even truly knew you then. All the lies. Drugs, Graham? Murder? How can I believe anything I thought we had was real?”
“It was real.” My voice is even gruffer now, so much emotion thickening the surface of my throat that the three words are all I can get out.
“Anyway,” she says in a totally different tone, regaining control of the conversation. “I’m seeing someone.”
At that, I let out a derisive snort.
“That twerp from the other night? Come on, Kenz, there’s no way he’s man enough for you. That’s like handing the keys to a Camaro over to a kid who just got out of training wheels.”
Her hands are no longer crossed … she’s got one propped on each hip and one leg cocked out to the side. One hundred pounds of pure attitude.
“One, thanks for the vehicle comparison. I was low on my objectification quota for the day. And two, what do you mean by ‘the other night?’ Have you been stalking me?”
Yeah, so about that …
“I’ve been checking on you,” I mutter.
“That’s really crossing the line.”
“I just needed to see you, to be close to you …” I take a step toward her and she backs away.
Dammit. I’m royally screwing this up. I sound like such a creeper right now.
“Don’t make me call the police.”
My gut churns again, the same way it did when she ran away from me the other day.
“Do you really think I’d lay a hand on you, Kenz? You must know I’d never hurt you.”
“You did hurt me.” It’s nearly a whisper. Right now she’s the most vulnerable I’ve seen her.
Then she pulls her chainmail back on, visibly stiffening her posture. She picks up her bags, which are so big that combined they’re basically the same size as she is. I have the urge to rush forward and help her with them, but I hold back—everything about her stance and expression screams “stay away from me.”
“Stop following me. And don’t show up like this again. I mean it.”
Then she’s walking away—always away, perpetual punishment for the way I once left her. She disappears inside the front door, and I hear the click as she locks it behind her.
Drawbridge up, princess tightly secured. And me, still standing on the outside.
07. BROWNIE SITUATION
Mackenzie
“I want to know you, to re-learn every detail about you and find out all the things I’ve missed. I want to hold you, touch your skin, feel your hair. I want to be the guy who gets to hear your voice every night and wake up to your face every morning.”
It’s been twenty minutes and my heart is still beating so hard I can feel it pulsing behind my eye sockets.
“I want to be … us again.”
Those words. Oh, how a part of me has longed to hear those words for the last five years—in the small rogue corner of my brain still stuck at seventeen. I clearly remember the desperation I felt as I rushed to check the mail for weeks, longing for a word from Graham, even though my parents told me to let him go and my own mind knew he’d betrayed me. I longed for a note, a word, anything from him. If he would only say he still loved me, I rationalized. If he would apologize and explain away the terrible things people in town said he did … but nothing ever came.
I never wrote or tried to visit him either. At first, it was because my parents forbade it. Later, I stayed away because even in the darkest depths of my heartbreak, I refused to be a girl who crawled after a boy
, especially one who didn’t even love me enough to tell me the truth.
But the pain in his eyes today, the raw edge in his voice …
“… fuck, I want everything.”
He didn’t deny the accusation of murder, though, even when I brought it up point-blank. And that is not something I can overlook or justify as a grief-fueled mistake.
Marisa walks into the living room and reads my mood immediately.
“Wine or tequila?”
“Brownies,” I reply. She whistles (translation: oh shit) because she knows junk food is my vice of choice for dire situations when alcohol alone won’t do.