Page 53 of The Has-Been

She blinks as I walk past. “Where are you going?” she asks quietly.

My hand is resting on the doorknob, my back to her as my head drops. And why—why do I pause, why don’t I walk out the door?

Why—that fucking word.

“I can’t do this, Aub—rey.” I almost slip, almost call her by that nickname. But I thankfully catch myself and add it on at the end. I know if she’s listening closely enough, she’ll have noticed.

I’ve come back, and I’ve faced so many of the demons I once let haunt me. I’m proud of the progress I’ve made. I’m happy to feel like myself again. But it’s her I can’t face—can’t tolerate being near. I can’t endure the way she looks at me, the pity in her stare, as if I’m that bomb Brennan talked about, ready to go off at any minute—destroying myself and burying her in my rubble.

I’m okay with destroying myself—I’ve already done that. But I’ll be damned if I destroy her. She’s summer, freckles on sun-kissed skin, radiant and warm. And I’m winter, cold and lifeless.

I take a deep breath. My hand slowly twists the knob, forcing my body to leave her when all it really wants to do is stay. I speak the words that I know will cut her the deepest, “I can’t pretend that nothing happened, that you didn’t just leave me.” When I turn around, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had just walked through the door, leaving her with no explanation.

But I can’t do that to her. Because then she’ll only try again…

And the thought of that—of enduring a night like this again—feels like heaven. But when you feel like the devil, when you’re so dark and twisted, even the promise of paradise becomes torture. So I twist the knife I’ve already planted in her back and add, “I know I was a mess…” I choke back my tears, refusing to let her see them, to know the power and emotion she still holds over me. Not because I’m afraid of being vulnerable, but because I don’t want her to get her hopes up—to believe we can hash out the past. That we can be friends, civil toward one another.

“But you left me…that night in the parking lot, I asked you to stay, to wait...and you didn’t.” As if my words are indeed a knife, then the paleness of her skin, the loss of vibrancy in her eyes, show signs that I’ve made a killing blow.

“You left me...” Three words. That’s all it takes for her to turn, to look at me differently.

Three words—so very different from the ones my brain is screaming for me to say. But these are what she needs to hear.

They are part truth, and that is why I know they strike true.

Aubrey Vaughn did leave me that night...But I had left her long before that.

I watch through blurred eyes as Aubrey pulls her knees to her chest, looking out her window, far from meeting my murderous gaze.

Good. I think.

I don’t want to see those brown eyes, not now.

Not again.

She deserves so much more.

More than me.

More than this.

And if this is what I have to do to push her away, to get her to forget about me and continue her life. Then I’ll do it.

I’ll do anything.

I push the door open, facing the wooden grain once more as I add, “You might be over what happened between us. Might be able to ask me over and pretend like we can be friends.” I choke, “But I can’t. I’ll never forgive you for leaving me. For walking away when I needed you most.”

“I waited,” she chokes, and I spin around to look at her, to see the damage I’ve caused.

My heart drops.

I’m trying to spare her pain, trying to keep her at arm’s length instead of pulling her into the wreckage like I’ve already done before.

Aubrey’s voice starts to rise, and I know the temper I once loved so much is begging to be let out. “I waited six months after the injury for you to grieve your precious hockey like it was the love of your life. I fucking waited!” She shakes her head, her face growing red.

I know that she did. I recognize that. But I can’t let her know that, let her see how much I regret those months leading up to the overdose. If I do, if I tell her I’m sorry, if I beg for her forgiveness, then what? We forgive one another. We grow close, forced into each other’s proximity.

No.