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God, I’m so stupid.
What did I think? That seeing me today will change him and he’ll tell me he was lying that day? That he loves me?
Sighing, I look up with a smile on my face; smiling is the key.
“Have a good life.”
I take a step back too, trying not to memorize the way he looks right now. Pounded by the rain. Tall and stoic, almost grim. And handsome. A dream come true.
Then I spin around and leave.
I charge through the glass door of the bookstore where I’m supposed to start my shift. Christian, the new guy, is standing behind the counter with his suspenders and hipster glasses. He looks a little startled at my abrupt entrance.
“You and me.” I stab my finger at him. “We’re going on a date. Tomorrow. Got it?”
His eyes are wide and confused. “I have a b-boyfriend.”
“I don’t care,” I snap. “I’m moving the fuck on. And you can’t stop me.”
“I-I’m not –"
Without listening to him, I march over to the bathroom in the back and burst into tears.
I never thought I’d be sad about my father dying.
I certainly never thought I’d shed tears. Not after refusing to talk to him more than in passing for years. Especially not after refusing to see him, while being in the same town and fixing his house. He was there all along, upstairs, being cared for by his nurse but I hardly ever stopped by his room.
My father didn’t want to live in a facility. He was too proud for it. He didn’t want people to know that a brilliant psychiatrist like him was slowly forgetting how to tie his own shoes and if his wife was dead or alive.
I hired the nurse because I didn’t want to pack up my life in Boston and move back home to take care of him myself. I thought he deserved to die alone like my mother did.
But he didn’t. I was there with him in his final moments.
I’ve been there with him for the past three months. I don’t think it’s because I’ve forgotten the things he did or the role he played in my mother’s suicide.
It’s because finally, I’ve forgiven him for my own peace of mind. I have finally decided to be better than him in the ways that count. He wasn’t there for my mom, but I could be there for him.
Although, he didn’t know. He was hardly lucid. It was okay. I wouldn’t know what to say to him, even if he were.
So I said all the things I wanted to say.
I told him all the things about the girl whose heart I broke. Willow Taylor.
Standing in the rain, I watch her walk away. I watch her almost smash through the door and streak out of my sight like a falling star.
Have a good life.
It’s not a question, but I’m compelled to answer her. I told her that she had no right to ask me anything; I was lying. Because when it comes to saving her, I am a goddamn liar.
But as it turns out, she didn’t need saving. All she needed was for me to move the fuck on from the past and accept what she already knew.
That I had feelings for her. I have feelings for her.
I don’t know how long it’s been since she went inside but I’m telling her. She needs to know.
I burst through the door too, words almost bubbling on my tongue. There’s a guy behind the counter and he jumps, nervously.
“C-can I help you?”
“Where’s Willow?” I ask, my words rough and low. Shaking.
He looks to the side quickly before saying, “I, uh, don’t know. She’s not here yet.”
Dickhead.
I wonder if they are friends, this moron and Willow. I wonder if he finds her fucking stunning too.
“Stay away from her,” I warn him, even though I don’t know if it’s necessary. Even though it’s me who has no right to say these things.
He throws his hands up in the air, exasperated. “What the fuck, dude? What’s up with people today? I’m gay, all right?”
I ignore him even as I breathe out, a bit relieved. Not that it means much, his being gay. Willow can tempt anyone, if she wants to. But somehow, she has no clue.
I march across the space without responding to the guy’s protests and make a turn where he glanced at accidentally. It’s a hallway and there are doors on either side. I’m contemplating throwing every single one of them open until I find her.
But a second later, she comes out of one, halting in her tracks at the sight of me. “Simon?”
I gorge on her face, her rounded cheeks flushed with the cold and the rain, her wide eyes red with tears.
When she cries, the blue in her gaze turns bright and liquid, and my body gets emptied out of everything. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Every little space inside me fills up with this need to put a stop to it. Whatever is making her cry. Or rather, whoever.
