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Because he hasn’t.
Two weeks ago when I sent him away after a dramatic display of rage, I thought he’d leave. He’d go back to California, the place where he belongs. The place he wanted to return to, earlier than planned.
But then he brought back my letters and gave me his pretty chain.
I didn’t want to put it on, you know.
I didn’t want anything to do with it; I was so mad at him. For beating himself up as always, for treating me as a mistake, as an obligation.
I was so, so mad.
But I guess I’m weak. I’m a sucker when it comes to him because I did put it on.
I did.
I have it around my neck right now. It sits on my chest – under all my layers of clothing – between the valley of my breasts, stuck to my skin.
Every time I touch it, I feel him.
I hear him too.
I hear his last words before he left.
You’re wrong. Because I want…
Now, what does that mean? What does he want?
And then there’s Leah.
She cut short her meeting in New York when she heard about what happened with me at St. Mary’s. I was expecting her to lecture me, berate me about my sneaking out and, of course, the letters. Maybe even punish me but she didn’t say anything.
Actually, she was… caring toward me.
Leah and I, we’ve always had a complicated relationship. She’s always been a strict maternal figure who has tried her best to make me toe the line. Though she’s never made me feel like I’m a burden to her, she’s never made me feel particularly warm and fuzzy either.
So her sudden change was kind of surprising.
What was even more surprising was the fact that after I was discharged, she gave me two weeks off from St. Mary’s. I would’ve understood her giving me a couple of days off, especially since the doctor said that I needed my rest, but two weeks was a lot. Even though that period included Thanksgiving break.
But that’s not the most surprising thing.
The most epic surprise was when she came into my room one night and told me that if I didn’t want to return to St. Mary’s at all, she was okay with it. She even apologized about Miller and how it was her fault that she gave Miller free rein because she’d always been so busy with out-of-town meetings and conferences.
She continued, “I’ve always been hard on him, on Arrow. Extremely hard. Harder than necessary. Harder than… what’s humane even. I told myself that I was trying to mold him into someone Atticus would be proud of. But now I think maybe I was doing it because I missed my husband. I missed him so much that I wanted to keep him alive. Through my son.”
Before I could even attempt to respond to that, respond to her frank words about how she’s treated Arrow, she ducked her head and cleared her throat.
“This came for you.” She had a gray envelope in her hand that I’d somehow missed, and she put it on my dresser. “I’m glad he has you.”
She left then, leaving me stunned.
That was the first letter from him, two weeks ago.
In which he told me that he’d leave a letter just like the one I was holding in the mailbox every day.
That’s why I’m here tonight, in front of his motel door.
Because I want to know what it all means.
I want to know why he’s doing these things. Why isn’t he leaving? Why does Leah think he has me when he doesn’t even want me?
If this is some crazy attempt to pay for what he thinks is his mistake, then I want him to stop.
I want him to stop torturing me, making me fall in love with him even more.
Before I can talk myself out of it because holy fuck I’m terrified and this feels exactly like the night I came over to stop him from leaving, I knock at his door.
Two loud sharp knocks that make my knuckles throb.
I rub them to chase the sting away and the door whips open before I’ve even finished the task.
And he’s there.
Right in front of me. Only a few feet away.
The love of my life.
This is the first time I’m seeing him after that day at the hospital, and he looks… exactly the same.
Standing at the threshold, wearing a pair of washed out jeans and his gray V-neck t-shirt, he looks burned out, my sun.
He still has darkness under his brilliant blue eyes and his features are still all razor sharp and severe.
“Salem,” he says in a rough voice.
In a voice that sounds unused.
My lips part. “Hey.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snaps, his brows pulled together in a frown.
It’s the same question he asked me the other night too, and like that night, my nerves mount but I try to calm myself.
