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A few laughs dissolved into tears and I continued to cry, blinking to see the screen as the words still flowed.
Maybe someday you’ll string all those words together and they’ll tell a story.
What kind of story?
Something good, little star. Something that inspires hope.
The phone continued to ring. I drank when I needed to. I forced myself to eat enough that my mind still worked and my body kept me upright. The banging on the door started up again and this time my mind cleared enough to hear the sounds of Dawson yelling my name from the other side.
I stood, shaking my head slightly to dispel the traces of the world I’d been living in: a land of both ruby-laden castles and bridges built from thorns. The world I’d been crafting from the rubble of my shattered heart. Piece by piece by piece. And it wasn’t nearly done. I still had so much work to do.
I pulled the door open and Dawson’s mouth fell open, his gaze raking down my body and back up again. “Jesus Christ, Karys. Are you okay? The police said you were in here but I almost didn’t believe them. What the hell happened? My mother is beside herself.”
It took me a minute to digest his words. “I’m okay,” I said. “I’m . . . working.”
“Working? What the fuck? You disappeared from our engagement party, Karys. You haven’t shown up to work. What the hell is going on?”
I stepped back into my apartment, my shoulders dropping as I bit my lip. “I can’t go to my office right now. I . . . I need some time, Dawson.”
“Some time? Some time for what? What happened to you?”
What happened to you.
I was abandoned, then stolen. I was sex trafficked. Used. Then I was betrayed. Abandoned again.
And somewhere in there I fell in love, I smiled, I felt joy and satisfaction.
I hated myself. I loved myself. I was miserable and grateful and desperately confused.
I was blinded by the pain, and my eyes had been opened to the truth in all its tragic glory.
And I was grieving. I was grieving the loss of the other half of my soul.
And it was too much to grapple with. Too big to sort through without some kind of filter. And that’s what the writing was doing. It was helping me look at my life with objectivity. It was keeping me sane.
I pulled at the button on the shirt I’d changed into and then I looked at Dawson. Really looked at him. “I don’t love you enough,” I breathed. I don’t love myself enough either. “And I’m so sorry about that.”
His brows knitted and then he became very still. “What? Where is this coming from? You look ill, Karys. Something’s wrong.” A huff of breath gusted from him. “Is it because of the coke? I told you, I’m stressed, okay? And frankly, this shit”—he gestured toward me and presumably my appearance—“isn’t helping at all. We had to tell the guests you’d gotten sick. Maybe it wasn’t a lie.”
“No, it wasn’t a lie. Something is wrong. And I am ill. I’ll get better. But, Dawson . . . I can’t marry you.” The last word emerged as a whisper. So little was clear. I was swimming in a turbulent sea of misery and confusion. But that, that was as clear as the glass mountains my heroine had recently scaled. I couldn’t marry a man I had lukewarm feelings for. I couldn’t do that to him, and I couldn’t do that to me. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Dawson’s expression hardened. “You’re having some sort of breakdown, Karys. I’ll give you some time to get through it and then we’ll talk.”
I shook my head. “I don’t need time for that. You deserve better.” I’d thought maybe the lie I was punishing myself for was that I had ever fully moved on from Zakai. But that wasn’t it. I had been punishing myself because I didn’t love Dawson, and yet I’d been telling myself I did. Shame rattled within me. I had been so deeply unfair. I reached into my pocket and brought out the ring I’d taken off and put it in Dawson’s hand. He stared down at it for a moment, his expression tightening even more.
“Jesus!” He raked a hand through his hair. “Are you that fucked up that you’re going to throw our relationship away? Embarrass me in front of half of New York City’s elite? Are you really going to let some madman in the desert rule your head for the rest of your fucking life?”
Maybe. I’m not sure yet. “Tell your mother I’m very sorry,” I said, moving toward the door that still stood open so I could close it behind him. “Someday you’ll both see that . . . I wasn’t right for you.”
