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I’m nervous telling her, but I do so anyway. “I broke up with him yesterday.”
With a shake of the head, she doesn’t respond. Then she angles her head to face me while it rests on the couch.
“I thought about it, you know,” she says. “I tried to imagine James continuing to push me away because he’s stressed with work. And I imagined him doing so for years. What it’d do to our relationship, to my confidence, how I’d probably question everything and myself.”
When she stares back at the fireplace, I hold in a breath.
It shouldn’t matter what she thinks. The deed is done. We had sex, and I can’t take it back. But I still don’t want her to hate me for this.
“I get it, Gem. I really do. I imagined meeting another man years later, a super duper hot one like Damon, who paid attention to me, made me feel alive again, and I think that many people in your position would do the same.”
I exhale, louder than I intended to.
“Your relationship with Harvey... it’s complicated...” I nod at her words. “You’re loyal to him. Even if Damon wants you, I don’t think you’ll truly let go of Harvey.”
“Gia—”
“Wait, let me finish. I was gonna say maybe you need to, though.”
My heart drops at her revelation. Because deep down—I know she’s right.
We’re silent. So silent, save for the crackle of the fireplace, rustling in the background.
Then I tell her about the drawings. She sympathizes, telling me this is Harvey’s doing. She thinks he pushed me away.
Maybe it’s true. Yet I still could’ve told him how I felt long ago.
I don’t divulge anything about the woman that came to see Damon today nor the journals. Not until I know for sure who she is.
Two and A Half Years Ago . . .
Harvey’s eyes soften when I walk into the room. He’s talking to a tall, dark-skinned woman—his doctor, I presume—so I wait by the side with Harvey’s parents and Hen, who winks at me and squeezes my arm, until they all make their way out.
I see my reflection on a nearby mirror, the bruising on my forehead dulled, but some wounds remain. It’s nothing compared to my bruised stomach.
When I reach the hospital bed, Harv holds my hand. If eyes could scream, his would shout all his anger and disbelief.
Disbelief at his prognosis. At being paraplegic. At this new way of living.
And maybe even sadness and fear—for all the hell that’s sure to come.
Does he hate that I can walk? Resent me?
I spent the day yesterday going through all the things I could’ve done differently, said differently. I even considered the fact that if the quickie we had would’ve lasted longer, it might’vedelayed us being on that street at that time, with the idiot driver who hit Harv and ran like acoward.
I stare at him—he looks paler already, skinnier somehow. He still looks hot. There’s nothing like a busted lip or a bruised eye to make a boy look meaner. But deep down, he’s all good. He’s good and happy and his smile and his laugh—the things he could coax me to do with his laugh alone.
“Come here,” he says once I reach him. I sit on the bed, careful not to crush him. He wraps his arm around me, my anxiety dissipating for the first time since waking up in the hospital.
He’s warm, and he’s mine.
“I’m here, Harvey. I’ll alwaysbehere.”
He shushes me with a kiss on the cheek. Then he steals one on my lips. “You’re alive and well—that’s all that matters. Things could’ve been much worse for you—much worse.”
I know he’s right. The doctor told me after I woke that my tumble down the cliff across the forest could’ve led to more problematic injuries.
We stay in each other’s arms, in stillness, for a long time until he falls asleep.
