he’d left and I pushed him away, knowing it would be the end. It had to be the end. We couldn’t keep doing it to each other. It wasn’t helping him, and it was only confusing me.
I’d teetered on the edge of a cliff, and then had stumbled back at the last moment. Tearing myself away, pushing him away. It had been wrenchingly painful. But far better than spending the rest of my life loving him and never being able to have him.
And then…and then I’d found out I was pregnant, and everything changed. Now I had no idea what was going to happen to me. I had no one. I’d cut Dad out of my life, although being the stubborn asshole he was, he’d continued to pay for my tuition and room and board. I didn’t know why, and never would. He wouldn’t visit us, wouldn’t call us, wouldn’t make any efforts to repair the damaged relationships, but he paid for school, and sent us a monthly allowance. I’d saved most of mine over the past few years. I had enough money put aside to live on a shoestring for maybe a year. I’d been saving it to buy a place when I graduated, only now that would never happen.
When Ever went into the coma, Dad had paid the hospital bills until she’d entered the Home, at which point she’d become a ward of the state. I think he had kick-ass insurance that had covered a huge portion of her bills, but it still must have cost him a staggering amount of money. I also think he paid Cade’s hospital bills. I don’t know if Cade even realized that.
But he wasn’t a support system. I wouldn’t ask him for money. I wouldn’t call him. I wouldn’t let him know what was going on.
I couldn’t tell Ever or Cade, either. Mom was long dead, as were her parents and Dad’s. So there was just me.
And I was paralyzed with fear. I had no plan, a limited amount of money, no job, no degree. No friends, no family.
I felt the tears begin again, and I lurched off the couch. I pulled Apollo from his case and sat down in the chair in the middle of the living room. I played, and played, and played. Until I broke through the calluses on my fingers and bled, until my wrist ached from holding the bow, until my teeth hurt from grinding them together. I didn’t even know what I was playing, just that it was all that mattered, all I had to keep the fear at bay, to keep the brokenness from overwhelming me.
As I finally let the bow drop to the floor, a thought came to me: Each day, facing my fear and simply moving through the day, was akin to jumping off the dock as a little girl. Just waking up was facing my fear. Taking each breath was an act of will. Not breaking down in tears each moment was an effort. All I could do, every single day, was face my fear, jump off the dock, and hope I could swim to shore.
running from the truth
I was lying on the beach late one evening, a few hours before sunset. To the west, out over the water, the sun was an orange ball hanging above the horizon. I was glistening with a layer of sweat, ready to take a quick swim before heading home.
I heard the rumble of his car first. Heard the slam of the door in the distance, followed by a few minutes of silence. Then I heard his footsteps, kicking up the sand. I pretended to ignore him, keeping my eyes closed behind my sunglasses, my hands folded low over my belly, feet crossed at the ankles. I was glad I’d worn my one-piece swimsuit—I was starting to show, just a little.
I thought perhaps he hadn’t seen me. His footsteps were passing right next to me. I felt a spray of warm sand hit my leg, and then a sharp intake of breath. I opened my eyes, and found it hard to think. He was standing above me, outlined by the sun. He was so close I could smell him. Sawdust and sweat. I tipped up my sunglasses to see him better. Sweat dripped from his nose and ran down his temple, coating his long, toned arms. He was shirtless, wearing a scuba diving bag on his shoulders. His washboard abs glistened, and the swim
I’d teetered on the edge of a cliff, and then had stumbled back at the last moment. Tearing myself away, pushing him away. It had been wrenchingly painful. But far better than spending the rest of my life loving him and never being able to have him.
And then…and then I’d found out I was pregnant, and everything changed. Now I had no idea what was going to happen to me. I had no one. I’d cut Dad out of my life, although being the stubborn asshole he was, he’d continued to pay for my tuition and room and board. I didn’t know why, and never would. He wouldn’t visit us, wouldn’t call us, wouldn’t make any efforts to repair the damaged relationships, but he paid for school, and sent us a monthly allowance. I’d saved most of mine over the past few years. I had enough money put aside to live on a shoestring for maybe a year. I’d been saving it to buy a place when I graduated, only now that would never happen.
When Ever went into the coma, Dad had paid the hospital bills until she’d entered the Home, at which point she’d become a ward of the state. I think he had kick-ass insurance that had covered a huge portion of her bills, but it still must have cost him a staggering amount of money. I also think he paid Cade’s hospital bills. I don’t know if Cade even realized that.
But he wasn’t a support system. I wouldn’t ask him for money. I wouldn’t call him. I wouldn’t let him know what was going on.
I couldn’t tell Ever or Cade, either. Mom was long dead, as were her parents and Dad’s. So there was just me.
And I was paralyzed with fear. I had no plan, a limited amount of money, no job, no degree. No friends, no family.
I felt the tears begin again, and I lurched off the couch. I pulled Apollo from his case and sat down in the chair in the middle of the living room. I played, and played, and played. Until I broke through the calluses on my fingers and bled, until my wrist ached from holding the bow, until my teeth hurt from grinding them together. I didn’t even know what I was playing, just that it was all that mattered, all I had to keep the fear at bay, to keep the brokenness from overwhelming me.
As I finally let the bow drop to the floor, a thought came to me: Each day, facing my fear and simply moving through the day, was akin to jumping off the dock as a little girl. Just waking up was facing my fear. Taking each breath was an act of will. Not breaking down in tears each moment was an effort. All I could do, every single day, was face my fear, jump off the dock, and hope I could swim to shore.
running from the truth
I was lying on the beach late one evening, a few hours before sunset. To the west, out over the water, the sun was an orange ball hanging above the horizon. I was glistening with a layer of sweat, ready to take a quick swim before heading home.
I heard the rumble of his car first. Heard the slam of the door in the distance, followed by a few minutes of silence. Then I heard his footsteps, kicking up the sand. I pretended to ignore him, keeping my eyes closed behind my sunglasses, my hands folded low over my belly, feet crossed at the ankles. I was glad I’d worn my one-piece swimsuit—I was starting to show, just a little.
I thought perhaps he hadn’t seen me. His footsteps were passing right next to me. I felt a spray of warm sand hit my leg, and then a sharp intake of breath. I opened my eyes, and found it hard to think. He was standing above me, outlined by the sun. He was so close I could smell him. Sawdust and sweat. I tipped up my sunglasses to see him better. Sweat dripped from his nose and ran down his temple, coating his long, toned arms. He was shirtless, wearing a scuba diving bag on his shoulders. His washboard abs glistened, and the swim
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