throat tight. “I remember, Hope. I fucking live with your fucked up beliefs every day of my life.”
“Those are my words,” she says, her voice quiet but firm as she brings her attention back to me. “I wrote them, Cameron. I wrote them when you stopped.”
Her face twists with confusion. “Stopped? Stopped what? Stopped answering your crazy calls? Stopped responding to your angry emails?”
“You just stopped . All I knew and believed in was us , and then you stopped. To me, you stopped loving and knowing me. So no, I didn’t believe in promises, I didn’t believe in love. And yes, I wrote those words for you. So you would remember.”
“How could I ever forget, Hope? Do you still believe that stuff you wrote? That love doesn’t exist? That all we have in our hearts is blood? That you die alone and goodbyes are forever?” I force a slight chuckle. Those words crushed me and robbed me of precious sleep during midterms, and I hated Hope for that, for nailing that final nail into the coffin. We had a promise .
“Why did you stop?” she asked. “It wasn’t the poem.”
Her question has haunted me all of these years. I still don’t know why I “stopped,” but I do know that I enjoyed the freedom. Not right away, but after that first semester I sure did. And having that five-year promise in my back pocket helped me feel secure, too. It was my insurance policy. I figured, if nothing better came along, Hope would be waiting for me at the end of that term, and until then, I was supposed to live the life all men fantasized about.
But then I met Riley, and I sort of forgot about Hope, filed her in the back of my mind and allowed that insurance policy to expire. It became easier to think we could just go our separate ways, no hard feelings, no harm done. Because Riley would never have agreed to a two-day promise, let alone a five-year one that would leave my spirit crushed and my heart split in two.
Except I kept finding this poem Hope had written for me.
“Cameron, tell me why you stopped.”
The restaurant staff starts moving the other tables back into place, getting ready for their regular dining hours. I smirk at her. “I think it’s time for us to leave.”
“Just tell me!” Her tone has a joking edge to it, but I know she wants the answer to why I disappeared. “Tell me why you stopped!”
I push my chair out and stand up, shrugging. “Maybe another time, Hope. Let’s get out of here.”
“Fucking goob,” she curses, standing up and walking with me to the doors to the Art Institute of Chicago. “Don’t think for one minute I don’t know what you’re doing,” she adds, falling into stride next to me. “But you will tell me why you stopped.”
} i {
Chapter 24
9:58 AM
I ’m staring at my face in the mirror, running a finger along the smile lines and wondering how I got so old, so fast. I’m not even thirty yet, but these lines shouldn’t exist. I shouldn’t look at my face and feel like life has sucked the good years out of me. Not yet.
But life has sucked those good years out of me. This mess with Hope is largely to blame because sometimes, when you love someone this much, that kind of love strips you of something.
I know this. Even Riley knows this. I’m just not so sure that Hope knows this.
When another man enters the bathroom and slides into one of the stalls so quietly that it’s obvious he doesn’t want anyone to notice him, it’s time to leave. I wash and dry my hands then climb the grand stairwell all the way to the top floor. I pause when I find Hope standing in front of a Monet painting. It’s the Arrival of the Normandy Train, Gare Saint-Lazare , and it’s perfect. Each stroke of Monet’s brush makes me feel something in my chest. I don’t get to think too much about what that sensation means, though.
Hope turns away from the Monet and studies me. “Everything okay?” she asks, stepping up to me. Her heels clack and smother me with memories of
“Those are my words,” she says, her voice quiet but firm as she brings her attention back to me. “I wrote them, Cameron. I wrote them when you stopped.”
Her face twists with confusion. “Stopped? Stopped what? Stopped answering your crazy calls? Stopped responding to your angry emails?”
“You just stopped . All I knew and believed in was us , and then you stopped. To me, you stopped loving and knowing me. So no, I didn’t believe in promises, I didn’t believe in love. And yes, I wrote those words for you. So you would remember.”
“How could I ever forget, Hope? Do you still believe that stuff you wrote? That love doesn’t exist? That all we have in our hearts is blood? That you die alone and goodbyes are forever?” I force a slight chuckle. Those words crushed me and robbed me of precious sleep during midterms, and I hated Hope for that, for nailing that final nail into the coffin. We had a promise .
“Why did you stop?” she asked. “It wasn’t the poem.”
Her question has haunted me all of these years. I still don’t know why I “stopped,” but I do know that I enjoyed the freedom. Not right away, but after that first semester I sure did. And having that five-year promise in my back pocket helped me feel secure, too. It was my insurance policy. I figured, if nothing better came along, Hope would be waiting for me at the end of that term, and until then, I was supposed to live the life all men fantasized about.
But then I met Riley, and I sort of forgot about Hope, filed her in the back of my mind and allowed that insurance policy to expire. It became easier to think we could just go our separate ways, no hard feelings, no harm done. Because Riley would never have agreed to a two-day promise, let alone a five-year one that would leave my spirit crushed and my heart split in two.
Except I kept finding this poem Hope had written for me.
“Cameron, tell me why you stopped.”
The restaurant staff starts moving the other tables back into place, getting ready for their regular dining hours. I smirk at her. “I think it’s time for us to leave.”
“Just tell me!” Her tone has a joking edge to it, but I know she wants the answer to why I disappeared. “Tell me why you stopped!”
I push my chair out and stand up, shrugging. “Maybe another time, Hope. Let’s get out of here.”
“Fucking goob,” she curses, standing up and walking with me to the doors to the Art Institute of Chicago. “Don’t think for one minute I don’t know what you’re doing,” she adds, falling into stride next to me. “But you will tell me why you stopped.”
} i {
Chapter 24
9:58 AM
I ’m staring at my face in the mirror, running a finger along the smile lines and wondering how I got so old, so fast. I’m not even thirty yet, but these lines shouldn’t exist. I shouldn’t look at my face and feel like life has sucked the good years out of me. Not yet.
But life has sucked those good years out of me. This mess with Hope is largely to blame because sometimes, when you love someone this much, that kind of love strips you of something.
I know this. Even Riley knows this. I’m just not so sure that Hope knows this.
When another man enters the bathroom and slides into one of the stalls so quietly that it’s obvious he doesn’t want anyone to notice him, it’s time to leave. I wash and dry my hands then climb the grand stairwell all the way to the top floor. I pause when I find Hope standing in front of a Monet painting. It’s the Arrival of the Normandy Train, Gare Saint-Lazare , and it’s perfect. Each stroke of Monet’s brush makes me feel something in my chest. I don’t get to think too much about what that sensation means, though.
Hope turns away from the Monet and studies me. “Everything okay?” she asks, stepping up to me. Her heels clack and smother me with memories of
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