said, I absolutely did not deserve Ginny. That was why the reality of my situation and what I had done to her today hurt worse than any form of torture I could ever endure.
Right then, I felt like I could cut out my own heart with a rusty blade. What could possibly hurt more than that?
Seconds later, I wished I had never asked myself that question as I sat with Ginny’s birthday present to me in my hands.
In a black wooden frame with a gray mat, one of the most beautiful things I had ever laid eyes on besides my Ginny was displayed: an eight-by-ten, full-color drawing so detailed and vibrant it would be seared into my mind forever.
In profile, Gin and I stood on the sidewalk in front of each of our houses, staring at each other from across the street. She had captured the way our street, the trees, and neighborhood would look from that angle flawlessly.
She had drawn me in the jeans and gray Army T-shirt I had worn the last time I had been home. She had drawn herself in a pair of torn jeans, a white T-shirt, and her favorite black converse tennis shoes that she had worn forever. Looking at this, I could see the deliberateness of each line, the purpose of each piece of the pseudo portrait.
It was a representation of so many things to us: home, our lives growing up, the way the two of us seemed meant to be, and yet there we stood on the sidelines, apart. It was the perfect little piece of paper to represent my perpetual hell in agonizing detail.
If the picture itself weren’t enough to bring me to my knees, then the note in the corner was.
A piece of home for you to take wherever you go.
I’ll be waiting.
Love, Ginny
Classic Gin: gorgeous, loving, and thoughtful, giving me something to remind me of home because she knew how much it would mean to me.
My fingers traced the lines that made up her form on the page, and I felt something in me wither and die.
My angel in white with worn chucks. Sweet innocence ready to be plucked by a man’s hands. Only, those hands would never be mine.
Ginny
Eighteen Years Old
My hand was frozen from holding the pint of chocolate ice cream I had almost demolished. There was a time when I had sworn ice cream could cure anything, but today had proven that wrong. Nothing could cure today. Absolutely nothing.
After all of these years, with just a few words from the boy I had loved almost my entire life, I knew all hope was gone.
Lucas Young would never care for me the way I cared for him.
Perhaps I would always be his little sister’s best friend or, as he had yelled at me today, like a sister. Either way, I would never be the thing I wanted most: his.
I put down my ice cream and grabbed the heart-shaped locket around my neck. I should take it off, put it up in my jewelry box, and never look at it again. Even as my mind screamed at me to do more than that—I should tear the damn thing off and throw it in the trash—I couldn’t seem to make my hands move.
How pathetic was I?
There I sat in the middle of the night, the lights off and staring at the darkened window of Lucas’s room across the street, my heart ripped in two from his cruel words, yet I couldn’t take off his necklace. How much battering and bruising could a heart take before it finally broke irreparably?
Apparently, my stupid heart wanted to find out.
Crawling off the floor and into my bed, I curled into a ball.
When I had been a little girl, I had curled into a ball to protect myself from an alcoholic father who would lose his temper and take his frustrations out on me and my mother physically. Now I was curling into a ball to try to protect what was left of my emotions.
The funny thing was that I swore the verbal beating I had taken from Lucas was ten times worse than any physical pain my father had ever caused. Who knew words could hurt so much?
I closed my eyes, and Lucas’s angry face came into focus. As my mind played back the incident for what felt like the hundredth time, I picked up on two things
Right then, I felt like I could cut out my own heart with a rusty blade. What could possibly hurt more than that?
Seconds later, I wished I had never asked myself that question as I sat with Ginny’s birthday present to me in my hands.
In a black wooden frame with a gray mat, one of the most beautiful things I had ever laid eyes on besides my Ginny was displayed: an eight-by-ten, full-color drawing so detailed and vibrant it would be seared into my mind forever.
In profile, Gin and I stood on the sidewalk in front of each of our houses, staring at each other from across the street. She had captured the way our street, the trees, and neighborhood would look from that angle flawlessly.
She had drawn me in the jeans and gray Army T-shirt I had worn the last time I had been home. She had drawn herself in a pair of torn jeans, a white T-shirt, and her favorite black converse tennis shoes that she had worn forever. Looking at this, I could see the deliberateness of each line, the purpose of each piece of the pseudo portrait.
It was a representation of so many things to us: home, our lives growing up, the way the two of us seemed meant to be, and yet there we stood on the sidelines, apart. It was the perfect little piece of paper to represent my perpetual hell in agonizing detail.
If the picture itself weren’t enough to bring me to my knees, then the note in the corner was.
A piece of home for you to take wherever you go.
I’ll be waiting.
Love, Ginny
Classic Gin: gorgeous, loving, and thoughtful, giving me something to remind me of home because she knew how much it would mean to me.
My fingers traced the lines that made up her form on the page, and I felt something in me wither and die.
My angel in white with worn chucks. Sweet innocence ready to be plucked by a man’s hands. Only, those hands would never be mine.
Ginny
Eighteen Years Old
My hand was frozen from holding the pint of chocolate ice cream I had almost demolished. There was a time when I had sworn ice cream could cure anything, but today had proven that wrong. Nothing could cure today. Absolutely nothing.
After all of these years, with just a few words from the boy I had loved almost my entire life, I knew all hope was gone.
Lucas Young would never care for me the way I cared for him.
Perhaps I would always be his little sister’s best friend or, as he had yelled at me today, like a sister. Either way, I would never be the thing I wanted most: his.
I put down my ice cream and grabbed the heart-shaped locket around my neck. I should take it off, put it up in my jewelry box, and never look at it again. Even as my mind screamed at me to do more than that—I should tear the damn thing off and throw it in the trash—I couldn’t seem to make my hands move.
How pathetic was I?
There I sat in the middle of the night, the lights off and staring at the darkened window of Lucas’s room across the street, my heart ripped in two from his cruel words, yet I couldn’t take off his necklace. How much battering and bruising could a heart take before it finally broke irreparably?
Apparently, my stupid heart wanted to find out.
Crawling off the floor and into my bed, I curled into a ball.
When I had been a little girl, I had curled into a ball to protect myself from an alcoholic father who would lose his temper and take his frustrations out on me and my mother physically. Now I was curling into a ball to try to protect what was left of my emotions.
The funny thing was that I swore the verbal beating I had taken from Lucas was ten times worse than any physical pain my father had ever caused. Who knew words could hurt so much?
I closed my eyes, and Lucas’s angry face came into focus. As my mind played back the incident for what felt like the hundredth time, I picked up on two things
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