But I Love Him (10 page)

He stops and stands over me. “Don’t you ever call me stupid. I am not stupid.”

I know he’s not. I hadn’t meant he was stupid. I would never think that about him.

I’m trembling on the floor, surrounded by his things. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s just hurt. He thinks I’m cheating on him. As soon as he knows it’s not true, as soon as he knows Blake is only a friend, he’ll change. He’ll understand. “Please, just listen.”

“No. You listen. I won’t have you making a fool of me behind my back. I knew I couldn’t trust you. I knew you’d do this!”

“But I didn’t do anything!”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. Please calm down, Connor. There’s nothing going on.”

But he’s not himself. He’s twisted inside and he’s not going to listen to me.

“I knew you would do this! I knew you would find something better and leave me!”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t leave! I love you!”

“You’re lying! You don’t love me! You never have!”

I get up from the floor and stand in front of him. It takes everything I have to stand and look him squarely in the face and not flinch at the way his chest is heaving and the way he stares down at me with such malice I think I see his father in him. It exists in pieces inside him, and it comes out through his eyes.

“Who are you right now? I don’t even know you,” I say.

He leans in closer, and the words he speaks are carefully chosen, perfectly articulated. “Fuck you.”

The silence roars into my ears like a freight train, drowning out the two words he so easily threw out. I think the room may be spinning, but all I can do is stare at his lips and wonder how those words could leave them. Wonder how he could speak them to me. Wonder how I could ever kiss those same lips.

“Please. Just calm down, okay?”

“Calm down? You want me to fucking calm down?” He kicks one of the boxes nearest to me and I hear glass shatter inside. I want to know what it is. I want to know if it’s that pretty framed picture of us or that little glass kitten he bought me on our third date.

“Look, I’m just going to go on a walk or something, okay? And you can calm down and then we’ll talk about this—” I reach for the door and swing it toward me, but he steps in and slams it shut so hard the walls rattle.

“I’m not done with you!” His voice comes out in a thunderous roar, so loud I recoil. My jaw drops as I stare at him, tears welling in my eyes. Who is he? What is he doing? I knew it would upset him to see me with Blake, but … he’s never been this … mean to me. I mean sure, he has an anger problem … but he promised … he swore it would never be me on the other end of it.

He turns and punches the wall, and big round holes appear in that perfect, freshly painted drywall.

I can’t believe he promised me, once, that he would never turn on me like this. I can’t believe I trusted that.

I’m so horrified I can’t stand anymore. I sink to the floor and land on my knees. I curl over until my face is buried in the carpet. It smells like shampoo.

And then I cry. The tears tumble out so quickly they come like rain, and I can’t stop them. He goes silent when he hears the sobs.

I don’t know what he’s doing and I don’t look at him. But he stands there as I sob.

And then he’s beside me, and his arm is around me. The arm that had been so taut, so ready to throw punches, is now gathering me to him in a hug that is not reciprocated.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m sorry.”

I just cry harder. I don’t like him when he’s like this.

I love him so much.

But sometimes I don’t like him.

August 30

One year

As his footsteps ascend the stairs—getting louder with each passing moment—I find myself scooting back until I’m pushed up against the bed with nowhere else to go.

I listen as he tries the door. It doesn’t budge.

He takes his keys out of his pocket. I can hear them shaking and jingling as he slides them into the lock, even over the rain pounding on the roof.

I lean back against the bed frame, waiting. Does he know I’m still here? Maybe he will think I locked up and left.

And yet another part of me is desperate for the door to open, for him to rush to me and gather me in his arms and make this pain disappear. I need him. I want to bury my face in his chest and cry and let him wipe away my tears.

He gets the knob unlocked, and I can see it turning, but the door doesn’t move. He stops trying and stands there in silence. He must realize I’ve locked the deadbolt.

“Ann?”

With one word, I can determine his mood. The anger is gone, melted away as fast as it arrived.

“Sweetheart?” he says, his voice tentative.

He doesn’t deserve to call me sweetheart. The fact that he would makes anger mix with the bitter sadness that keeps choking in my throat.

“Honey, I know you’re in there. You car is still here.”

Damn.

“Ann, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was doing.” His voice is shaky, childlike. He knows he went too far. He was so big an hour ago and now he sounds so small.

I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my forehead on them and start humming to myself.

I can’t get up and open the door.

I can’t.

So why do I want to so badly? How can I be that girl, over and over?

I’m not his equal anymore. I’m his doormat; his punching bag.

It happened in pieces, tiny little turning points. I’ll never figure out when it all turned, because it wasn’t a single moment.

It doesn’t matter how many times I look back, how many times I try to figure it out. There is no before and after. Just a year of choices.

And now I’m here, sitting on the floor, afraid to open the door to the person I love most.

Maybe if I ignore him long enough, he’ll leave, and I won’t have to choose.

Maybe I’ll just stay here for eternity.

March 10

Six months, ten days

It’s late, but neither of us can sleep.

And so we’re lying in bed, side by side, our fingers intertwined. It’s cold in his new apartment, but neither of us are willing to slide from the warmth of the down comforter to turn on the heat, so we just burrow closer and tuck the blankets around us. The tip of the quilt is just short of my nose.

“Someday I’ll have so much money I’ll just leave the heat on all night, and you can climb out anytime you want and it’ll be warm,” he says.

I grin. “And will you do that in-floor heating thing? Where it makes the hardwoods warm on my bare feet?”

“Yep. And I’ll buy you a big house, so big you can go to the other side if I’m getting on your nerves.”

I push him playfully with my shoulder. I know he’s joking. He’s never on my nerves.

“And what about vacations? I want to go to Europe.”

“Of course. We’ll spend three months there and see every country. We’ll go up the Eiffel Tower and drift on the canals in Venice. You won’t want to come back.”

I smile at the image. Someday that’s really how life will be. We’ll conquer all this stuff together, and we’ll both forget about this tumultuous time.

It will be perfect.

“What do you love about me?” I ask. Tonight I want to hear it. I’ll savor this memory, hold it close to me, during all those other times when things are rocky.

“Everything,” he says, turning to me. He kisses me on the nose. “Your smile. Do you know how rare it is to smile as much as you do? I’m not used to it. And your laugh. And the way you talk. You use your tongue a lot, you know. More than normal.”

I laugh and push against him again with my shoulder, a playful nudge.

“And you’re smart. I mean, you’re going to go to college, right? I’ve never even planned on something like that, and you just know you’ll do it.”

I open my mouth to tell him that’s not true, but I snap it shut again.

I forgot all the application deadlines, and I haven’t told him yet. No, that’s a lie. I didn’t forget, per se. I was just too wrapped up in him to think about going away. Why bother applying when I couldn’t even stand the thought of leaving him behind? I just figured I’d go to community college for a couple of years, then he could go with me when I moved to the university and we’d get an apartment instead of living in a dorm.

These days, even community college seems like too much. I don’t want to think about it.

So I don’t. Think about it, that is. I just put it out of my mind. I’d rather focus on what’s in front of me: an intense, beautiful love. The thing I want more than anything. More than college.

I don’t tell him any of this. It would ruin the moment.

“And the way you see people. People like me. You’re not judgmental like so many others. You see the good in people and give them a chance. You believe in them. I think I like that the best.”

I squeeze his hand. Sometimes, he can make me melt.

“Do me,” he says.

I grin and give him a wicked look.

“Not like that,” he says. “I mean, tell me what you love.”

“I know. I just thought something else might be more fun.”

He laughs. I love it when he laughs.

“Okay, for real? I love that you’re such a strong person. After everything, you’re still here to tell about it and try to be a better person. I love how protective you are of the people you love. You’d do anything for them. I love how you always go after what you want. Whether it’s skateboarding or basketball … or me.”

He moves his arm and wraps it around his shoulders, and I turn toward him so my stomach is alongside his hips, and I sling my leg over him and rest my head on his chest until the warmth of his body seeps into mine.

This is what love is. And I don’t think I can ever let it go.

March 8

Six months, eight days

Connor is driving like an absolute lunatic. The way he snapped like this, the way he went from happy to absolutely crazy, is scaring me.

I skipped track practice today. Connor seemed to be in one of his moods, and he wanted to spend some time together. I know it makes him feel better to have me around. It’s both a blessing and a burden, sometimes, to be needed like that.

When his mom called, we’d been sitting down by the river throwing rocks. She was crying. Something was happening and he couldn’t get it out of her, and now here we are racing down these back roads trying to get to her, trying to see what he’s done this time.

My heart is beating so hard I think it might jump right out of my chest, and I can’t stop this sick feeling weighing down the pit of my stomach. I don’t know if it’s his driving or my worry, but I’m on the verge of puking. My fingers ache with how hard I’m gripping the door. Connor rounds the last corner by his house so fast the tires squeal and slide, and then he skids to a stop.

The door is open, the screen flapping in the breeze. It’s not really spring yet. Too cold for the door to be open like that. He’s out of the truck before I can even get my seat belt undone. It’s jammed.

I struggle with it for a moment, wanting to scream the whole time, not knowing what’s happening inside, but finally it clicks free and I jump from the truck and sprint across the lawn. When I walk into the house, it’s dark and I have to stand at the door and let my eyes adjust.

A hurricane has gone through here. There’s nothing on the walls, nothing on the mantle, nothing anywhere but the floor. It’s all in pieces and shards all over.

And so is Nancy. She’s sitting on the floor sobbing, and Connor is next to her, pulling her to her feet.

She’s clutching her arm.

“I don’t know what I did … I don’t know what I did …” She just keeps repeating it and Connor just keeps saying, “I know, it’s okay,” and I just keep standing here, wide-eyed, staring.

Their words echo in my ears and yet I feel so far away, like I’m watching a scene on the television and not standing right in the middle of it.

“Can you get the truck door open? We need to take her to the doctor’s.”

Connor’s voice, so calm and in control, breaks me out of my haze. I nod and spring into action, happy to be doing something, anything. I swing the door open before they’re even out the front door, and I hold it as Connor so carefully helps his mother into the truck, and as she moans when she bumps her arm.

I slide in next to her, so she’s in the middle, and try not to look at her black puffy eye as it grows shut. Instead, I just stare straight ahead.

Connor drives much more carefully to the clinic, as if his mother might finally break altogether if he rounds a corner too quickly or hits a speed bump at more than three miles per hour. It’s tortuous, sitting here next to her. She’s so silent now. She just holds her wrist and stares at nothing.

Eventually we arrive and Connor helps his mom out and I just stand there, next to the truck, as they walk away. I don’t want to go in and I don’t think Connor has even noticed, because he’s concentrating on his mom, on her slow, ginger steps. She’s walking like she’s eighty.