He pulls open the doors and gestures to the rows of books inside. “You want to know my motivations for all the shit I put you through in drama school? It’s all there. Every fucked-up thought process and bad decision. Every time I broke both our hearts in an effort to avoid pain. Read them if you want. Burn them. Whatever works for you.”
I look closely at the spines of the books. Dates. Years. Rows and rows of journals, starting from when he was in high school. Some years have a single volume, others have several. The year we met has five. No surprise there.
I pick up the last one from that year and open it to a random page.
November 18th
Tonight, she went down on me for the first time. And … Jesus Christ … I’m still shaking. I can’t get the image of her out of my head. So eager to please me. So trusting.
So beautiful.
I can’t handle it.
One day soon, she’s going to realize I’m no good for her and leave. Destroy me.
Every single brain cell is telling me to get out while I can. To run so far and fast she’ll never find me. Forget that someone as fucking perfect as she is even exists.
But some part of me believes I can do this. That I’m capable of ripping open my chest and just handing over my heart like it’s not going to kill me.
That part is obviously deranged.
I look up, shocked by the depth of emotion in his writing. He’s watching me. Gauging my reaction. He doesn’t flinch from my incredulity.
“I take responsibility for everything I did,” he says, “because even though I can’t change it, I do regret it. I thought seeing these may … I don’t know. Help in some way.”
I’m not so sure.
I go back to the journal.
December 4th
2:48 a.m.—She won’t fucking answer. She calls to abuse me in the middle of the night, and then WON’T PICK UP HER FUCKING PHONE?!
3:36 a.m.—I can’t stop thinking about her crying. She sounded so lost. And I did that to her. Me.
What a stellar fucking human being I am.
As much as I’m terrified she’s going to ruin me, I’m afraid I’m going to do far worse to her.
So now I’m faced with the decision—man up and be the boyfriend she deserves, or get the fuck out while there’s still a chance we’ll both survive.
Yeah. Easy choice. It’s like asking someone if they’d rather die by drowning or electrocution.
Whichever way it happens, you’re still dead.
11:18 a.m.—She just left. I can still smell her. Fuck, I love her smell. I want to bathe in it.
She was asleep when I got home from my run. So perfect in my bed.
I had a major freakout for the three seconds I believed she’d read this journal, but I quickly realized if she had, she wouldn’t still be here, let alone sleeping. She would have finally seen the level of fuckery she’s burdened with and run for the hills. And I wouldn’t have blamed her.
But no, she’s proven yet again that she’s not like the others. Made me realize she deserves so much more credit than I give her.
I want to be a better man. A better boyfriend.
Don’t fuck this up, Holt. Seriously. If you do, I’ll never forgive you.
She’ll never forgive you.
Reading his thoughts gives me a strange sense of déjà vu.
I turn the page and read the last entry in the journal. As soon as I see the date, my stomach lurches.
December 23rd
I did it. Cut the cord.
I feel sick.
I feel more broken without her than I ever did when we were together.
I thought this was the right thing to do … for me … for her. But now …
I can barely swallow, my throat’s so tight.
What the fuck have I done?
Why do I feel so wrong?
Fuck.
And yet, part of me knows I had to do it.
If we’d stayed together, I would have systemically broken her. I’d have tried not to and hated every moment of it, but I would have. She’d have spent all her time defending her actions, reassuring me, putting out fires she had no hand in starting.
I couldn’t bear doing that to her.
I tell myself I want her to move on and be happy, but petty fucking creep that I am, I really don’t. I want her to pine for me and not let another man touch her until I can figure out how to be better. I want to be magically cured of all the shit that runs through my brain on a daily basis and be the man she deserves.
But most of all, I just want to be with her. Especially after last night.
Jesus fucking Christ. Last night.
I didn’t mean for it to happen, but when she stood in front of me, thinking I didn’t love her, I couldn’t stop myself. My brain was screaming that it was a bad idea, but my body wouldn’t listen. I thought maybe it was a good thing. That it would … I don’t know … fix me. Help me be with her, somehow.
But it didn’t.
If anything, it made things worse, because now, I’ll always know what I’m missing. The first time we made love, I was so obsessed with being gentle, I couldn’t let myself go. I didn’t have that problem last night.
I wanted to consume her. Brand my name on every part of her body.
By the time we were done, I think I had succeeded.
The trouble is, she also branded me.
I cried in her arms. I don’t fucking cry. I don’t even know why I did. It just happened.
But then my brain kicked in. My stupid, paranoid brain.
Lying in bed with her as she slept, I felt like one of those animals whose leg is caught in a trap, knowing if I wanted to survive, I’d have to gnaw off a part of myself and leave it behind.