It’s hard to remember the Will I knew before, without letting the Ethan I know today shadow my memories—to the point of changing them completely. I know what happened between us when we were kids. There’s no forgetting it. My tortured mind won’t let me.
But Ethan, my current history with him, invades the past, meshes everything together. Confuses things, which makes me angry—and my anger blinds me to everything.
No tears threaten and I’m proud. Sadness leaves me feeling useless. I’d rather clutch hold of the anger. It makes my thoughts, my intentions, clearer.
“It must be very difficult to know that people are so eager to listen to whatever he has to say,” Sheila says.
“It is.” I huff out an irritated sigh. “Why people are fascinated with him . . .” I hesitate, breathe in deep as my anger threatens to permeate my every pore. “I don’t ever want to hear him, see him, to . . .”
“Remember?”
I press my lips together, my eyes watering. I refuse to cry. I refuse.
“Is that why Ethan’s betrayal hurts so much? It makes you remember?”
I nod before I can catch myself, swallowing back the lump that’s formed in my throat. I wipe at the corners of my eyes, blinking away any moisture. “I felt used. For the first time, there was hope that I could start over and be normal, you know? But I hadn’t realized I was starting over with . . .” I catch myself before I say “Will.” Ethan.
They’re the same person. Interchangeable.
Mind blowing.
I had a nightmare last night. I was back in that room, the chains heavy on my wrists and ankle, trapped with the smelly mattress, the hot, stifling air. I was alone. No scared boy to come and save me. Will never appeared, but I knew he was there. Somewhere. I cried and cried, my fate clear. I was going to die.
Thankfully, I woke up before that happened.
I change the subject and talk about my sister and my mother, avoiding Sheila’s probing gaze, playing along like a good little patient would. I don’t want to talk about Ethan and Will and Aaron Monroe and Lisa Swanson and interviews. I’m so tired of that. That isn’t all I am.
I read somewhere recently that your life is your choice. If I choose to be sad and miserable, I will be. If I choose to be happy and strong, then that’s what I am. I’ve been choosing wrong for the last eight years. Yet I finally catch a glimpse of happy, of something real and solid and tender and . . . loving, and it ends up ruined. Ripped from my hands and thrown away.
Lies. Deception. All of it.
As I leave Sheila’s office forty-five minutes later, I blink against the light drops of rain that fall from the gloomy sky. My car is parked close by and I dash toward it, unlocking the door quickly and sinking into the driver’s-side seat, the familiar scent of my own perfume and body lotion lingering in the air.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, searching for calm. For strength. I need to remember that I get to choose. Only I have the power to find inner fulfillment. That sounds like a crock of crap, but it’s true. If I choose to be unhappy, I’m unhappy.
If I choose to be angry and let my anger push me, then that’s my choice, too.
For once in my life . . .
I choose me.
The text came on a late Tuesday afternoon, the familiar ding ringing loudly from across the room. My phone sits on the coffee table. I’m sitting in my recliner¸ tapping away on my laptop as I answer an email from a client.
When I finally send off the email, I get up and go to my phone, hitting the button to see who the text is from.
And proceed to drop the phone on the floor, I’m so startled by the name flashing on my screen.
Katie.
What do you want to talk about?
It’s been a week since I sent that one text during a weak moment, when I was feeling particularly low and sad. I’ve taken care of myself my entire life. I don’t remember my mom. Dad was rarely around and didn’t care. I coped. I dealt with shit on my own and I preferred it that way.
Katie reenters my life and she’s like a bright light I can’t resist. Her warmth, her sweetness, the way she made me feel like a goddamn hero every time she so much as looked at me, I’d never experienced anything like it. I began to crave her. Need her. And once I lost her . . .
I’ve never been so utterly alone, felt so incredibly lonely as I do now that she’s left me.
You’re willing to talk to me?
I hit send and wait anxiously for her reply. Within seconds I get it.
Yes.
Running my hand through my hair, I realize I’m sweating. Shit. How are we going to do this? Like two civil adults who can barely speak to each other? Will she want to meet me in public? If it’s somewhere private, at her place or mine, forget it. I’m done for. I won’t be able to keep my hands off her.
Do you want to meet me somewhere?
It’s best to be in public, I tell myself. That way I won’t do something stupid and risk freaking her out, causing her to leave.
How about the coffee shop you first took me to?
Her suggestion is perfect. It had become our meeting place. Close to the amusement park—which is closed for the season. Near the ocean. In a public place, where I have to be on my best behavior. My fingers literally itch to touch her and I clench them into fists before I straighten them out and type an answer.
That sounds good.
Tomorrow at three? Or is that too soon?
I smile at her response. Is that too soon? It’s never too soon to see Katie again.