“Don’t say that,” I begged, crying again. “Please, can’t we talk about this? I want to know what—”
“No, Maren. No. I don’t want to talk about it with you. Now go inside and forget about me.”
“What if I can’t?” I sobbed. “What if you’re the only man I’ll ever love?”
He closed his eyes and swallowed. “You’ll find someone better.”
“But I love you!”
“No, you don’t.” His voice had gone wooden. “You love the idea of me. And I loved the idea of you. We were trying to recapture something from the past when life was simpler.”
“You don’t mean that.” I cried harder, wiping my nose with my hand.
“Yes, I do. I didn’t want to say these things to you, but you’re not giving me any choice.” He was looking at me with hard eyes. I barely recognized him. “I don’t love you, Maren. I don’t love anyone.”
“Then why did you come here?”
He didn’t answer me right away. Then he looked out the windshield again. “I wanted you off my conscience.”
I sat there crying, trying to let it sink in that this was it—he didn’t want to see me again. He didn’t love me. As it turns out, I was just an item on his bucket list.
And he had a brain tumor.
Panic eclipsed my broken heart for a moment. My mind raced, desperately trying to recall what he’d told me about his father. “The surgery, Dallas. Everything you told me about your dad’s treatment options. That was all about you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Please. Please have the operation.” I put my hands on his arm again, and he let me. “If you don’t want me, fine, but don’t throw your life away because you don’t want anyone’s pity. Please, Dallas, if you ever loved me. Listen to the doctor. Have the surgery.”
He swallowed and spoke quietly. “I’ll think about it.”
“Will you … will you let me know what you decide?”
“No. A clean break is better, Maren. For both of us. Now go.”
Fresh tears spilled over. He was rejecting me. Again. My heart was crushed, my soul shattered.
“Okay, Dallas. You win. I’ll go.” I put my hand on the door handle and pulled.
Stop me. Tell me you’re lying. Wake me up from this nightmare.
But he let me go without saying another word, and I got out of the car, slammed the door, and ran inside my house.
I locked the front door behind me and ran back to my bedroom in the dark, where I threw myself on my bed and cried into my pillow.
This couldn’t be happening, I kept telling myself. There was no way. How could anyone’s life take as many zig-zag turns as mine had in the last two days? I didn’t know which end was up.
I sobbed and sobbed, my body shuddering, my eyes burning, my voice going hoarse. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried so hard—probably when Dallas had disappeared the first time. After that, I swore I’d never let anyone hurt me that way again.
And here I was. Heartbroken and alone and desperately afraid for Dallas. Would he be okay? Would he have the operation? Would I ever see him again?
And why didn’t he love me like I loved him?
I screamed into my pillow, pounded my fists into the mattress, kicked my feet like a child throwing a tantrum. Anger worked its way beneath my sorrow.
Fuck him! Fuck his lies and his careless words and his broken promises! Fuck him for kissing me like he meant it! Fuck him for making me think we had a chance! Fuck him for making me love him again and then breaking my heart! And fuck me for trusting him again—what was wrong with me?
I was so furious I wanted to smash something. I sat up and looked around. What could I throw? What could I shatter? What could I destroy so that I wouldn’t feel so fucking helpless and feeble? I quickly untied one of my shoes and threw it as hard as I could at the wall. It felt good, so I did the same thing with the other one, too, grunting as I hurled it with all my might.
“Fuck you!” I yelled. Then I put my hands over my ears and screamed as loud as I could, trying to drown out all the voices in my head telling me I was stupid, gullible, weak, insignificant, not deserving of real love.
Then I flopped onto my back, squeezed my eyes shut and tried to calm myself with some deep breaths. It took a while.
When I was in control again, I got out of bed, found my laptop in the kitchen and took it back to my bedroom. Sitting up against the headboard, I opened it up and googled Finn Shepherd, Harvard University.
I found an email address easily enough, and immediately began composing a message. Dallas might be a selfish asshole, but I would care about him forever. I had to know he was going to be okay.
Dear Dr. Shepherd,
We have only met once or twice, a long time ago, but I am a friend of your brother Dallas. We went to school together and dated seriously, but lost touch in the years between then and now.
I was surprised to see him on my doorstep two days ago, but we spent the weekend getting reacquainted, and I was very upset to learn about his medical condition.
I couldn’t write brain tumor. I just couldn’t.
We parted ways earlier this evening under difficult terms.
I stopped and took a breath as my eyes filled again.
I know about the surgery. I begged him to have it, but he says he hasn’t decided yet and won’t tell me what he decides. He wants a clean break.
I’m writing you tonight for several reasons. One, PLEASE do whatever it takes to convince him to have the surgery if that is the best option to save his life. I’m begging you.
I choked back a sob and kept going, although the screen was blurry.
Two, please be kind to him. I know he can be stubborn and difficult, but he won’t respond well to insults or demands.
Three, could you please let me know what he decides? He doesn’t want any contact with me, but I don’t think I will be able to sleep peacefully until I know what he has chosen. I need to know he will be okay.
I did not tell him I was reaching out to you. Of course, I understand if you feel you have to tell him about this email, but I would still ask that you consider my requests. He will probably be very angry about what I’ve done, but in all honesty, I love him too much to do nothing.
Feel free to reply to me at this address. I wish you luck with him, and I wish you well.
Sincerely,
Maren Devine
I hesitated for only a moment, during which I closed my eyes and searched my soul. Was this what I wanted to do? I risked alienating Dallas even further by going behind his back and contacting his brother when I knew there was tension between them. In the end, I decided I had no choice. I loved him, and I wanted to save him even more than I wanted him to love me back. If he never forgave me, so be it. I hit send and felt no guilt.
Setting my laptop on my nightstand, I opened the drawer and took out the sketch he’d made of me at seventeen. The sight of it and the memory of what he’d said to me last night brought fresh tears. After tucking it away again, I dragged myself from bed, undressed, and put on my pajamas. In the bathroom, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and frowned at my puffy eyes. Back in my room, I took off the necklace he’d given me earlier, hid it at the bottom of my underwear drawer, crawled beneath the covers and curled up in a ball. My sheets smelled like him.
I closed my eyes and inhaled, wondering if he was lying in his hotel bed missing me as much as I missed him. I thought of his body beneath the sheets, pictured the warm bare skin, the firm muscles of his chest, the ink on his arms and shoulders and back. I thought of his blue eyes and the dimple in his chin. I thought of his hands. The sound of his laugh. The taste of him. How was it possible I’d never see him again? Or touch him or kiss him or hold him or feel him inside me? The ache of loneliness spread from my heart throughout my entire body.
I cried myself to sleep.
Fifteen
Dallas
On the drive back to the hotel, I turned the radio on, putting the volume up as loud as it would go. I already had a headache, and the blasting rock music made it worse, but as long as I was distracted by the noise and the physical pain, I wouldn’t have to deal with the emotional upheaval I’d just caused—mine or Maren’s—or the voices in my head telling me I’d just walked away from the best thing that had ever happened to me.
“No, Maren. No. I don’t want to talk about it with you. Now go inside and forget about me.”
“What if I can’t?” I sobbed. “What if you’re the only man I’ll ever love?”
He closed his eyes and swallowed. “You’ll find someone better.”
“But I love you!”
“No, you don’t.” His voice had gone wooden. “You love the idea of me. And I loved the idea of you. We were trying to recapture something from the past when life was simpler.”
“You don’t mean that.” I cried harder, wiping my nose with my hand.
“Yes, I do. I didn’t want to say these things to you, but you’re not giving me any choice.” He was looking at me with hard eyes. I barely recognized him. “I don’t love you, Maren. I don’t love anyone.”
“Then why did you come here?”
He didn’t answer me right away. Then he looked out the windshield again. “I wanted you off my conscience.”
I sat there crying, trying to let it sink in that this was it—he didn’t want to see me again. He didn’t love me. As it turns out, I was just an item on his bucket list.
And he had a brain tumor.
Panic eclipsed my broken heart for a moment. My mind raced, desperately trying to recall what he’d told me about his father. “The surgery, Dallas. Everything you told me about your dad’s treatment options. That was all about you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Please. Please have the operation.” I put my hands on his arm again, and he let me. “If you don’t want me, fine, but don’t throw your life away because you don’t want anyone’s pity. Please, Dallas, if you ever loved me. Listen to the doctor. Have the surgery.”
He swallowed and spoke quietly. “I’ll think about it.”
“Will you … will you let me know what you decide?”
“No. A clean break is better, Maren. For both of us. Now go.”
Fresh tears spilled over. He was rejecting me. Again. My heart was crushed, my soul shattered.
“Okay, Dallas. You win. I’ll go.” I put my hand on the door handle and pulled.
Stop me. Tell me you’re lying. Wake me up from this nightmare.
But he let me go without saying another word, and I got out of the car, slammed the door, and ran inside my house.
I locked the front door behind me and ran back to my bedroom in the dark, where I threw myself on my bed and cried into my pillow.
This couldn’t be happening, I kept telling myself. There was no way. How could anyone’s life take as many zig-zag turns as mine had in the last two days? I didn’t know which end was up.
I sobbed and sobbed, my body shuddering, my eyes burning, my voice going hoarse. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried so hard—probably when Dallas had disappeared the first time. After that, I swore I’d never let anyone hurt me that way again.
And here I was. Heartbroken and alone and desperately afraid for Dallas. Would he be okay? Would he have the operation? Would I ever see him again?
And why didn’t he love me like I loved him?
I screamed into my pillow, pounded my fists into the mattress, kicked my feet like a child throwing a tantrum. Anger worked its way beneath my sorrow.
Fuck him! Fuck his lies and his careless words and his broken promises! Fuck him for kissing me like he meant it! Fuck him for making me think we had a chance! Fuck him for making me love him again and then breaking my heart! And fuck me for trusting him again—what was wrong with me?
I was so furious I wanted to smash something. I sat up and looked around. What could I throw? What could I shatter? What could I destroy so that I wouldn’t feel so fucking helpless and feeble? I quickly untied one of my shoes and threw it as hard as I could at the wall. It felt good, so I did the same thing with the other one, too, grunting as I hurled it with all my might.
“Fuck you!” I yelled. Then I put my hands over my ears and screamed as loud as I could, trying to drown out all the voices in my head telling me I was stupid, gullible, weak, insignificant, not deserving of real love.
Then I flopped onto my back, squeezed my eyes shut and tried to calm myself with some deep breaths. It took a while.
When I was in control again, I got out of bed, found my laptop in the kitchen and took it back to my bedroom. Sitting up against the headboard, I opened it up and googled Finn Shepherd, Harvard University.
I found an email address easily enough, and immediately began composing a message. Dallas might be a selfish asshole, but I would care about him forever. I had to know he was going to be okay.
Dear Dr. Shepherd,
We have only met once or twice, a long time ago, but I am a friend of your brother Dallas. We went to school together and dated seriously, but lost touch in the years between then and now.
I was surprised to see him on my doorstep two days ago, but we spent the weekend getting reacquainted, and I was very upset to learn about his medical condition.
I couldn’t write brain tumor. I just couldn’t.
We parted ways earlier this evening under difficult terms.
I stopped and took a breath as my eyes filled again.
I know about the surgery. I begged him to have it, but he says he hasn’t decided yet and won’t tell me what he decides. He wants a clean break.
I’m writing you tonight for several reasons. One, PLEASE do whatever it takes to convince him to have the surgery if that is the best option to save his life. I’m begging you.
I choked back a sob and kept going, although the screen was blurry.
Two, please be kind to him. I know he can be stubborn and difficult, but he won’t respond well to insults or demands.
Three, could you please let me know what he decides? He doesn’t want any contact with me, but I don’t think I will be able to sleep peacefully until I know what he has chosen. I need to know he will be okay.
I did not tell him I was reaching out to you. Of course, I understand if you feel you have to tell him about this email, but I would still ask that you consider my requests. He will probably be very angry about what I’ve done, but in all honesty, I love him too much to do nothing.
Feel free to reply to me at this address. I wish you luck with him, and I wish you well.
Sincerely,
Maren Devine
I hesitated for only a moment, during which I closed my eyes and searched my soul. Was this what I wanted to do? I risked alienating Dallas even further by going behind his back and contacting his brother when I knew there was tension between them. In the end, I decided I had no choice. I loved him, and I wanted to save him even more than I wanted him to love me back. If he never forgave me, so be it. I hit send and felt no guilt.
Setting my laptop on my nightstand, I opened the drawer and took out the sketch he’d made of me at seventeen. The sight of it and the memory of what he’d said to me last night brought fresh tears. After tucking it away again, I dragged myself from bed, undressed, and put on my pajamas. In the bathroom, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and frowned at my puffy eyes. Back in my room, I took off the necklace he’d given me earlier, hid it at the bottom of my underwear drawer, crawled beneath the covers and curled up in a ball. My sheets smelled like him.
I closed my eyes and inhaled, wondering if he was lying in his hotel bed missing me as much as I missed him. I thought of his body beneath the sheets, pictured the warm bare skin, the firm muscles of his chest, the ink on his arms and shoulders and back. I thought of his blue eyes and the dimple in his chin. I thought of his hands. The sound of his laugh. The taste of him. How was it possible I’d never see him again? Or touch him or kiss him or hold him or feel him inside me? The ache of loneliness spread from my heart throughout my entire body.
I cried myself to sleep.
Fifteen
Dallas
On the drive back to the hotel, I turned the radio on, putting the volume up as loud as it would go. I already had a headache, and the blasting rock music made it worse, but as long as I was distracted by the noise and the physical pain, I wouldn’t have to deal with the emotional upheaval I’d just caused—mine or Maren’s—or the voices in my head telling me I’d just walked away from the best thing that had ever happened to me.
