“Sure. Why not?” I shrug, grabbing my bag and settling on the barstool next to him.
The next half an hour is spent exactly how he promised. Easy, surface conversation. Harry doesn’t dive into my past. He talks about the weather. About his work. He asks me about the countries I’ve visited.
“I’ve never been out of the country,” he admits sheepishly.
I balk, my intoxicated self grabbing onto his forearm in dismay. “What? Harry, no! You have to see it. The world. You have to see it.”
“Where are you going next?” he asks, the words slurring together slightly.
His hand rests on my arm, an inconspicuous movement to keep me tethered. I should pull away. But after two years of celibacy, it’s nice to feel even the basic touch of a man.
“I don’t know,” I state excitedly. “That’s the best part. I decide just as my feet begin to get itchy. Maybe I’ve met someone on my travels who talks of their home in a warm regard that I can’t ignore. Maybe I blindly drop my finger on a map and follow that fate. Nothing is planned, Harry. Nothing. I’m free in the world, and no one can catch me. No one can hurt me.”
I turn away from the sadness in his gaze. “Baby, who hurt you so badly to make you think loneliness is a goal?”
“Everyone,” I confess drunkenly. “Everyone,” I whisper. “But mostly me.”
“You?”
“I’m my own executioner. Withdrawal is my safe place.”
Harry shifts forward, lips ajar as his eyes settle on the frown at my lips.
“Please don’t kiss me.”
His tongue drags along his lips. “Why?” He moves closer again.
“Because you’re not him, and when I see him again, nothing else, especially the feelings of others, seem to matter.”
“What if I want nothing more than a simple kiss so you can’t hurt me?”
I sigh, pulling back marginally. “My lips belong to another. They poison anyone else they touch.”
“You’re drunk,” he argues.
“I’m toxic,” I rebut. “He’s toxic. Together, we’re venom. A beautiful cancer.”
“Let me help you forget then,” he pushes.
I laugh. “You don’t think I’ve tried that? It causes me more pain than the reality of living without him.”
“Then why are you apart?”
I stand, finished with my rendezvous with this gorgeous stranger. “Because I don’t think I believe in love, and Brooks deserves more than that.”
27
BROOKS
AGE 26
“You sound tired.”
Like her words have given me permission for the floodgates of exhaustion to open, I yawn unexpectedly. “I’m okay.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Mom,” I groan. “I’m fine.”
“Brooks, you told us you’d be here four months ago.”
There is accusation and pain in her voice, and my guilt burns the inner line of my throat, dripping all the way down to the pit of my stomach.
“A job’s a job, Mom. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She lets go of a small sigh after a pause of silence. “We haven’t seen you in years.”
I don’t know what to say.
She’s right. I’ve avoided Lake Geneva like it's the fucking plague because it’s soaked in memories of Henley. I’d breathe her in the moment I arrived and suffocate on her rejection the entire time. I feel that in my soul.
“You could visit me in New York. I’ll be here for another month or so.”
I pretend I can’t hear her silence. I sit quietly, pretending that the absence of sound isn’t loaded with disappointment.
“We could definitely plan that,” she finally gives in.
I knew she would.
She’s my mother.
She may not understand my reservation at coming home, but she’ll accept it in her own way.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“Jesus, Mom.”
“It was just a question, Brooks.”
It’s my turn to sigh.
“No, Mom. I haven’t fallen hopelessly in love since the last time I spoke to you with plans to marry and procreate.”
I’d love to tell her that I am hopelessly in love. But by hopelessly, I’d mean miserably.
If I did that, I’d have to divulge that my heart has devoted itself to someone who I seem to hurt without intention.
I’d be forced to confess that the person I hurt also breaks me in the same way.
My heart may be steadfast in its love for Henley Wright, but it also seems committed to our heartbreak. My heart has become addicted to the way she cracks me open. It’s hooked on her even knowing that I cause her pain.
“You work too hard,” my mom says, oblivious to the ache in my chest. “You’re young. You should be out having fun.”
“Mom,” I gripe. “Please, stop.”
She laughs. “Oh, it’s not like I don’t know you’re out there sowing your wild oats.”
“I’m about to hang up on you.”
“Email me your hotel details. Dad and I will plan a visit over the next week or so.”
“Will do.”
“And Brooks,” she adds. “We expect you to take time off. We’ve seen New York enough in our lives. We’ll be there to see you.”
There’s that knife of guilt, this time aimed straight for my jugular.
“Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, kiddo.”
I fall back onto my bed the moment she disconnects, groaning to the ceiling in frustration.
My mother has this art of making me miss her, resent her, need her, and want to run far, far away from her all at once.
I push thoughts of our conversation out of my head, but the moment I do, it filters back in unwelcome.
You work too hard. You should be out having fun.
The problem is, she’s not exactly wrong.
I haven’t been intimate with anyone since the night of Addy’s wedding. In Siberia, it was easy enough since a romantic notion of waiting for Henley had buried itself within me. Farther down, in the parts of my soul I refuse to acknowledge, I knew the thought of her waiting for my return was farcical.
I’d pushed her over the edge once again. She didn’t put up much resistance, but I know I should’ve left her alone. I went searching for her with a fiery need to touch her, to soothe her.
It didn’t take a genius to know that after my disappearing act, she’d go to ground on me.
I left her with nothing but
