Enamor (Hearts of Stone #3) (36 page)

"I was going to tell you," I say, heading her off.

"What? That you two have been screwing?" Ava says. "Please. I've known since the night of the party."

She turns away and walks to the sink, where a faucet is running over a steaming pot.

"So you're not pissed?" I ask.

"Pissed? No. I don't really care what you two do. But I do think you're being reckless. She's not the fling type and you're not the relationship type, so where does that leave you?"

"That," I say, "is really not your business."

"Wrong again. As much as I'd like to not give a shit, I have to worry about her suddenly breaking the lease and leaving me without a third roommate."

Can Julia hear us from the bedroom? I hope not, though Ava's making no effort to keep her voice down. She never does.

"You don't have to worry about that."
 

"Why? Are you two serious?"

There's a beat of silence that might as well be a punch to my gut. I can't. I can't talk about this right now. "It's new, Ava. That's all you need to know."

I leave it there, walking away without another word. When I get back into the room, Julia's sitting on the edge of the bed, her face blank of emotion. This is never a good sign.

"Sorry about that," I say of Ava's tactless interruption. "I know that was embarrassing for you."

"I'm fine," she says, crossing her arms.

"Hey…" I walk over and use a finger to try to guide her chin up to look at me, but she moves my hand away.

There are words on the tip of her tongue, I can see the way she's resisting to say them. So I wait, letting the silence drag out.
 

"I'm not sure we're on the same page," she finally says.

"About what?"
 

She lets out a small sneer, as if she can't believe I don't know.

"About us," she snaps. "About where we stand and what the things we do mean."

"Julia…" I pause, waiting for her to meet my eyes. She does and I continue, "You're the only one I want, do you get that? You're the only thing I want."

"So why is this conversation so forced? Why is the topic of where we stand so bitter? Shouldn't it be simple?"

I rub my face then reach over to pull on her hand, guiding her to her feet. My arms wrap around her waist and I lean my forehead on hers.
 

How do I tell her that this conversation terrifies me right now? Not because I don't want to be with her, but because I want it so badly the thought of losing her terrifies me. And all that I can think of lately is loss. How easily things are lost and how little people leave behind when they disappear from your life. I know it's self-centered. And I'll find a way to give her everything, when I can. But right now? I need to press pause. I need time to stop, right here. Right before things get scary.
 

"Let's not fight," I say. "It's not us."
 

"Us?" She pulls away from me. "No, Giles. It's not us. It's you and it's me. It's never us. We've always fallen short of an us. That train left the station and I think we've been sitting there waiting for it to return, instead of accepting that maybe it's not coming back."

"You're wrong," I say, her words hollowing me out. "There is an us."

"Maybe," she says, bitterly. "Maybe there's an us, but on your terms. A hazy, maybe someday sort of us. But I'm not okay with this gray area. I'm not okay with you not wanting to define what we are."

I can almost hear her thoughts screaming at me through her eyes.

I want to be your girlfriend, you idiot. I want to feel like this is more than just a temporary thing. I want steady ground to stand on with you.

And I hate myself for not being able to be her steady ground. I can't be that for anyone, right now. I can barely stand on my own two feet as it is.

"What do you want, Giles? I can't keep giving myself to you the way I do and pretend it's enough that you care about me. I deserve more. We are either in a committed relationship or we're not."

I hesitate, not wanting to say the wrong thing. But here I am, unable to say the right thing. It's not complicated. It's so goddamn simple. It's just words, but words are everything, and I just can't push past this last damn wall.

Julia looks down and her voice is sharp at the edges, the way it used to be back when she wasn't sure she could be open with me. "I'm here for you, if you need me. But from now on, I only have sex with my boyfriend. Let me know if you see him around anywhere. I may or may not have one. I may or may not have to find a new one."

Is she threatening to go out and be with someone else if I don't promise her commitment right this minute? The thought makes me furious.

"I don't like ultimatums," I say, voice low in warning.

"Yeah? Well, that's too bad, Giles. I don't like being someone's distraction."

She storms out of the room, leaving the door to slam shut behind her. The moment she leaves, I want to throw something across the room, frustrated I can't seem to put words to my thoughts, can't seem to get her to understand why I can't give her what she wants right now.

An hour passes, where the initial anger fades away, and I'm left with just regret. I need to try to talk to her again. I can't face tomorrow knowing she and I are at risk of falling apart. But after I knock on her bedroom door a few times, Ava comes out of her own room to tell me Julia's gone.

"What do you mean gone?"

"She went to stay with her friend for the night," Ava says, and judging by the severe way she's eyeing me, it's clear she thinks Julia did the right thing in leaving.

"I'm guessing you overheard our argument."

"Yeah. Well, part of it. Enough to let me know you're an idiot."

"I know I am," I say, "but maybe you can cut me some slack until after tomorrow?"

"Shit." Ava shuts her eyes. "I forgot. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'll be fine."

"Did you tell her? Does she know?"

I shake my head. "She only knows I'm meeting my mom. She doesn't know why."

"Giles…"

"I know, Ava." I turn away to walk back to my room. "I know."

But it's too late now. I can't unload this information on Julia right after our fight. She might think I'm just fishing for sympathy.
 

She's right to be angry with me. I'm not giving her what she needs, the certainty she wants. And even if she could understand why I don't have it in me, it wouldn't change the fact that she deserves more than what I can give her.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Giles

L
AST
YEAR
,
MY
MOTHER
and I didn't come to my father's grave together for the anniversary of his death. She couldn't, she was in the hospital. And though I should've been there with her, I chose to come alone and ask my father questions he couldn't answer, blame him for things he had no idea would happen.
 

I can still taste the anger on my tongue from that day, the bitterness that seemed to flow through my veins for months to come.

The anger has faded away and with it, a lot of the questions I had. Questions, I now realize, were self-serving. Questions that simplify things that aren't meant to be simplified, trivializing issues that run deeper than I understood at the time.

I make that drive to the cemetery again this morning. Only this time, my mother sits in the car beside me. When I picked her up, she hugged me tight and seemed to breathe me in the way mothers do to young children. I should've felt something then, but all I felt was cold.
 

We're quiet on the way to Point Loma. I can see her fiddling with her hands from the corner of my eye. One time, I make the mistake of glancing down and glimpse the old scars on her wrists. They are what I dread most about seeing my mother, they are a cruel reminder of a day I'd much rather forget.

My mother goes unusually still as the hedges and bushes on the left side of the road fall away to unveil slopping grass and countless identical white headstones in perfect rows, as Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery comes into view.

I reach over and silently take her hand, closing my fingers over it. I don't know if it's my gesture or our proximity to my father's grave, but she takes in a choked breath that holds the threat of tears.
 

"I love you, Mom. You know that, right?" My voice sounds far away and I barely recognize it as my own.

She doesn't answer me because she's crying at my words. I hate that she's crying, but I know she needed to hear me say that. Aside from her periodical sniffling, she doesn't make another sound until I park, then she takes in a deep breath, attempting to suck in courage I'm not sure exists in the confines of this car.
 

Outside, the weather is defiantly composed. The sky is a bright, clear blue and a salty breeze blows in from the bay, which is visible on the horizon, beyond the sloping, white-dotted grass.
 

The fingers of my right hand absentmindedly smooth over the surface of the small, glossy photograph in my pocket. I don't need to pull it out to see the image in my mind's eye. That image is all I need to give me strength.

My mother and I walk wordlessly between graves, and without any hesitation or doubt as to where to go. Even though all of the headstones on this side are identical slabs of white stone, the spot where my father is buried is ingrained in my mind, the steps written on my bones.

Even before we reach it, my eyes lock in on it, the headstone bearing my father's name and the two most important dates of his life. It's cast in the shadow of a large tree, a fact I find comforting, until I remember it's not like my father can feel the merciless sun beating down on him all summer long. Still, the view is nice and that, too, brings me a strange comfort. Things he would've appreciated, even if he can't now.

I stop short of the grave, but my mother gets down on her knees in front of it and lays a hand on the top of the stone, as though it were his shoulder.

She starts talking, her head hung low. At first, I can't hear what she's saying but every so often, certain phrases drift in my direction.

I thought we'd get through it together.
 

Why'd you leave me, Finn?

My chest cinches tighter, and tighter, as though her words were a belt strapped across it. I wish I were somewhere else, anywhere else.

Before she gets to her feet, she sets down a single yellow carnation. The idle thought occurs to me that my father doesn't care for flowers and would've rather we left him a beer. But he's not here and he doesn't get to decide how my mother grieves.

She steps away and I come forward, getting to my knees as well so that I'm eye level with the inscription of his name.

"Hey, Dad," I say, my voice just an undertone. "It's been a while, I know. I guess I should try to come more often. It's just…it's strange, still, not being able to see you." I clear my throat. "Anyway, everything's fine. And…if you can hear me, somehow, I don't want you to worry anymore." I glance over my shoulder, self-conscious. My mother is right there, hanging on to my every word. "I know I haven't been taking good care of Mom lately. I know I should be doing better, seeing her more. I'm going to try. I'm not saying I condone what she did, but I think I can understand the desperation of losing someone who's a part of you and feeling like you've been ripped in half. I felt that too, when you left. But I think she felt it more because she's always been so in love with you, Dad. You know that." My mother's crying again behind me, I can hear her loud sniffling. "I…I forgive her. And I forgive you, too. You were sick and needed help and no one around you knew how bad it really was. I get it now. I get that it wasn't your decision to leave us. I get that it was your illness that made it for you. So, I won't be angry with you anymore, Dad. I promise you that. I love you, Dad. We'll catch a baseball game together again, on the other side."

 
My voice is even more hoarse when I finish and I clear my throat again. Then I get to my feet and rub a hand over the top of the headstone. The rough, cool surface of the stone grinds at my palms, but somehow it makes me feel closer to him.