Some Sort of Happy (Skylar and Sebastian): A Happy Crazy Love Novel (34 page)

On my bad days, it felt like every step I took could trip the wire, every drastic thought I had would come to fruition, and every minute was sixty seconds closer to losing her.
Of course you’ll lose her
, the voice taunted.
When have you ever been able to hold on to something good?

But there were good days too.

When Mia Fournier had her baby in mid-October, Skylar was given a promotion, a raise, and a box of Abelard Vineyards business cards that said Skylar Nixon, Brand Representative on them. I sent her two dozen pink roses at work the next day and told her how proud I was of her that night. She asked if she could have a reward, and I said of course.

The wicked little thing asked if we could take a shower together, during which she begged me to jerk off in front of her and come on her chest.

Which I did.

Later on I blindfolded her and tortured her endlessly with my tongue for being such a naughty girl, her hands tied, her body stretched out on the bedroom floor.

On those kinds of days, I felt like a god. I could do anything as long as I had her. One chilly fall evening we dragged my sleeping bag out on the dock and spent the entire night out there, whispering and kissing and making love until the sun came up, when we finally went into the cabin and slept for hours in my bed. I came so close that night to asking her to move in with me, but I was too scared—if she was there constantly, it would be much harder to hide my rituals from her.

But God, how I loved her. Madly. Passionately. I wanted her with me all the time. I craved her with every fiber of my being. That night on the dock, I knew without a doubt I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

Finally, some fucking conviction.

In November, I started fantasizing about proposing.
This
was how you were supposed to feel when you asked someone to be your wife—wildly in love, every vein in your body running hot with blood when you’re together, every beat of your heart an explosion. But the more I thought about it, the closer I came to asking her if she wanted to stay with me forever, the more fragile she seemed in my eyes, the more obsessive thoughts pummeled my brain, and the less I felt I was good for her. She wouldn’t be happy with me, would she? She couldn’t be. I was a liar. I was a coward. I was despicable, tying her up and fucking her just to make her feel defenseless and vulnerable the way I did.

But I couldn’t stop.

Fear, guilt, and shame tortured me, and the more I fought it, the worse I felt in my skin. My life became a charade. I hid my relapse from Ken by canceling sessions for four weeks straight. I was able to hide it at work because my father let me keep my own hours—it never mattered if I was late. I stopped writing in my journal in the effort to hide it from myself, and I tried desperately to hide it from Skylar—but eventually it became impossible.

“What is
with
you?” she asked one cold, rainy November night after I’d driven back to the cabin for the second time to check the outlets and appliances. We were on our way to meet the Fourniers for dinner and were late already, but I’d made soup on the stove that afternoon, and it was an odd day, and even though I remembered turning the burner off, I didn’t trust myself. What if that memory was from a different day and the gas was still on? I’d made up some story about forgetting my wallet and then needing one of my meds, but those were flimsy excuses and she knew it. “And if you say ‘nothing,’ I’m getting out of this car. I’ve put up with this behavior for too long.”

I pressed my lips together, remaining silent. When I pulled up in front of the cabin, I told her to wait in the truck. Running through the driving rain, I went inside and began checking the appliances, and when I turned around she was standing there, arms crossed.

“Sebastian. Stop it.”

“I fucking
can’t
,” I blurted, gripping the edge of the counter.
You didn’t check the toaster.

“Then tell me what’s wrong. You’ve been acting strange for weeks now, and you won’t talk to me. I don’t know what to do when you shut me out like this. I feel helpless!” She was wearing a fitted black coat and a new pair of leopard print high heels. Even furious with me, she was beyond beautiful.
Too beautiful for you.

Turning, my head, I stared out the window. I couldn’t look at her.
You fucking coward.

“God, it’s like you’re two people,” she said, starting to cry. “The one that takes me to bed every night and says such sweet things and makes me feel so hopeful and good and safe, and this one that’s just—”

“Crazy?” I finished, braving a sideways glance at her. “Told you.”

“Confused,” she said, shaking her head. “I have no idea what’s going on with you, but unless you decide to let me in on it, I can’t help you!”

Help me. Stay with me. Don’t go.
But I said nothing.

“God, you’re so maddening!” She shook her hands in the air. “Why won’t you talk to me? It’s like you
want
me to leave you!”

I swallowed, part of me desperate to fall on my knees and beg her to stay and the other part anxious to get this over with.
You always knew she’d go, didn’t you? At least let it be on your terms.

“Christ, that’s it, isn’t it? You’re doing all this to drive me away so you can hate yourself for it afterward.” She shook her head. “Why do you think you don’t deserve to be happy?”

“Because I don’t!” I finally exploded. “I’m not right in the head, Skylar. I’m fucked up.” The truth gnawed painfully at my gut, and I felt no relief in voicing it.

Tears dripped from her eyes. “My God. You’re so intent on punishing yourself for something you have no control over, you can’t see straight,” she said. “Have you been going to therapy?”

I looked away again.

“Look at me. Have you?”

Reluctantly, shamefully, my eyes met hers. “No.”

Drawing herself up, she wiped her tears and put both hands over her heart. “You don’t know what this is doing to me. I love you, Sebastian, so much it kills me to see you hurting. I want to make everything better for you, and it breaks my heart that I can’t. And I want a life with you, but I can’t be the only one trying to make it happen.”

“This
is
a life with me, don’t you get it?” I snapped, hiding behind anger. “This is who I am.”

“Bullshit. This isn’t who you are, and you know it.” She pointed a finger at me. “You’re not an asshole, and you’re not a freak, and you’re not a monster.” She took a step closer and the fresh tears in her eyes had my chest in a vise. “You’re a beautiful, brilliant, complicated man, Sebastian Pryce. And I adore you. But if you want to suffer here alone with your tortured soul because you think for some fucked up reason you deserve it, fine. Choose suffering over me. But I can’t watch. It will destroy me.”

She turned and walked out the door, and I watched through the front window as she grabbed her purse from the truck and got into her car, not even trying to shield herself from the downpour. Instead of driving off in a huff, she sat sobbing in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, which was even worse, and my hands gripped the cement countertop so hard I thought I might crack it.

Eventually she left, and I was so mad at myself I nearly put a fist through the kitchen window.

Voices warred inside me.

Go get her back, you asshole.

Let her go. She’s better off without you.

You love her. You’ll be miserable without her.

So what? It’s better than making her miserable.

Women like her don’t have to give second chances, you know. Get yourself the fuck together and go after her.

I wanted to tear my hair out. Claw my eyes out. Shred the skin from my bones. I wanted to punish my body, castigate my brain for what it was making me think and feel. Even though I’d already been to the gym this morning, I went back and put myself through another grueling workout. Then I came back to the cabin, where everything reminded me of Skylar. The porch. The couch. The shower. The kitchen. The bedroom.

I made a sandwich but couldn’t even eat it because I saw the honey sticks next to the peanut butter in the pantry. The thought of her giving her honey-kisses to some other guy split my chest in two. I stood staring out the sliding glass door onto the rain-soaked patio, recalling the night last spring when I’d bought the chairs and the next day when she’d watched me put them together. The hammock was down now, but I could still see her lying there, still feel the way her body felt on mine when we’d lain in it together last summer. I looked at the dock, where she’d first told me she loved me. Fuck, why couldn’t I just be normal? Any other guy would have just bought the ring and proposed by now. A woman like her was one in a million.

My cell phone buzzed, and I pulled it from my pocket. It was Skylar’s number.

Thank God. I didn’t even hesitate before pressing Accept. Even if she just wanted to yell at me, at least I’d hear her voice.

“Fuck. I’m such an asshole,” I croaked.

“What? Sebastian?”

My heart stopped. The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t Skylar’s. “Yes. Who is this?”

“It’s Natalie.”

Gray fog clouded my vision, and I steadied myself with one hand on the counter. Why was Natalie using Skylar’s phone to call me? Was she so mad she didn’t even want to hear my voice? Or had something happened to her? “What’s going on? Is Skylar OK?”

“She’s OK. But she had an accident.”

“Oh my God.” The room spun, and for a second I thought I might get sick.
I caused it. I caused it. This time it’s real.
“A car accident?”

“No. She slipped and fell on some wet cement stairs outside a restaurant. She broke her wrist and hit her head pretty good, but she’s fine now.”

“Jesus.” I grabbed a handful of my hair and tugged on it.
So it wasn’t a car accident, but it was still your fault. She went to the restaurant alone and you should have been with her.
“Where is she?”

“She’s at Munson. But she doesn’t want to see you.”

“What? Why?”
You know why, you stupid fuck.

“I don’t know. She didn’t elaborate, and she’s exhausted and loopy from the pain meds, but when I asked if I should call you, she said no, she didn’t want to see you and that if I called you she was never speaking to me again.”

“Fuck that. I’m coming.” I looked around for my keys. I hated hospitals more than odd numbers, but nothing could keep me from her.

“No! Please don’t.” Her tone was desperate. “Look, I called you because I knew you’d want to know, and I’m guessing she’ll eventually speak to me again after I tell her I did, but really—she’s got a bad enough headache right now. Whatever’s going on with you guys will have to get sorted out another time.”

My throat was squeezed so tight I didn’t know if I could even talk anymore. “OK. Thanks.”

We hung up, and I considered my next move for less than two seconds.

Skylar was hurt. I needed to be near her.

Despite the rain, I drove fast, praying hard that Natalie had been truthful with me and that Skylar’s injuries weren’t worse than she claimed.

At Munson, I parked and raced into the lobby without even hesitating outside the doors. Looking around wildly, I spotted the info desk and charged up to it. Once I got Skylar’s room information, I headed for the elevators, my stomach churning a bit at the hospital smell in the halls. Forget that. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is her. I forced myself to inhale deeply. Again, and again, and again. After a minute, one elevator door opened and Natalie stepped out.

“Sebastian.” Her eyes went wide. “What are you doing here?”

I squared my shoulders. “You have to let me see her.”

“She’s finally sleeping. Please don’t go up there now.”

My posture deflated a little. “Are you sure she’s OK?”

“Yes.” She looked at me, chewing on her bottom lip. “You look awful. What’s going on with you guys?”

“I fucked things up.” I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, not sure why I’d just blurted that out to Skylar’s sister but oddly relieved that I had. “I fucked things up and now she’s hurt and it’s my fault.”

“What? She slipped and fell, Sebastian. She was wearing ridiculously high heels and it was raining. How can that be your fault?”

Tears formed and I pressed a thumb and two fingertips over my eyes, embarrassed. “It just is. I know it.”

“Good grief. Come on.” She took me by the elbow and turned me around. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee. It won’t be as good as mine, but maybe it’s drinkable.” I let her steer me down the hall and around two corners, then over to a table in the near empty cafeteria. Dejected, I sank into a chair. “Don’t move,” she said.

I sat with my head in my hands, and a few minutes later she came back with two steaming white styrofoam cups and set them on the table. God, could I drink out of a hospital styrofoam cup? My skin crawled. “Thanks.”