Haunt Me (Heartbreaker Duet #2)

Massachusetts

forty-six

I am numb inside.

Saint Hope is dead.

The coal has gone cold.

The lyrics in my head are silent.

The music has stopped.

I have been performing on autopilot for weeks. The moment I thought I saw Eden so vividly in Paris what the first real thing I’ve felt in weeks. I am holding on to it like a dying man holds on to a mask of oxygen. And two days later, when I have a five-day break, I’m considering following it to . To our woods. You know, like a fool.

In the end, I actually go through with it. I stupidly fly to Boston.

Actually, I might not have gone through with it if both Jude and my brother hadn’t encouraged me to go—but they said I should go. It might help clear my head. I think they are realizing I am at my breaking point. It must be horrible for them, seeing me like that, feeling powerless to help me.

But no one can get me out of this pit of darkness. I need to find my way out of it by myself. There is no way out but through. I need to get my head on straight, so I can survive the rest of the tour, including the five more dates we added in Wembley for next month.

So, I go to , pretending that someone heard my ‘meet me in the woods’ message. Pretending she heard it. Pretending there is still hope.

I know it’s nothing more than a fantasy, but I need to keep it alive: It’s all I’ve left.

I drive myself to my old school and get out of the car. The brown and yellow winter colors of the leaves, the gray of the skies, the red bricks of the buildings are etched into my soul. In an instant, it’s almost like I never left. My feet start walking the familiar path down to the trees almost on their own. I follow, lost in memories .

For the millionth time, I wonder why I’m here.

I do not expect to find redemption in these woods. I do not expect to find hope, or anything good.

I do not even expect to find ghosts.

…

It happens in slow motion.

I step on a branch that gets tangled in my boots and sends me sprawling to my knees. I let myself fall, not because of the branch or the matted, slippery, but because there’s nothing left to do but fall.

I sink down to my knees, getting my designer jeans muddy, and I just stay there, powerless, a rag doll. It’s over , I think over and over in my head.

You have to accept it’s over.

I’ll never accept it’s over.

The skies are covered in clouds, and I throw my head back and look at the endless white.

There is no forgiveness to be found there or anywhere.

And then a voice says:

“You could drown like this. If you were a cat and it was raining.”

A chill runs down my spine. Someone said these words to me long ago—years ago. I don’t turn around. I don’t move a muscle. She is not real; she is a creation of my tortured brain. But I do answer her, because when have I been able to resist doing that?

“I am already drowning,” I say. “And I think it’s time to give up.”

“Don’t give up,” her voice answers. I smile. I know that voice so well. I know just by one word, one syllable, whether she’s sad, in pain, or if she needs help. But this voice? There’s a slightly different tint to it.

As if it’s her new voice.

The new her voice.

The grownup, the healed voice.

As if she’s real.

I stand and turn around and she is standing there, all curly red hair and freckles and not a black piece of clothing in sight. She’s wearing an oversized sweater, as she did then, but now it’s made of smooth cream wool. And she’s wearing a coat, a winter hat, a pair of jeans, and her orange boots. She’s looking away from me, up towards the sky. She looks like a fairytale .

No, wait, this can’t be right. There is absolutely no way she’s actually here. She is not real.

“Don’t give up now,” not-Eden repeats, squinting against the clouds. “It’s about to get good.”

“Is it you?” I murmur, the words barely audible.

“You said to meet you in the woods,” she replies in a matter-of-fact tone.

“I said—Wait, that was really you? In Paris? In my jacket? On Justin’s shoulders? The whole time? You…” I try to swallow down the overwhelming emotions, but I can’t. They start to feel like panic. “You were there for the whole word to see, I should have sent up security, I should…” My vision is going black.

“Hey, don’t be in pain,” Eden says, taking two steps until she’s standing right in front of me. “Please don’t be in pain.” Her voice trembles. “And please don’t get mad.”

A violent shiver runs down my whole body at the way she says ‘don’t be in pain’. If she says it a third time, I don’t know how I will remain standing.

“Do you want to bring me to my knees again?” I whisper. “Hold on, why would I get mad? What did you do?”

“I told James I was coming to your show. He was the only one who knew. He sent up a security detail for us, so that we would be safe in case I was seen. But I asked him not to tell you. I did…” She looks scared. I bite the inside of my jaw. “I’m sorry.”

I wave a hand. “Go on.”

“I did ask him to let me know if you would actually come to , because that ‘meet me in the woods’ thing you s-said,” her voice cracks again, “was extremely romantic, but it wasn’t very specific, you know? When something like that happens in movies, how do they actually find each other?”

“Apparently, they call my brother,” I say, my eyes on hers. I don’t even dare to blink in case she disappears. What she’s saying to me is not even computing.

She is here. She is here. She is here.

Raw joy steals my breath.

“I wasn’t sure where to find you, or if you would even actually come here, so James basically told me where you’d be. Sorry for taking all the poetry out of it, sorry f—”

I pull her to me with a hand on the back of her neck and cover her lips with mine. My legs fold and I sink to the ground. She sinks with me and I bury myself in her neck, trying to convince myself she is real. I sob quietly into her shoulder, and she kisses my head .

I lower us to the soft ground, thick with leaves, our bodies tangled up in each other. Her hands are frantically exploring my skin, and I can feel her hot breath on my cheek, her heart beating frantically.

I wrap my arms around her slipping a hand inside her sweater, hoping the skin-to skin contact will help calm us both down. I explore the bare skin of her back, her skin smooth and warm beneath my touch, and explore the lines of her shoulder blades, running the tips of my fingers over them as if they are piano keys, waiting for me to play the sweetest melody on them.

She melts onto me, and I catch her against me, covering my lips with hers.

Breathing for both of us.

“Are you ok?” I ask her again and again.

“Yes,” she always replies.

When I take off her coat. When I slip both hands under her skirt. When I unhook her bra. When the fire between us gets so hot, her breath hitches, and she can’t draw in enough air.

“Are you ok?”

“I’m perfect,” she replies.

“Yes, you are.”

She hides her head on my shoulder, laughing softly, and I explore her body tenderly, trying to learn as much of her as I can without shattering completely. Today is for exploring. Not for shattering.

Well, shattering a little.

My broken sighs are matched by hers, and I feel her curls on my lips, as she throws her head and gasps with the pleasure I give her. Sudden joy like I’ve never known floods me. No, not joy. Triumph. I made her moan like that. I made her fall apart.

And we’re only just beginning.

There is so much more to explore, but just this, us, skin to skin, lips to lips, makes us feel so much, then I am going to savor every single moment of it. I will give my attention to every aspect of loving her and learning her, her body, her wants, her desires, her needs.

But for now, I enjoy the part of her she’s chosen to share with me.

I explore the symphony of her skin under my fingers, and put melody to her heaving sighs as the heat between us mounts. I am barely in control, but I’ve learned to wait. I’m better at it now than I was months before .

I can stop—it’s not easy, but I can. I will. In half an hour. Or two.

Afterwards, we lie there, facing each other.

“That music video,” she says quietly. I fight to focus on her words. It’s not easy. “That was—”

“It’s for you,” I interrupt her.

“For me?”

“Yes. The whole album is. Both of them.”

“You wrote all of these songs for…?”

“Yes,” I say again, before she can even finish her question. She falls silent. “Have you listened to Isaiah ?” I ask, dreading the answer. She nods. “You know then.”

She blushes furiously. “I thought one or two might be…”

“All of them,” I interrupt her, meeting her gaze with an intensity that makes my whole body burn. “All of them are for you. But it must have been obvious to you.”

Deeper goes her blush. A slow smile spreads across my lips.

“Did I sound desperate?” I ask, leaning down until my lips are inches from hers. My eyes are fixed on hers, as if drawn by electricity.

“You sounded—"

“Because I am,” I interrupt her. “Desperate.”

“I saw you were in distress,” she says quietly. “I saw the clips of you on stage… I couldn’t stand it.”

I close my eyes. I’m getting dizzy again.

“I’m sorry you s-saw.” I’m struggling to speak. “I didn’t mean for you to see.” Only the entire rest of the world—well, I didn’t mean for them to see either, I just didn’t care. “I thought you would stay away from anything that had to do with me after what I did, after what I said in that interview…”

The forest is spinning again.

“That was stupid,” Eden says, grabbing my hand. My fingers close around her wrist as if it’s one thing that separates me from an agonizing death. “I know you said those things for the whole world to hear, but it turned out that you said different things in your songs. And not just in Isaiah . That… that second album. The re-done one. The Heartmender . I didn’t know you were rewriting all your songs.”

“I didn’t know either,” I say.

Suddenly I hate it, I hate that I have brought us back here, in the same place that broke us. I try to stand, but it’s simply not possible right now. Eden is looking at the bare branches over our heads. She looks cold, but not freezing. Her skin has that rosy hue it never used to have before, her cheeks glowing red in the wind.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to meet me in the woods,” I say. “I wouldn’t have, if I knew you were listening.”

“I love that you did. It’s good that you did.”

“I destroyed you,” I say, “Again. What’s good about that?”

“The hope,” she replies at once. Our eyes meet.

“I can barely look you in the eye,” I say. “I’m so ashamed of what happened back then here, of all that I was blind to. Being in this place brings it back in a way mere memories just don’t. All this time… Meeting you here every single day. Letting you down every day. Eden. How could I?”

“What are you sayi—?”

“I let you down completely. I should have been here for you to cry in my arms. I should have picked up your pieces. I should have known something was wrong.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second, her throat working.

“I should have saved you,” I suddenly scream. “Sorry,” I murmur, mortified.

All my frustration and pain should really learn to warn me before they come out of me like that. Like a tidal wave.

She shrugs, as if she’s saying ‘scream if you want’. So I do.

“I should have known! I should—I should have been the one to save you, Eden.”

“You did,” Eden replies calmly. “You kept me alive, Isaiah, you kept me sane.” I take a breath. “You kept my mind in one piece, and you stitched my heart together.”

“If I did that, then you must know that you kept me breathing. Kept me above water. You saved me so much more than I ever saved you,” I tell her quietly.

I reach out my hand, empty, to her. My fingers are trembling slightly.

She looks at it and hesitates. I wait her out.

Finally, she puts her hand in mine, and my fingers close around hers, dwarfing them. I breathe out a sigh. Even this small thing makes me feel as if a wound is closing. As if I’m somehow closer to being complete.

“Tell me a story,” she tells me.

Oh, I know a good one. “This story is about a girl and a boy sitting under a tree,” I say.

“And?” She is smiling, as if it’s silly. It is. But also it’s not .

“And nothing happens,” I reply. “He loves music, but he doesn’t write any songs. He definitely doesn’t get broken enough, so that he ends up having enough material inside him for albums and albums of them. And more songs coming and coming, and not stopping.”

She’s laughing now. Laughing is good. I mean, I still can’t breathe, but as long as she is laughing, I’m good.

“Stop it,” she says.

But I can’t, I’m on a roll now. I close my eyes, drop my head back.

“And she,” I continue, “she is as she always was. Perfect. No need to change her story into a fairytale. She is the fairytale. She is paradise.”

I think I am writing a song.

Eden stops laughing. “This is such a horrible story,” she says. “Not to mention a lie. She… she would need so much to change in her story for it to be a fairytale.”

I can’t speak; I just squeeze her hand so hard I hear her knuckles pop.

“Sorry,” I say.

“I think I have a better ending for your story,” Eden says. “The boy, he… He’s been through a tremendous amount of pain—they both have. But their heads are both above the water now.”

I turn to look at her. I want to apologize for that music video. I would never in a million years have released it live if I had known she was there, watching. How traumatic must it have been for her. How horrible.

“I didn’t know that’s how you thought of me, Isaiah,” she says, reading my mind, as usual. “As someone who is sinking and sinking, alone. I am not that person. And I wasn’t, not even back then.”

“Why?” I croak.

“You know why: I had you. So, since you suck at telling stories, let me tell it correctly. They save each other; they get out of the water. They end up warm and safe on firm land. The land is called faith.”

I inhale sharply through my nose.

Is it too late to believe?

It’s not. It’s not. It’s not.

“He has survived and he has become a song.” A sound like a sob comes out of my lips. She is repeating my own words from Paris back to me. She was paying attention—of course she was. It’s Eden .

“I’m sorry,” I say again. I don’t think I have said it enough.

Eden is shaking her head.

“Ok,” she says, “for this to happen,” she gestures between us, “we need to let go of guilt. Guilt will drag us to the bottom, every time. We need to let go of it. Both of us.”

I keep nodding. Yes. Yes . “I don’t know how to do that,” I say.

“I need you, Zay,” Eden says, and my skin breaks out in goose bumps, “but you are not me. I need you to fight with me, but you can’t fight for me. And if you let my darkness burden you, drag you under, then who will save me?”

“I will,” I say without hesitation. “Every time. I will save you, Eden.”

“I know you will. You have already done it so many times. But promise me you’ll stay above water in order to be able to do that. Promise me you won’t let my darkness drown you.”

“I am trying. I will learn. I will be stronger, that I can promise you. I will be better. I won’t buckle under the weight, I won’t.”

“It’s not your weight to carry.” She hides her face from me, and I can’t stand it. “All this time, you have been feeling guilty and responsible and for what? For me? For Solomon? I can’t handle you carrying all this weight, it’s not your weight to carry.” The fact that she is repeating it over and over tells me how often she has thought about it. How much it’s been torturing her.

She’s facing the ground as she speaks, her breath coming short.

“Hey, look at me,” I say. “Look at me, please, Eden.” She raises her eyes to mine, and there is so much pain in them that my heart constricts. But there is hope in them too. Saint Hope. Our guardian angel, whom we first met in these woods. “Like hell it’s not. It is my weight to carry, and that is my privilege and my honor. If you’ll let me. If you think I’m strong enough.”

“Of course you are,” she replies.

Without even having to think about ordering my tired body to move, I’m on my knees, towering over her. And then my lips find hers. No words. Just us, as we used to be. Just as, as we never used to be. Us, now.

“Is this ok?” I ask her after we have kissed for a century. “Is it too fast?”

“It’s almost too late,” she replies, her lips moving against my mouth. I have her tiny waist circled in my palms, and she turns her chin to fit my lips better. “’Almost’ being the key word here.”

“You’re killing me, Eden,” I murmur with my mouth full of her. “I’m dying.”

“ You’re killing me ,” she says, “Isaiah.”

The way she says my name completely ruins me.

I’m the first one to die.

In her lips.

…

“Can I try this again?” I ask a few minutes later.

“Try what again?”

“The love declaration. It’s the same place. Same trees, same girl. Different year.”

“I’m not the same girl, Isaiah,” Eden says. She is in my arms. “I’ll never be.”

“And thank God for that,” I say, and I mean it. She smiles. “Tell me when you’re ready for me to start talking about Wentworth and Heathcliff again.”

“Now is as good a time as any.”

So I try again to put what I feel into words; and I fail again, spectacularly. No words will ever contain this thing between us.

Instead of talking, we just stay here for a few more minutes; here where it all happened. When that man broke her and she broke me and I fell apart into a million pieces. Where I was a selfish idiot.

Where will put ourselves back together. Starting from today.