Until We Break (Island Shores #1)

Prologue

G od, I loved his name. Saying it. Writing it. Testing it on my tongue. I used to write in on a post-it at my desk then ball up the sticky pink paper and toss it in the trash.

I used to watch him smoke. I thought it was sexy. Mysterious. Dangerous. An idea that added a layer to him. One maybe I only knew how to slip under. Those moments in the dark when there was quiet around us. Before sex. After sex. All the times in between. I would watch him light the end with the friction of his thumb against the lighter and then blow a puff straight up into the air. Sometimes he didn’t speak. He finished a cigarette, and we’d go back inside together. Fingers interlaced, touching, trailing each other.

Once I broke all the cigarettes in the pack because I was afraid of what would happen if he smoked too much, for too long. He tossed the pack in the trash and bought more. He never said anything. Neither did I. I watched him smoke the new ones.

I wrote poetry then. Bad poetry. Mediocre poetry. I didn’t care because I said it was inspired poetry. Enflamed by passion, good sex, raw emotion. I had never-ending material because I had him. The words were a window to my soul and a glimpse of what his love did to me. Who it made me.

Someone asked me once what it was like being with a guy like him. She was half curious, half jealous of the way he looked at me. We were at a party. I said unpredictable, with a love-sick smile on my face. As if that was exciting and worthy of what it cost. Unpredictable breaks hearts. Unpredictable causes pain. And yet, if I could, I’d go back fifty times to wrap my arms around unpredictable. Maybe I’d go a hundred times just to watch him smoke again. To taste the tobacco on his tongue. To hear his laughter. To read him my godawful poetry. I’d lie and say the lines were better now.

I would pay to burn from the inside out again. To have big fights that ended in bigger making-up. I wondered if the pain would be rewarded. I thought there would always be more. More time. More love. More arguments. More sex.

But there is no path back. No words that can be a healing salve. No great speech to put us back together. No first step followed by a second.

His name.

His goddamn name.

Why is it always his name that starts the cycle again?

I wince now when I hear it. I turn around in an airport or stop in the grocery store before the box of cereal is in my cart. My mouth turns dry when I hear it. My lungs stop working mid-breath. It hurts but I can’t drown out the good memories still linger under a little pounding pain. Like the morning after too much wine. The hazy clouds hang over the good times. I look anyway as if he’s going to be there. Smiling. Crooking his finger for me to follow.

But he’s not.

He’s not at the terminal with a ticket and cup of coffee in his hand. He’s not walking toward me in the grocery aisle. I swear I’ve tried to conjure him. What do people say now? Manifest your dreams? Manifest the life you see for yourself? Well, I try to manifest him.

A woman tells me she likes my haircut. Then I remember I have a different life. I push the cart forward. There it is again. His name. Someone is calling him. I look over my shoulder.

The ache burrows into my chest. My palms begin to sweat. And I remember why it hurts so much.

I remember what I did.