23. Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
Rosie
A s I stretch, I’m acutely aware of the soreness permeating every inch of me.
Last night was a whirlwind of excitement, beauty, and perfection. It went beyond anything I could have wished for.
Vic is just full of surprises. Perhaps his emotions run deeper than what meets the eye. Hopefully, he’s experiencing this connection just as strongly as I am.
I have to talk to him. I don’t want to build up my expectations only to be disappointed in the end.
But how could I not after the date on the lake? It was magical. I wish I could tell Mama all about it. She would be swooning.
This is the life I would have hoped for if I thought it was possible, and it’s all because of him.
I can imagine waking up every morning next to Vic, working with him, laughing with him, experiencing more firsts with him.
Falling more in love with him.
I tap the side of the bed, but it feels cold. Where is he ?
An iced coffee sits on the nightstand beside a folded paper. I go for the coffee first, take a big sip, then grab the piece of paper. I can’t help but grin at the idea of receiving a handwritten note from him rather than a quick text message. It’s adorable.
Blood roars through my ears as my coffee falls from my hand and lands on the floor with a crash.
I take in the handwriting sprawled across the white paper. I’ve seen this writing before.
You could show me thousands of handwritten notes, and I’d still be able to distinguish it from the rest.
How the pressure exerted practically engraves the letters into the paper.
How the letters smudge from him being left-handed and not giving it enough time to dry.
The way he never crosses all the way through his t’s.
No.
This—this can’t be.
I run to my room and throw open my drawer, collecting the letters from Rush. I lay them out, side by side, and it’s clear as day. Hysterical tears threaten to spill from my eyes.
There has to be a plausible reason for this.
Maybe they have the same handwriting? I mean, that can happen, right?
I run back to Vic’s room and head straight for his nightstand drawers, opening all six but finding nothing.
This is silly. What am I doing?
I sit on the bed and blow out a breath before looking at his closet.
My intuition is telling me something isn’t right .
I enter the closet and open his top drawer, filled with black boxer briefs. My hand dives in, sifting through the contents, making a mess but coming up empty.
The second drawer houses socks, and I show them just as much care as his top drawer. My fingers graze against something that crinkles, and I pause.
I pull out a paper bag. Since this was hiding in his drawer of the home he lives in by himself, it can’t be good.
I open it, and I see paper bundled up in a rubber band.
Before I pull them all the way out, I know. I just know.
These are my letters.
The first tear falls before I even process I’m crying.
On the top sits a picture of me, worn at the edges as if it has been touched a million times. It’s an old one from college.
Way before I came to town.
Way before I thought I knew him.
Way before I fell for him.
Under the letters is the final nail to my heart, a black and red devil mask I’ve seen before.
The sudden onslaught of nausea floods my body, leaving my stomach unsettled and churning.
“No,” I say to myself as I shake my head. “This can’t—”
I can’t believe this.
The sound of footsteps reaches my ears just moments before I catch sight of him.
I’m rooted in place. A statue ready to crumble. My grasp tightens around the lies I hold.
He swallows as he looks at what’s in my hands before gazing back up at me .
Regret is the first emotion that flits across his face before determination steps in. His eyes seem to burn with intensity as he takes a step forward.
“Don’t come any closer,” I choke out, my words catching in my throat.
“I can explain,” he says as he steps forward anyway.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“When? Because it sure as hell wasn’t after we met. Or after we kissed. Or even after I gave you my virginity. So, when? Once I became yours?”
“You are mine.”
A hysterical giggle bubbles out of me. I’m so fucking close to falling apart, but I refuse to do so in front of him.
“No, I’m not. I’m the idiot who told you everything when you asked even though you knew everything already.”
“I wanted to hear the words from your lips. Not on paper.”
Suddenly, a wave of crushing realization washes over me. The person I wrote to for years isn’t real.
Every written letter, every smile, every laugh, every tear shed. Fake.
“Rush doesn’t exist. He doesn’t—”
“I do. I’m right here,” he says as he points at his chest.
“You ruined one of the most important things I had left,” I say as I throw the letters at him. He and I both watch them land on the floor.
A tear slides down my cheek, and I smack the traitorous thing away. Vic takes another step forward, but I take another back. “I said don’t come any closer to me. You should have told me right away.”
“When? Before or after I threw Samantha on the bed? That night, you were disgusted with me. I could see it in your eyes. I knew I fucked up and lost what we could have had.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I never expected you to be a saint, and we never moved past the more-than-friends category, anyway. You were my best friend,” I say as my voice cracks.
“I still am,” he says with sadness in his eyes.
“No, you’re a liar,” I say with a sniffle and point at him. “Rush was my best friend. He would’ve never lied to me. Deceived me. Manipulated me. How could you?”
He shakes his head. “Please, just let me ex—”
“No!” I scream, too heartbroken to hear any more. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s not what you think. I never meant to hurt you. I care about you.”
“Which one is the real you, Rush or Vic?” I say as I look at him as if it’s for the first time.
I dreamed of meeting Rush for years. Imagined what he would look like, what he sounded like.
I finally got my wish, and it fucking hurts.
I give him five seconds to give me the answer. Neither will make me feel better, but I have to know.
He runs his hands through his hair and takes a big breath as if lost in his thoughts and not sure what to say.
I shake my head. “Your time is up. I’m leaving.”
I rush past him and snatch my phone off the nightstand, my fingers trembling with urgency. Prepared to sprint the entire distance back home if necessary.
“Please don’t go. I can’t lose you.”
The desperation in his voice is clear, but I don’t care. I can’t .
“You just did.”
As his head falls forward and his gaze stays fixated on his feet, I seize the opportunity and dash through the house, my footsteps reverberating against the walls until I burst into the chilly downpour outside.