43. Greer
Greer
If there was anything funny about the whole thing, it might be that I asked Beckett to wait until Sunday night after the game to talk about us, real us, what we are and what we aren’t, because I wanted to talk to my dad first.
I came back from that cottage with these grand ideas that maybe I could be this healed person for him, all this courage sitting in my chest, roots and trees and beautiful flowers blooming from the soil of all those empty places.
Now there’s really no need for any of that, because my dad’s seen it all anyway, and Beckett isn’t my friend, but he did end up taking a piece of me with him when he left after all.
The creak of the front door echoes. Shadows spill along the hallway, illuminated by the one single light I left on out there, and judging by the determined footfalls, I know who it is before she peers around the corner of my bedroom door.
“This stuff doesn’t work.” I point to the eucalyptus, hanging there uselessly against the edge of the mirror.
The corners of Stella’s mouth tug down, and she places a hand against her chest. “No, I can’t imagine it would. But I brought reinforcements.”
I know who’s going to peer around the corner behind her before they do, too.
A slicked-back ponytail swings across shoulders, and a head of tumbling red waves beside her.
“Hi,” I whisper.
Willa’s fingers steeple across her face, eyes looking endlessly sad. Kate doesn’t wait for permission and crawls into bed beside me, dropping her head to my shoulder.
And then I cry.
For a very long time, actually.
Until I’m certain there’s absolutely nothing left in me.
Entirely empty, and all those wonderful little sprouts are gone.
Or maybe they’re not gone—because I’m not sure anything in me that’s been touched by Beckett Davis could ever really be gone—but they’ve shrunk back down into the soil.
They don’t mind that I don’t really say anything. I just lie there on the bed, breathing in and out, drumming my fingers along my rib cage through Beckett’s sweater, right at the precipice of my scar.
It’s one of the more beautiful things about being loved for who you are—those people who see you like that know exactly what you need.
I think my brain might be screaming too loudly for me to really talk, anyway.
See , it shouts, we warned you. This is what happens when you give yourself away.
I can’t hear my heart because Beckett took it with him, but I’m sure it’s much happier, humming away, contentedly plucking the chords of all the string instruments in its orchestra.
I wish I was with them.
Willa says nothing, but she starts folding my laundry, holding anything that isn’t scrubs up to herself in the mirror.
Kate runs her fingers through my hair, pausing every once in a while to lean down and hug me.
I can see my sister’s fingers flying across the screen of her phone. Maybe she’s talking to our father.
I’ve been avoiding him all day. I lost count of the number of calls, and I muted his texts.
One of the first things someone said to me after my surgery was how brave I was. It’s what I say to living donors before I slice into them. Sometimes I say it in their hospital rooms beforehand to put them at ease, and I always whisper it right before I press down with my scalpel.
It’s just another thing that makes me a hypocrite.
Because I’m not brave at all.
I might be the stupidest, most cowardly girl in the world, actually.
Drawing all these lines so I could keep all these secrets—my own, my sister’s, my father’s.
And it never once occurred to me that maybe they wouldn’t be safe when I was running around with someone whose literal job involves people knowing more of his business than they should.
A crease cuts between Stella’s eyebrows when she looks down at her phone.
My lungs push against my rib cage, and I think those old breaks strain. “How’s Dad?”
My sister drops her phone and turns to face me. She frowns, nose wrinkling, and she gives a resigned shake of her head. “Upset. Confused. He doesn’t understand why you won’t return his texts or calls.”
“What am I supposed to say?” I hold my hands out before wiping at my cheeks. “Oh, hey, Dad, your privacy was violated—totally my fault, sorry about that—but actually, all those awful things people are saying? I’ve thought about ninety-eight percent of them.”
“Why not?” Stella counters, brows flicking up. “He goes to AA like three times a week. Trust me, I’ve been to a lot of meetings. He’s not going to be shocked to hear it.”
Willa drops the shirt she was holding and turns from the mirror, lips pulling into a thin line. “Did you just say it was your fault?”
“Well, it is.” I hold my hands up towards the ceiling, all of me exasperated, before I push to sit up. I think my voice is going to come out harsh, unyielding and unflinching like I’m so above it all, but the whole thing cracks horribly. “I’m the one who was too stupid, running around pretending to be his friend, so resolute and so certain that I didn’t even consider the ramifications of being involved with someone who lives in the public eye.”
Kate’s hand finds my back, sweeping in small, soothing circles. “You’re not stupid.”
“And this is not your fault!” Willa folds herself down beside me, one arm coming around my shoulder. “Beckett might have a job that comes with more publicity than most, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to invade your privacy. It doesn’t mean they get access to you because they think they deserve access to him.”
I shake my head, swatting at the tears tracking down my face. “I’m the one who fell in love with a football-kicking, Napoleon-obsessed—”
“I’m sorry, did you say Napoleon?” Willa turns towards me, nose scrunched up in disgust. “Like Bonaparte? Played by Joaquin Phoenix in that movie?”
Cocking her head to the side, Stella whispers at the same time, “Fell in love with?”
I bring my knees to my chest and rest my chin on top of them. I wish my heart were here, it would know exactly what to say —how to tell them all that I love him, this boy with the dimple and the eyes and the mind that knows me. So much I stopped listening to my brain who was really only trying to keep us alive.
So much I let them tug and tug on that rope of me until it finally broke, and now I’m just this person with a heart that lives somewhere else.
I dig my thumb into the seam of my leggings, and I tip my head back and forth before answering, “Yes.”
“Then why did you make him go?” Stella angles her head, features set in a haughty challenge.
I don’t think I’m going to tell her anything at all, because the second I asked him to leave, I wished I hadn’t. But I do. I’m just so tired, I think. “Because this is exactly what I was afraid of! The second I took a step back, all those lines I was—”
“No.” Stella holds a palm up. “I’m not listening to that. Yes, it’s horrific and awful and your privacy, my privacy, Dad’s privacy was invaded, and it was a situation we never should have been put in to begin with, but what—that means you don’t try? You go back to being this girl who thinks she needs to spend her life alone because she did an impossibly hard, brave thing? And she has complicated feelings about it? Bullshit.”
“Stella.” Willa’s voice cuts across the room, and her hand finds my shoulder again.
Stella shakes her head, flicking her hand towards Willa like she’s waving her off. “No. She’s waiting for this magic switch to flip, and it’s never going to happen. I am sorry that your first time stretching outside of your goddamn box, you got burned. That’s life. And you’re human.” My sister turns towards me, her features collapsing and her eyes clouding over. She leans forward, gathering my hands in hers and bringing them to her chest. “A complex, hurting, beautiful human being who doesn’t deserve to spend their life alone because they have imperfect feelings about something. If I have to drag you out by your hair tomorrow, I will. You’re not fucking up this thing you have with him because of something that isn’t his fault, and it’s certainly not yours either.”
Kate drops her head to mine. “Do you still want to go to the game tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
“Uhm.” Willa’s eyes flash now, her fingers tighten against my shoulder, and she looks at me like she can’t believe me. “Yes, you do?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “What would you do if this happened, and you had to show up at something for one of us?”
“It’s different,” I try.
“No. It’s not.” She shakes her head, ponytail swinging behind her, and she quite literally shifts over to Stella’s side of the bed. “He has constantly shown up for you, and as far as I can tell—and I can’t tell much, because you’ve done a pretty great job at keeping this all secret—he’s never asked for more than you’ve been willing to give.” Her voice drops, and her features soften. “Why didn’t you tell us? Any of it?”
I tip my head back, blinking at the ceiling, but the tears find their way out anyway. “Because I fucking hate myself for thinking all of it! For doing it. For regretting it. For being a hypocrite every day of my life and maybe hurting people the way I was hurt. For going on and on about my boundaries and my lines and then taking them down the second a boy smiled at me.”
“It is a great smile.” Stella nods solemnly, eyes soft and nose wrinkled.
“Cash.” Willa pinches the bridge of her nose before waving her hand between the three of them. “The only person who thinks that about you, is you. Last time I checked, we all think you’re pretty great.”
“All the people online—” I start.
“Don’t count,” Kate finishes for me.
“I doubt my father feels that way.” I snort, but the whole thing feels hollow.
“He just wants to talk to you.” Stella shakes her head softly. “I’ll go with you. Tomorrow morning before the game.”
I raise my eyebrows, dig my chin into my knees, and nod like I’m sure, even though I think the only thing scarier than falling in love with Beckett Davis is telling my father the whole truth.
We don’t say anything again for a very long time, but there’s beauty in silence sometimes, when all it really is, is being seen.
And it really is all out in the open now—the ugly truth of me and the scar that hurts more than it should all these years later.
But they’re all still looking at me like they love me.
They aren’t the only ones , I think I hear my heart whisper from all the way across the city.
I roll my shoulders back and pick up the phone.
I start typing. I stop. There are a lot of things I could say.
Don’t be nervous. You’re a generational talent.
Great legs. If I cut you open, I bet your fast-twitch muscle fibres would be a marvel.
You’re real, and you’re worthy.
Oh, how’s my heart? I don’t want it back, by the way. It’s yours to keep.
I inhale and try again.
Greer: Good luck tomorrow.