37
Valentina
It’s been a few days since our fight on campus, and I haven’t heard from Huxley. He hasn’t shown up after any of my classes, so I’m doing the only thing I can think of to make this better. I’m going to his apartment.
I know I fucked up, but I still expected to see him after my classes. It would have made things so much easier, and I could have apologized faster. But here we are.
I knock softly and wait. Time seems to tick away before he finally opens the door. I don’t know what to say yet, so I just stare at him. He lets me sit in a few moments of agony before he steps aside, letting me in.
My mind starts playing over apologies, trying to pick my words carefully. Yes, I shouldn’t have pushed him to tell me how many girls he’s been with, but it’s an understandable question to ask in relationships. And sure, I know he’s been with a lot of girls already, but how many can it really be?
“1,000.”
I freeze mid-step in his living room, all my apologies leaving my head.
That number. There’s no way it’s the answer to what I asked him.
I slowly turn to face him. His eyes are on the floor while he leans against the door, arms crossed over his chest, blocking himself off from me.
“What?” I barely breathe out.
“The last time I counted, it was close to that,” he says in a voice too emotionless for this conversation.
My stomach turns. I’m about 99% sure I’m going to throw up. 1,000 is the number of girls he’s slept with.
1,000.
“1,000?” I have to ask. I have to make sure I heard him right. Huxley looks up at me, answering me with his eyes. But I can’t let it go. “1,000?”
He glares at me. “Stop.”
“You’re only 21.”
“I’m 22,” he counters.
“What difference does it make?”
He pushes off the door. “You were the one who asked Valentina,” he snaps.
“Because I thought it would be at most 300.” That’s a lie. I thought it would be at most 100. I never imagined it would be 10 times that amount.
“What did you expect?” he says hoarsely, gesturing over himself. “This is who I am.”
The pain of his words seeps into me, but I push them back as I shake my head. “No, it’s not.”
A hint of anger mixes with his pain, turning his words to venom. “And how would you know?”
I ignore it because I know he doesn’t mean it.
I know this man well enough to know that his anger is almost always laced with some kind of pain.
And this time is no different. “Because if it was who you were, you wouldn’t be with me, and you wouldn’t have wanted all these girls to stay away from you. ”
He wouldn’t have taken me on dates.
He wouldn’t have tried to make things right between us every time something bad happened.
I’m still here because I know him. He doesn’t want to be the person everyone thinks he is.
He looks away from me, so I step closer to him.
“Huxley.” I pull on his shirt to try and gain his attention, but he doesn’t move—his jaw the only thing that tenses up.
“You’re not some sex-crazed maniac that only wants to have sex,” I say softly.
“I think someone said something good about you, and it spread like wildfire until everyone wanted to be with you.”
I reach up and pull his face to look at me, pain swirling in his dark eyes that makes my heart break.
“You know who you are, Huxley Adams?” His eyes slightly widen, waiting. “You’re an insanely talented musician with a voice that I’m still convinced isn’t real.”
He laughs weakly, easing some of the tension, so I continue. “People just expect you to give, and so they take and take and take. But you don’t have to be that person anymore. And you’re starting to move away from all that. With me.”
I bring my other hand up to his face to hold him still so he has to look at me as I say, “You’re a great man, Huxley Adams. Don’t let that number or anyone else tell you otherwise.”
He grabs hold of my wrists, gripping tightly while he searches for the right thing to say.
“I hate it, Valentina,” he whispers, his eyes glassing over. “I hate who I am because of it.”
“The bad things we do don’t define us,” I say without thinking.
He scoffs. “What have you done that’s so bad?”
Don’t. I try to keep my hands steady so they don’t shake.
Don’t do this. He’ll think you’re insane. I pull my hands away from his face, and he watches them fall, confusion filling his eyes.
You’re going to lose him if you do this. Stop! I keep staring up at Huxley as I pull my shirt sleeve up on my left arm.
Please don’t leave. I lift my arm for him to see. He gives me another confused look before looking at my wrist. His eyes scan over my skin for a second before they go wide.
“No.” His voice breaks, tearing a hole straight through my heart. Fear-filled eyes look back at me. “Did you—did you try?”
I nod.
Huxley scans over the scars on my wrist again. He slowly reaches up, his hand shaking as he brushes his thumb over the permanent lines on my skin.
“When?” he croaks.
My throat scratches also. “Sophomore year.”
His eyes widen again. “Sophomore year of college?”
I bring my other hand up to his face to calm him down. Or maybe to calm myself down, I’m not sure yet. “I’m okay, Huxley,” I whisper. “I haven’t done it since then.”
He blinks back tears as he struggles to speak. “You tried to kill yourself, Valentina. Why would you do that?”
I try to swallow, but my throat is way too dry. “I just—”
“Do you have any idea how terrible the world would be if you were gone?”
“I didn’t think I had a choice.” My voice breaks, sending tears racing down my cheeks. Huxley cups my face, trying to catch my tears as they fall.
“Baby, you always have a choice. And if the choice is between you leaving or staying, you stay.”
I choke out a sob. “It just hurt so much.”
He frowns, concern and pain mixing in his eyes. “What did?”
“Everything,” I hiccup, tears falling faster now with what seems like no end in sight.
Huxley presses his forehead into mine and slips his hands further into my hair.
“If you ever get to that place again, you tell me,” he says deeply, his voice still breaking from his unshed tears.
“I don’t care if you are 90 years old, on your deathbed, and the doctors have told me you’re about to leave me.
If you’re hurting, tell me. Let me hold it for you so you don’t feel it anymore.
Let me carry it for you so the weight doesn’t hold you down. ”
I grab onto his wrists to keep myself standing, to keep him close. “And what about you?” I whisper through my tears. “What will you do with all that weight?”
“I’ll just get stronger for the next time you’re hurting.”
“What if you’re hurting?”
“I only hurt when you hurt.”
I shake my head. “That’s not true.”
“Maybe,” he whispers. “But nothing has ever hurt me as much as knowing you thought the only choice you had was to end your life.”
His voice breaks. And so does my heart.
I move my arms around his neck, and he pulls me up into a hug. “Stay with me,” he whispers in my ear. “Just stay with me.”
I nod, pulling him closer, and the veil of fear I had leaves my body.
This is my safe space—his arms around me, telling me to stay.
I don’t ever want to leave.
And maybe, just maybe, I might actually have a reason to stay.