Chapter 7
Lana
Books and Beans closed early today because of the impending storm. I love being the owner and making that decision on a rough day.
The summer storm coming feels like a bad omen, I have a migraine that won’t give.
Up. The blisters on my feet just get bigger and bloodier, and my body aches because of the shoes.
I made myself and Natalia a promise to buy new sneakers tonight—order them online and they’ll get here the day after tomorrow.
Until then, I will be working with my yellow Crocs.
Christian’s car isn’t in my driveway when I pull in, but it’s only two o’clock in the afternoon and sunny—the calm before the storm.
Friday nights he’s gone for hours. By the time I leave for work in the morning, he’s gone and at the gym.
He could be anywhere, but he isn’t here and he’s been living in my driveway for almost three weeks now.
Do I really want him living in my driveway?
I put my Jeep in park and shut the engine, and my forehead falls onto the steering wheel.
Christian is the most… I hate it. I hate that I miss his car in my driveway and I hate that I want to tell him to stay in my guest room on the first floor.
And I hate that I don’t want to shout at him to get out of my driveway and stay at the town’s B&B.
He would do it in a heartbeat if I told him it was what I wanted.
I groan loudly, the sounding echoing around the Jeep before I hop out.
I only allow myself to look over my shoulder once, just to make sure his car really isn’t here, before I get to my front door.
My key slips into the lock and I take a step forward just to nearly trip over something and fall on my face.
I stub my toe in my sandal and hiss. “Shit.”
On my welcome mat, I finally see two packages at my front door with my name on both of them.
Lana Aurora Gomez.
I read it in my mothers gentle voice.
But it doesn’t do anything to soothe the anger.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I grumble, snatching the packages inside and slamming the door behind me. “I’m going to kill him.”
I throw the boxes onto the wooden floors of my house and kick off my sandals at the door, slamming the keys on the entrance table. I swear this man knows how to piss me off, he’s had a ton of practice and I want to rip out his hair!
I toss my purse on my couch and take the packages with me to my kitchen. Every single one of my movements are hard, tense, and aggressive. From yanking open the drawer for the scissors to slamming it closed with my hip, and then stabbing the pointed end through the tape, grunting.
The first box has another gray, silver box within it. I scoff. Balenciaga.
I take out the shoe box and slap away the empty cardboard box.
Sneakers. Clean, pristine, white sneakers in a unique shape that look far more comfortable than any of mine.
Cursing under my breath, I open the other cardboard box.
This one also has another shoe box within it, of course, but this one makes me growl.
Balmain.
I punch away the empty cardboard and open the white shoe box.
Clean, smooth, and black combat boots with a golden B on the buckle around the ankle.
I hate them. I hate them so much I run my fingers over the smooth, perfect black leather and want it to be fall or winter so I can wear them with my favorite pair of mom jeans and my oversized corduroy jacket or something.
I hate the shoes. They’re perfect!
The knock on my door pulls me out of my combat boot haze and I stomp toward my yellow painted front door, looking forward to a fight. Or slashing his tires.
I yank the door open and glare at the giant leaning on his forearm high against the threshold. “What?”
His lips twitch. “Did you get my gifts?”
“Yes,” I say with a sarcastic smile. “I was just about to burn them. Would you like to join me?”
I don’t give him the time to reply before I slam the door and turn back to the brand new shoes. Then I hear his footsteps behind me and the door closing. “Lana.”
“Leave.” I circle the island and pick up a sneaker. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“It’s a gift,” Christian breathes.
“I don’t need gifts, Christian.”
“If you just tell me what you need, I can’t do better.”
“Stop buying me things!”
He frowns. “Do you not like them?”
“I swear to god, Christian!” I throw the shoe in my hand at his chest and he retreats, flinching and curling into himself as it hits his arm. “You can’t buy me!”
“I’m not trying to!” I throw the other sneaker and he dodges it. “Hey! Stop—Stop! Those are good sneakers!”
“I don’t want the sneakers!” I throw a precious boot.
“Or the boots!” I throw the other boot and it hits him square in the stomach, making him groan in pain.
I hate myself for that. “Your money or your gifts aren’t going to fix this,” I say.
“You left. You fucked up. This means nothing to me. I loved you way before the job and the company and the money. I don’t care about your watch or your car or belt.
If you want this—if you want me, then fix it.
Do something other than spend your money. ”
“Lana,” he sighs. “I don’t know how. This is me saying I’m sorry, this is me showing affection.”
“You have your love language, Christian, and I have my own. And mine isn’t expensive gifts!”
“I bought the sneakers because you’re on your feet all day and I don’t want you to get blisters anymore,” Christian snaps.
“And the boots because I know you love your busted up combat boots in the fall but the ones you have now are old and breaking and they hurt your feet. I know that because I know you. You use things until they break because… Because you’re you and you hate spending money on things you don’t need.
And ever since I saw those boots in the store, they reminded me of you. ”
“Stop that.”
“They are boots, Lana.”
“I know what boots are! You can’t just sweet talk me, buy me things, and prove how well you think you know me and think I’ll just forgive you and kiss you!”
“I don’t think th—”
“Christian!”
Christian bends to pick up a boot. “Keep them!” he says. “If not for me, then for you. You’re going to look so damn good in these boots.”
“And the sneakers?”
“I’ll return them and buy you…I don’t know, Skechers?”
I cross my arms and scoff.
“Nike?”
“Shut up, Christian,” I groan and step around him.
“Lana, wait.” I storm out the front door toward his car and he follows behind me. “Where are you going?”
“I’m getting you to leave.”
“How?”
I round his car. His stupid fancy sports car is so low, I see him standing over the top of it with his forehead pinched. I squat and grunt, pretending to ruin his car. I hear his quick footsteps before I run away from the car and back into my house, leaving him outside.
Ha!
He stands there, sighing in defeat with his arms thrown up. “Lana!”
“Bye!” I slam my front door and lock it.
As much as I hate the shoes, I pick them up from my floor delicately and take them to the kitchen where their boxes are still open on the island.
I tuck them away neatly, promising myself I’ll wear them just to spite him.
Because I’ll be damned to let him off easy just because he spent money on shoes, especially boots he knew I’d love.
I close the boxes gently, planning to store them in my closet just as they came. I’ll also be damned if the boots turn out as bad as my current combat boots.
I close the Balenciaga box, stacking it on the other, and my back door slides open, Christian stepping through. “Fuck.”
“The one door you forgot to lock.”
I roll my eyes and make a mocking face. “I didn’t forget.”
“No?”
“I left it open because I was just taking these outside to bury them,” I say as my fingers twitch on the shoe boxes.
“Sure you were.”
I sigh, and I give up. “What are you doing here, Christian?”
“I’m expecting an apology for the bruises I’ll have tomorrow as a result of your temper tantrum.”
I gape at him and bring up my foot to take my slipper off and throw that at him too. “Don’t you dare call it a temper tantrum!”
“Stop throwing shoes at me!”
“Stop hurting me!” I shout back. I push my hair back from my face and take a deep breath while Christian bends to pick up my sandal. “You want an apology for the bruises?”
“Lana, I was just kid—”
“I want an apology for you ripping my heart out. I want an apology for the way you drive back into this town like I owe you forgiveness when I owe you nothing. I want an apology for you leaving me!” I croak, leaning with my hands on the white granite and letting my head hang. “Just get out of my house, Christian.”
I’m strangely relieved when he doesn’t leave right away. When, instead, he walks toward me slowly, rounding the island and lowering himself onto his knee. With my head down, I watch his large hand wrap gently around my left ankle as he lifts my foot and puts the soft slipper back on my foot.
My lips press into a tight line when his forehead is on my knee, his hand cupping my calf and the other around my ankle. I tighten my hands on the counter so I don’t touch him. I should be better disciplined.
But then he softly presses his lips to my knee, lingering on my skin before he pulls away, and I lose it.
His gaze snaps onto mine through his lashes, and I don’t hide whatever I’m showing on my face.
Let him see it. Let him see all the ways I broke and how hard I had to work to piece myself back together.
Christian frowns like he recognizes it.
“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be in the driveway,” he whispers from below, and I hold the rest of it in. He squeezes my ankle once before he stands and walks toward the front door. That’s when I let myself cry.
It started raining as soon as my shift ended—a good or bad omen, I’m not sure. But as soon as I park, I run into the apartment building and up the stairs, hoping the rain pellets fall off me on the way.
I open the door with a smile, exhausted and wanting to take a nap with Christian. It’s our favorite thing to do when it rains. Cuddle and watch a movie he doesn’t want to see but he watches anyway because of me.
But that’s all thrown out the window and into the rain when I see him lying on the living room floor, his body limp.
I go to him—run. I kneel beside him and shake him, but nothing happens. I smack his cheeks and all I get is an annoyed groan. “Christian!”
And the first thing that comes to mind, the thought that thoroughly tears me to shreds as I look at his face, you are becoming your father.
“Get up, Christian, come on,” I grunt, pulling him from beneath his shoulders to our bathroom. My legs tremble as I pull his weight, barely.
I think to myself, I’m done with this. I can’t keep doing this.
Somehow it gets worse every week, and it happens slowly. First, it was hanging out with the guys, and I don’t think they noticed. I think our friends think it’s just him being a twenty two year old. But I know it isn’t. He keeps getting farther and farther away from himself, and I can’t catch up.
I have to be done.
Christian groans, “Lana?”
I grunt. “Come on, baby, just get to the bathroom with me.”
He doesn’t put in effort, he can’t. So I keep pulling him the rest of the way until my muscles are sore from lifting him into our tub. He’s barely moving and if it wasn’t for the quiet groaning, I’d think he was dead.
He’s finally in the tub, knocked out. I take a deep breath, swallow, and turn on the shower—cold water.
He wakes up gasping, spitting water out from his mouth. “Lana!”
My body goes rigid. I let my vision blur for a little while so it doesn’t hurt to see him, but I blink and finally turn off the water.
Christian sighs, wiping a hand down his face, and curls up to himself. He doesn’t look at me again, he doesn’t speak.
He starts sobbing, curling into himself.
“Christian.”
He sobs harder. Vehemently.
I take off my socks, toss them away, and take off my leather jacket. Then I get in with him.
I sit back and pull him over me as he weeps. “I’m sorry.” He hiccups. “I’m sorry.”
I’ll be angry with him later, I promise that to myself. I’ll be angry with him later because he is breaking in my arms and I don’t know how to save him.