Chapter 48
ZARIAH
HEARTbrOKEN
My new script was the most personal thing I’d ever written.
I forced myself to stare into my memories, dredge up things that made me feel—love, bittersweetness, anger, sadness, overlapping each other because I couldn’t possibly separate them.
All I could do was wade through them, jotting down the notes to push my audience to feel too.
I finished the last of my edits and mailed the script to Professor Wright’s office, satisfied. Whether or not she liked my script didn’t matter to me anymore.
My writing was better, my skill had improved, and I felt more confident than ever to dive into things I didn’t understand. I started writing a brand-new horror script and discovered I could tap into new emotions, to feel things on-page I hadn’t felt before.
It was exhilarating. I could write so much better and was excited to prove it.
If only I wasn’t so busy. I’d signed up to be an RA for the freshman dorms this summer. I missed helping out students and hosting events for people who actually cared, plus it gave me a great way to stay on campus to be close to the hockey team without hovering over my brother.
I didn’t have to live across the hall from Elijah anymore.
He was taking steps to get better. I was so happy for his progress, and even though we were months out, I was excited for the summer itself.
I’d get to spend it with my football friends, my new hockey friends, and my wonderful boyfriend—it’d definitely be a summer for the ages.
I hurried down the stairs to my mailbox.
The freshmen dorms were across the street, but my bosses believed in good old snail mail.
There it was—the thick envelope with the freshmen dorm rules and regulations.
I grinned until I realized it wasn’t the only thing in my mailbox.
A manilla envelope was tucked further inside.
My script. The one I sent to Professor Wright.
“Oh, shit,” I muttered. “I fucked up the address.”
My confusion grew as I tugged out the envelope. It was way thicker than when I’d sent it and didn’t have a ‘return to sender’ stamp. My eyes darted to the address. It didn’t say hers at all, it said mine.
Professor Wright sent my script back to me.
“Goddammit,” I swore, ripping it open. Was this a joke?
The second I tore out the pages, I could see the red ink.
She basically crossed out everything. The title—“you can do better”—my camera directions—“keep it simple, this’ll be too distracting”—my transitions—“lazy, try again.” Nothing was safe from her criticism.
There were more notes added than words typed on the pages.
It was so irritating, yet…I took a few seconds to really think about this. Alright. Fine. I could bitch, but if I was being honest, these were damn good notes. Leaning against the wall, I started at the beginning, scanning the suggestions.
Some of them were developmental edits, restructuring the bones of the script itself. It must’ve taken so much time for her to write out. There was real effort in this. Professor Wright gave me a written lashing but most of the critiques were changes to make it better.
The irritation washed away. Damn, it was nice of her to spend the time doing this. And after Professor Wright refused to touch the first draft, her tearing the second to shreds actually felt good. The script was worth taking the time for a critique.
My lips twitched with a reluctant smile. She decided to help me.
At the bottom of the last page, she scribbled a note.
I knew you could do it, Zariah
— Wright
There were still more pages behind this one which didn’t make sense. That was the end of the script, wasn’t it? What could possibly be left? I flipped to the next page, covered in diagrams and small, typed font.
What the hell is this?
I leaned forward, reading the words at the top.
My eyes widened. “Holy fuck.”
The papers slipped through my hands, a few flying to the ground. My hands were faster than my brain and I scurried to pick them up.
Oh my god.
None of this made sense.
My afternoon was supposed to be busy. I had plans to grab coffee with the football girlfriends, pick up a midterm rubric from a professor, drop off a packet to my boss, and I was supposed to swing by hockey practice to pick up my boys for dinner to end the day on a good note.
I did none of that.
For the first time, I ignored my phone and hunkered down in my dorm. I sat on my couch, bringing up my knees to wrap my arms around.
The script sat on the coffee table, and I refused to look at it. Instead, I texted lame excuses to Denali and Elijah, pretending like everything was fine. I didn’t want anybody to see me until I calmed down.
Except, I couldn’t. Hours passed and I was still freaking out.
A fist knocked on my door, breaking my loud thoughts.
My eyes snapped to the door, willing whoever it was to take a raincheck and leave me alone.
The key slid into the lock and Denali came through. It was almost unfair how delicious he looked with his trimmed beard from the morning, his Gladiators hoodie, and the concerned smile on his face. I had to say something, to explain myself, but I couldn’t speak.
“Hey?” he called. “Are you okay? Your texts were…really weird?”
I stared at him, heart pattering in my chest. Denali realized I was off from a few texts. Just a few texts. Today was a horrible, super weird fucking day, but that didn’t stop how much I loved him. Fuck, he really knew me. And that thought alone made me ache inside.
Denali froze when he saw the look on my face. He dropped his backpack, heading towards me. “Baby?”
I swallowed. “I—um—”
“What’s going on?” He crouched down beside me, cupping my cheek. “Talk to me.”
My throat was so dry. “I—um—got my script back.”
“Holy shit, you did?” His face lit up. “She read it?”
“She read it,” I echoed.
“That’s amazing, where is it?” Denali was so excited for me.
He grabbed the envelope off the coffee table, quickly opening it.
I should’ve stopped him, but the words were lodged in my throat.
I remained silent as Denali scoffed when he saw the red ink.
“Jesus Christ. What the hell did she do to it?”
I watched him read, feeling something like poison spreading through my veins.
“This is such bullshit,” he muttered. “‘Cut this, you’re not skilled enough to do montages yet,’ who is she to say that?
She’s so condescending.” He reached the last page of the script and stalled over her note, an incredulous look on his face.
“What the fuck—this was some kind of psychological experiment? Are you serious? She made you think you failed, she made you cry, just to do this? That’s—that’s—” He shook his head, angry. “That’s fucking foul.”
I didn’t say anything, just waited for him to move past that page, and when he did, we were both quiet.
He frowned. “What…what is this?”
“It’s…an invitation to be a writer’s personal assistant for Winter Arkapaw,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Working with her was the prize for the course.”
“What the fuck?” Denali exclaimed. “Are you fucking serious? That’s amazing!” He yanked me into a hug, wrapping his arms around me so tight, I couldn’t breathe. “I’m so proud of you—Jesus Christ. Fuck this professor but that’s so fucking cool!”
“Denali?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s technically an internship. It would count for my senior project.”
“Right, right, yeah.”
“The internship’s in Atlanta,” I said slowly. Denali released me, I could see he was beginning to understand. I continued, twisting my hands together. “It’s for nine months. It starts in May.”
“May?” He stared at me. “This May?”
We couldn’t tear away from each other, and the more Denali realized what this meant, the worse I felt. The broken look on his face hurt so bad. We stayed an awkward pace away, neither of us were sure of what to do.
“You won’t be here,” he said, his voice thick with pain. “You’re leaving.”
I shook my head, shoving myself off the couch.
My movements were jerky and uncoordinated.
I snatched the papers off the table and walked to the kitchen.
It had my script, the invitation, the network contacts, the housing information, parking information, and the date I was required to arrive at the studio. I couldn’t look at them.
“No, I’m not,” shot out of me and I dropped my foot on the pedal for the trash can, ripping my script’s title page. The tear was clear down the middle. I worked fast, ripping as many papers as I could until giant hands interrupted, easily stopping me.
I glanced up at Denali. His face was twisted, the heartache was obvious. His voice cracked. “Can we talk?”
“I—I can’t do this, Denali—”
“Let’s sit down, okay? We’ll talk.”
I tried to argue, my words more and more high-pitched, but Denali brought me over to the couch. We sat on either side, the farthest I’d ever been away from him on this couch, the script sitting between us.
“I never thought I’d win. That was never the plan. I didn’t even tell Elijah!” I explained, crossing my arms over my chest. “It’s nine months—I can’t leave my family, I can’t leave Elijah, I can’t—” My words choked out. “I can’t leave you again.”
“Zariah…”
“Don’t you see?” I pleaded. “I love you, I can’t leave.” I spoke faster and faster. “I know I told Kassie she had to leave for Orlando when it came to Ryan, and I told Tallulah she had to go to Canada, but—but I didn’t think I’d ever feel—I’m a huge hypocrite, okay? I can’t say goodbye to you.”
Falling in love was so beautiful—I was a horror writer, but I could wax poetry about Denali. I wanted to be here with him. Going anywhere else went against every instinct.
Our love story was beginning again.
How could I leave him behind?
Denali set aside the script and tugged me into a hug. It was all-encompassing. His scent, woodsy and rich, was everything to me. He was warm and comforting, crushing me to him.
“If anyone else was telling me that they—” I stopped myself, overwhelmed. “I know I’d tell them to go, but I—I can’t. I can’t leave you.”
Denali nodded with me, and I knew he was listening, he heard what I said. For long minutes, Denali held on to me until my breathing finally evened. I nestled into him, desperate for the peace he provided.
“Riah?” His words were thick. “I thought I could make up for everything that happened, but I don’t think it’s that simple.”
I was taken aback by his tone, and when I pulled away, I wish I hadn’t. His features were sunk in. He looked torn in half like my script, and he avoided my gaze. Because he didn’t want me to see how broken up he was about this.
I shook my head. “No, no, no—”
“I can say anything I want,” he continued. “That’s not what’s going to make it different this time.”
“Denali, I can’t go.”
His throat bobbed with his swallow. “Baby, I can’t hold you back again.”
“You’re not holding me back—”
“You make art with Kassie. You write with Tallulah. I can’t do that for you, I can’t offer you stuff that fills your heart like that,” he said, struggling with his words.
“You make me happy in so many other ways—”
“But I can’t do it like that.” He fell silent. “I love you so much. That means I want you to be happy more than I want you to be with me.”
How could I think I was in love before? I was submerged deep in it now. I shifted even closer, touching him any way I could. I was torn with the decision, torn from the lovesickness.
“I—I’m really scared,” I admitted, because he was the only one I could confess that to.
His glassy eyes met mine. “Scared?”
“I—I can’t just fly off to Georgia and do something like this. I talk shit but I can’t—and you won’t be with me and I—”
My words stumbled to a stop as Denali gently pulled me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me. I squeezed him back, burying myself against him.
There was something else tucked away in my terror.
It was guilt. Guilt that I was talking about leaving again, guilt that I was once again thinking of saying goodbye.
And…guilt that I wanted to go. I didn’t want to leave Denali—of course not—but this was an amazing opportunity that wouldn’t come again any time soon.
The guilt fought hard and I felt worse and worse.
Denali’s voice was deep and soft like a blanket, covering my anxieties until I could only focus on him. “You’re going to Atlanta.”
“I can’t—”
“And you’re going to write to me—”
“I can’t go—”
“And you’re going to call me every day.” His lips pressed to my neck, pure comfort.
I swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“How much I love you isn’t defined by how close you are.” He took a long, slow breath. “Five years proved that.”
“I—I love you,” I whispered.
“And I love you. That’s how I know you’re coming back to me.”
His final sentence made me freeze. The realization shocked me.
Denali lied.
He lied to me.
His last sentence was warbled, twisted in his mouth because he didn’t believe it, not really.
He wasn’t a hundred percent sure I’d come back to him. He wasn’t sure but he loved me enough that it didn’t matter. He would’ve rather had me happy than guarantee that we’d stay together.
He was listening to me, and he understood the words I didn’t dare to say.
My heart swelled in my chest, the love endless. I kissed his cheek, his jaw, the soft place behind his ear, and held him tight. “I love you, Alaska.”
He untangled me from him and left for my bedroom, returning with tape. His smile was painful, but he carefully taped my script where I’d torn the pages. I crawled into his lap, kissing his cheek again.
“What’s this?” he asked quietly, holding up the next paper.
“That’s the—um—apartment complex.”
“Is this where you’re going to stay?”
“The network has a deal with them for cheaper rent,” I said, hugging him.
“I’ll memorize the address, but you’ll need to send me the apartment number. I’ll write to you every day.”
“Every day?”
“Every day.”
“The distance doesn’t matter, Denali,” I whispered. “I’ll love you from anywhere.”
We hugged each other tighter than we’d ever hugged before, and I couldn’t believe how amazing this love was. I couldn’t believe how supported I felt, how adored I was, how much I adored him. I wanted Denali completely and one day he’d believe it. One day, he’d know that I’d love him forever.
“I—I don’t know how I’m going to tell my family,” I realized.
“It’s okay.” Denali whispered. “We’ll tell them together.”