Chapter 20 – “Cinnamon Girl” - Lana Del Rey #2
“I don’t either, and I can’t decide if it makes us terrible or not.
” She chews on her lip, resting her head back on the window.
Each pass of the truck under a streetlight casts her face in a soft, golden hue, revealing the tragic beauty of her tormented expression.
“I once heard that the human brain stays active for up to seven minutes after death, and it’s believed that in that time, the person who died replays their life. Like a highlight reel.”
I swallow, turning back to the road. “I don’t know if I believe that.”
“If it were true, what do you think he saw?” Her voice turns hollow, and she shifts in her seat, turning to face me, but I don’t have the strength to do the same. I don’t know what has compelled her to talk of him tonight. I don’t know why it seems like neither of us can say his name.
“Only good things,” I whisper.
She’s quiet for a long moment before she murmurs, “Sometimes, I can’t remember if there were good things.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel, matching the sensation swelling in my throat.
“There was. He was a happy person.” Suppressed emotion builds in the pit of my stomach, forcing itself to the surface, but somehow, I don’t want to stop this conversation from continuing.
“And because of you…he knew what love was.”
I finally allow myself a brief glance at Elena, needing to know her reaction. She’s already staring at me, her eyes misted with unshed tears, bottom lip trembling.
“You showed him what that looked like,” I continue softly. “Regardless of everything else, it couldn’t be doubted that you did love him, you know? And being loved by you, Elena…” I exhale deeply. “There’s nothing like that. That love is the highlight reel, always worth the pain.”
I face the road again, but I hear the gulp of air she takes as she attempts to stop herself from sobbing.
I hear the rattled breath falling from her lips, and the heave of her chest. I don’t know exactly what her last conversation with my brother was like, but I know it didn't end well. He’d said things to her that he knew he’d regret later, and for the first time, I realize she may not be aware of that fact.
He knew he’d regret them. He knew he’d forgive us. He just hadn’t been ready yet.
Determined to compose myself long enough to get us home, I blink back the tears that want to free fall from my eyes too. Elena attempts to cry quietly, but late in the night, in the quiet cab and the near-empty freeway, it’s impossible to focus on anything else.
I reach across the seat, clasping a hand over her thigh, unsure of how to comfort her any other way. I brush the fabric of her dress out of my way so I can caress her bare skin, moving my thumb in gentle circles.
“He told me that, you know. He told me he’d forgive us eventually. That he knew we made more sense than the two of you ever did.” She places her hand over mine, her breath calming. “He was mad, he felt betrayed, but even in that moment, he had every intention of making things okay again.”
“You never told me this,” she whispers, the words broken.
I turn to her, tracking the tears that stream from her glistening eyes, wishing more than anything I could wipe them away. Longing to finally provide the comfort she never allowed me to years ago. “You never gave me the chance.”
Her eyes fall closed, head tipping against the back of the seat. She doesn’t say anything else, but her hand stays atop mine.
“Did you ever fall in love again?” she asks, startling me after a long bout of silence.
“No,” I say. “I think I was destined to love the same person all my life.”
She lets out a bereft laugh. “She must’ve been a real bitch to let you go.”
“I don’t think so.” I shake my head. “I think she had her reasons…” I squeeze her thigh. “I just wish she’d told me what they were.”
“Sometimes, I wish she had too.” She curls her fingers around mine, squeezing back. “You were never the villain in her story. You’re always her highlight reel.”
My head whips to her, and the lights outside flash over her face, revealing glimpses of red-rimmed eyes and swollen lips. Removing her hand from mine, she settles into her seat, and I finally watch her eyes flutter closed.
Her breath slowly grows heavier, and I wonder if maybe she had fallen asleep earlier.
I wonder what thoughts might have been floating through her psyche that woke her, compelled her to ask me if I’ve been in love since her.
I wonder why she’d even entertain it, when it’s always been clear that I was created with her soul in mind.
Wherever our beings began, ours were beside each other; that much I’m certain of.
Something scattered them to the wind, forced them to find each other over and over in each life lived, and maybe in other lifetimes we got it right. In different realities, it’s always been us.
But this one became twisted and tortured—it tore us apart.
That’s the thing about magnets, though. They find their way back together, even if they have to cut through other substances to do so. Sometimes the moon orbits the Earth from a farther distance, but it always returns, even if that means eclipsing the sun.
Elena and I may be destined, but what does it mean if that destiny includes the detriment of others? The obliteration of ourselves?
Is the guilt that swallows us warranted? Is it the punishment for our crimes? Or do we get a pass because we’re meant to be? Is happiness beyond this pain still possible? Or are we cemented in the gray reality we’ve seemed to create for ourselves?
The questions pound against my mind like the pattering of rain on a roof, fogging my brain as I finish the drive home. By the time I pull into the driveway and kill the engine, Elena is fully asleep.
I gently tap her shoulder, whispering her name, but she hardly stirs. Remembering what she’s like when she’s woken without proper rest, I decide it may be safer to carry her inside without waking her at all. Stepping out of the car, I’m quiet as I shut my door and round to her side, opening hers.
She whimpers as I reach over her body and unbuckle her before scooping one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, pulling her from the seat and hoisting her into my arms. I shut the door with my foot and adjust her weight as I reach the front of the house to unlock it and get us inside.
She begins to fidget as I make my way up the staircase, groggily asking, “What’re you doing?”
“Didn’t want to wake you,” I whisper. “So, I thought I’d carry you to bed.”
She curls against my chest, placing a hand right over my heart. I know she means nothing by the gesture, but that doesn’t change the fact that I feel everything at the sight of it.
“But you hate me.”
I halt, pausing to look down at her. Elena’s eyes remain closed, her lips forming the perfect pout that makes my knees buckle, lashes fanning out over her soft cheeks. I can’t help but watch her in quiet restfulness as I reach her room.
“I wanted to hate you. But I don’t,” I admit softly as I lay her down upon the bed.
“I needed to escape you. But I can’t.” Hovering over her, I trace the peaceful features of her face, brushing my thumb over her cheek.
“You’re so deeply etched into the fabric of my being, the depths of my soul, that I find I’m incapable of doing anything but loving you.
” I press my lips to the top of her head, whispering, “My favorite vice.”
I move to the end of the bed, unstrapping her heels and setting them on the floor. I know the dress will be uncomfortable to sleep in, but I don’t want to go so far as to undress her while she’s mostly asleep.
I toss the comforter over her shoulders, stealing a kiss against her forehead.
I never allow myself to be so gentle—so affectionate—with her.
Not for the sake of boundaries or because I don’t want it, but simply because it pains me to do so.
To let myself believe, for even the briefest of moments, I could have her that way again.
It’s why I won’t kiss her. Why I don’t fuck her.
I’ll tease us both with touch and taste, but the true connection of our souls is far too painful.
There are too many secrets kept, too many words left unspoken, because the truth is, I don’t fucking trust her.
I don’t know if it’s possible for that foundation to be rebuilt, and without it, Elena and I are nothing more than flesh and bone.
I straighten, and as I turn to leave her room, a small, soft hand snatches out to wrap around my wrist. I spin, finding two espresso-colored eyes blazing back at me. I don’t need to ask—the heat inside them tells me she heard every word that escaped my mouth.
“Stay,” she whispers.
“I can’t.” My tone is low and tortured. “I’ll never leave if I do.”
“So don’t.” Her tone is a plea. “Stay with me. Please.”
I pull my wrist from her grasp, sliding my palm up to hers and lacing our fingers together. “Not until you find yourself again, Elena. Not until you open up to me. I can’t stay until I know why you left. Why you were happier without me.”
“I was never happier without you, Augustus.” Her gaze is fixated on our hands. “Not for one moment.”
“Then why did you leave?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, and she refuses to meet my eyes as she pulls her hand from mine and rolls over, murmuring into the darkness, “I don’t deserve happiness.”
More than her touch, more than her distance, more than the loss, more than the pondering of alternate realities, it’s that sentence that kills me. Like blades slicing through the center of my gravity, everything turns upside down.
How she could ever think such a thing about herself baffles me, makes me wonder if I haven’t done a good enough job throughout my life showing her that she deserves everything.
I pull off the blanket covering her, and she turns to face me again, brows knit in confusion.
“Take off your dress,” I demand before stalking over to her dresser, kicking my shoes off by the door. Opening the top drawer, I grab a pair of cotton shorts. I pull open the next two drawers before finally finding an oversized tee and grabbing that too.
When I return to the bed, she’s lying on her back, watching me curiously.
She’s completely naked, but it’s not the playful tease I’m used to finding.
It’s raw exposure—more than her body. It’s the unspoken understanding that I know her deeply enough to see her this way, to recognize the difference between moments of intimacy and those of vulnerability.
We’re silent as I loop the bottoms over her feet, sliding them up her legs and fastening them around her hips. She sits up slightly, just enough to lift her arms above her head as I drape the T-shirt over her. I step back, stripping out of my own clothes until I’m left in nothing but my boxers.
She moves over a few inches, and I crawl into bed behind her. I snake an arm over her waist, tugging her flush to my chest as I slip my other arm beneath her neck. She places her hand in my open palm, running the pad of her fingers along my own.
“You deserve happiness, Elena.”
She doesn’t respond, but I hear the soft sniffle of her emotions.
I feel the silent tears that drip from her cheeks and onto my arm.
I don’t know how many times throughout my life she’s lain beside me in the depths of night, crying herself to sleep over thoughts of my brother.
I don’t know how many times I tried to save her from that pain, and how I could’ve failed us both so miserably.
I don’t know how we’ll ever escape it now.