Chapter 34
brOOKE
This man continued to give me chance after chance, and all I could do was mess it up. I tried to stay in it. I tried to keep the relationship alive. But it wasn’t enough.
I wasn’t enough.
Every day, dark storm clouds gathered in my thoughts. He deserves better than you, my traitorous brain constantly whispered.
He’ll be sad at first, but he’ll get over it.
And the worst: You’re sick. You’re damaged. You’ll only ever be a burden to your partner. You’re better off alone.
I tried talking it out—with Whit, with Gloria, with Cheryl, even with my mom.
But not with Cade. And I knew I should. I knew he deserved that from me. He deserved—everything. He deserved better than I could offer.
The smell of him faded from my pillowcase.
My shame spiral continued. I’d still never even explained to him what had happened before our winter week in Vermont, the life-altering traumatic event that had triggered the depth of my loneliness and despair.
I’d let him help drag me back to the surface, but he never knew what had dragged me under to begin with.
And it was my fault.
He didn’t understand because I hadn’t let him. I knew this, and yet I couldn’t make my brain form the thoughts and my mouth speak the words I knew he needed from me. The explanation he deserved. I hated myself for what I was doing to Cade.
To both of us.
The weeks passed, and eventually I left his missed calls unreturned. The texts faded to once or twice a day, then ceased completely. By the summer, neither of us even wished the other a Happy Birthday.
We didn’t break up so much as atrophied, the way a muscle does over time from prolonged disuse.
One night while Whit and I were watching Pretty Woman, she paused the movie and looked at me thoughtfully.
“I know you’re hurting right now, but I need to hit you with a hard truth.
You keep trying to find yourself through your relationship with your mom or a guy or these movies and I’ve got to tell you, Brooke .
. . you’re not looking in the right place.
This—” she gestured to the screen, “isn’t real.
You are real. You’ve gotta figure out who you are and who you want to be. No one else can do it for you.”
She resumed the movie, knowing her point had hit home.
I wanted to be angry, but I knew my best friend was right.
I resolved to do just that—figure my shit out. Not for someone else or because of some potential romantic future, but because I owed it to myself.
I started going to counseling again weekly. I changed my meds. I updated my nutrition plan.
The months passed, and I finally started to recognize myself again. I was happier and healthier—not fixed, but a work in progress.
I helped take care of Ivy. I visited Gloria. I flew to upstate New York to see my mom.
At Christmas, I received an unexpected gift in the mail—a coffee table book on sunflowers. I flipped reverently through the glossy pages, then checked the box. There was no return address.
It had to be from him.
I pulled out the old letters, thankful I’d kept the envelopes. I found the address for his California apartment, and I sent him a thank-you card.
A week later it came back—no one at this address.