Chapter 62
HANNAH
I slump against the kitchen counter, my body aches, and my shoulders are tense. Everything hits me at once, a heavy weight against my chest, making it hard to breathe. Water, I need water, hoping it helps release some of the pressure or makes me feel better.
With shaky hands, I pour myself a glass, gulping it down like I’ve been parched for days. Refilling it, I take another big gulp and almost choke, resulting in a coughing fit. Stupid.
I gathered my overflowing mail before coming inside and went through it, coming across the Boston Globe.
The front page is a picture of me, bewildered, with Noah standing behind me, trying to get my attention.
I stare at it for I don’t know how long, examining every detail, right down to my body, how exposed I am.
All my imperfections on display for everyone to see and mock.
To ridicule. Because their caption, “Noah Hart finds a new type,” makes me think whoever wrote the article is looking for a big reaction.
And they got it.
Crying is a common emotion lately, stirring up unwanted past mistakes, past abuse, past hardships.
“Hannah,” says Maya outside my door.
Shit, shit, shit. Fuck.
I love her, but I can’t face my best friend. She’ll demand I tell her what’s really going on.
“Hannah, open up; I know you’re in there. I already called your mother to confirm you’re not at her place,” she says.
I crumple the newspaper in both hands, trying to hide any evidence, and toss it into the trash. Wiping my tears on my sweatshirt sleeve, I attempt to hide the evidence of my snotty cries, then unlock the deadbolt and walk away, hearing her turn the knob to let herself in.
“Hannah,” she says again, following me into the living room, the door shutting roughly behind her. I grab a blanket and tuck myself in the corner of the couch, wrapping myself up like a human burrito. “What, Maya?”
She tosses her keys on the coffee table and joins me. “Noah came back alone.”
“Obviously,” I scoff. I pull the blanket up to my chin, avoiding her chilling stare. When she gets serious, I expect her to rip me a new one, but she usually covers my wounds with a Band-Aid after. “Thanks for telling him where I was.”
“The man is very persistent when it comes to you.”
“But you’re my best friend, and I trusted you not to say anything.”
“Another person involved to help you out of whatever funk you’re in is fine by me.”
My tough love bestie.
“It was also the fact that Henry tracked me down to tell me that Noah hasn’t been doing well. The man has been sulking since he got back, hiding in his cabin.”
I barely look her way, playing with a loose string on the stitch of the blanket. “I don’t owe him anything.”
Maya grips the blanket and pulls, tossing it on the floor. “Hannah Rose St. Pierre. What is going on with you?”
I cover my face with shaky hands, trying to breathe.
“Hannah, what happened?”
“It’s not something I want to talk about.”
“You refuse to bring up how you and Liam broke up, and every time I try to ask you about it, you shut down. I’m trying to be a good friend and give you space, but it’s been a year! What did that bastard do to you?”
I crumble to the floor, broken, exhausted, emotional. Maya follows me and wraps her arms around my shoulders, squeezing. “What happened, Hannah?”
But words have left me, except for my cries, devastatingly broken.
It’s like I can’t breathe, I’m swallowing too much emotion, and I start to drown.
Every box I chained, locked, and threw away its key is now wide open for everyone to gawk at and judge.
Maya holds me as I pour out my entire heart, as it twists and tightens from the pressure I kept down for so long.
How do I tell my best friend that my ex had mentally and emotionally abused and controlled me during our year together?
How do I tell her that I needed therapy and coping mechanisms to keep myself in check?
How do I tell Maya that if she, Noah, and Henry were not there to sit at the same table, I might’ve collapsed from fear?
The smallest man who ever lived returns, only to shove his engagement in my face.
Because I ruined everything.