Chapter 18 #2
I’m so glad I had the idea to ask him to eat with us. So, so glad. I take a long drink of my ice water.
“Any changes with your farmor?”
Other than finding out she’s a big, fat liar and not being able to ask her why she made me believe in a fairy tale that doesn’t exist? “Not really,” is all I say.
Hunter watches me like I’m a secret he’s trying to unlock. But after a moment, he looks down, swirls some noodles covered in sauce onto his fork, and takes a bite.
“This is really good. Although I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Because I seem like the homemaker type?” I glance up from my plate as I methodically cut up all my noodles.
His eyes are back on me, not his food. “Because I know you are a very talented baker.”
I blush at the unexpected praise. “Baking and cooking are two separate things. My mom is also an excellent baker . . . but a crappy cook,” I say.
“I had to learn how to make myself healthy food when I got put on my heart diet because her specialties were ordering pizza or making pancakes for dinner.”
“I’m not sure I believe you. Your mom seems like the type who would have enrolled in culinary school if that’s what it took to make sure you got the type of food you needed.”
I’m taken aback by his all-too-accurate assessment. “Well . . . not culinary school. But she did take a few classes.”
One side of his mouth quirks up in a hint of a smile, but there’s a shadow in his eyes.
We fall quiet again, eating our spaghetti, Caesar salad, and sourdough bread baguettes.
The longer the silence lasts, the more uncomfortable I am until my hands are clammy on my fork. “Speaking of moms . . . what are your parents like?” I have to end the silence. I can’t take it anymore. “I don’t know anything about your family except . . .”
“That I killed my sister,” he says, and I recoil.
“That’s not what I . . . I’m sorry . . .”
Hunter wipes a hand over his face. “No, I’m sorry. You were only trying to make normal conversation.”
“Maybe we both suck at normal conversation.”
“I don’t know about you, but I definitely do.
” He takes another bite of baguette, chews, swallows, and then adds, “My parents are very nice people who have had a very hard time dealing with their grief and have ignored me as much as humanly possible from the minute I got out of the hospital and no longer needed care, because they don’t know how to forgive me for what happened. ”
“Hunter, that’s . . . horrible.” I suppress the urge to reach for his hand that rests on the table.
“I don’t blame them,” he says quietly. “I’ve asked myself a hundred times if I’d do the same in their place. I’ve already told you . . . I can’t forgive myself. So how could I ask that of them? They lost their daughter . . . because of me.” His voice is flat, but his grip on his fork tightens.
The silence stretches for a beat. Then I inhale, steadying my voice. “I can’t imagine that kind of pain. I won’t pretend to. But . . .” I pause, carefully choosing my words. “They didn’t have to lose you too. That part . . . that was a choice.”
Hunter’s eyes fly up to meet mine, his face inscrutable.
“You didn’t take their daughter from them on purpose,” I continue, voice low. “But they chose to let go of their son. And that breaks my heart for all of you.”
He stares at me for so long my heart starts to slam against my rib cage; I’m terrified I went too far.
“Well, now who can’t make normal conversation?” I joke, but it falls flat.
Hunter picks up his glass of water and finally looks away from me as he takes a sip. The sun has set. Shadows creep across the backyard, inexorable as they stretch to smother the light of day.
Much like both of our pasts. The darkness is always skulking in, relentless and inescapable.
“Let’s play a game,” I blurt out.
“A game?” His eyes shift back to me.
“Well, kind of . . . It’s really more like a therapy game.”
Hunter grimaces. “That sounds terrible.”
“It’s called confessions of a mess,” I continue, ignoring his lack of enthusiasm. “Talia and I used to do this in college when we were both dealing with some tough things.”
“Games mixed with therapy sessions is not my idea of fun, Liv.”
My neck grows hot, but I plow on. “Here’s how we play. We take turns confessing what makes us a mess and decide who wins at the end. Plus, sometimes, saying it out loud helps you work through it.”
“The goal of this ‘game’ is to see who is more messed up? I am not doing this.”
But he hasn’t left yet, so I say, “I’ll go first.” I take a deep breath and divulge, “Sometimes when I’m on a date, I tell the guy everything about my heart transplant and all the potential complications to see how long it takes to freak him out so badly he finds a way to end the date early.”
Hunter gapes at me. After a pause, he says, “That’s . . . messed up.”
“Exactly. Confessions of a mess.”
His jaw works as though he’s trying to hold something back, but finally he asks, “How often have you done that?”
“A few times. Better to find out if someone can handle my reality early on, right?” I lift a shoulder impassively. “Your turn.”
“Nope. Now I’m invested in this confession. What kind of details do you share that would make a guy end a date early?”
“Oh, you know, the usual: I feel healthy—most days—and I can lead a fairly normal life, but I have to get tested regularly to make sure my body isn’t rejecting my heart, and if a guy I’m dating ever got sick, I would have to quarantine from him so I don’t get what he has.
Also, I could drop dead anytime of a heart attack, and I’m guaranteed to die or need another heart sometime in the next five to fifteen years.
Twenty if I beat all the odds. Stuff like that.
They realize what a bad idea dating me would be and bam! They’re outta there.”
Hunter’s eyes are wide, his mouth slightly parted. “Wow, that’s . . . a lot to deal with.”
“Exactly why it works so well. It even works when I don’t want it to.
” I shrug, aiming for nonchalant, even though the memories behind my confession are anything but.
“Earlier, you said you want to ask me out, but when we first met, you said you don’t do scar buddies, and last night, you also said you’re scared.
And you should be. So I’ll make it easier on you—I’ll tell you every reason that you shouldn’t date me until you no longer want to.
Problem solved!” I grin like I’ve just given him the best news ever and then quickly add, “Okay, your turn!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Roll it back a minute.” Hunter leans forward in his chair and puts his hand over mine. “I didn’t mean that was a lot for those men to deal with—I meant for you.”
My skin buzzes from the contact of his fingers lightly resting over mine.
“Any guy who got freaked out by the potential of what your worst could be was an idiot who didn’t deserve your best—which I think is far better than you realize.”
Having him use my own words against me makes my stomach do much more than merely swoop; this is extreme--airplane-turbulence-level stomach tumbling going on. “Well, a couple of the guys were losers, and I wanted to get rid of them. So. There’s that, I guess.”
I surprise a laugh out of Hunter. He shakes his head. “You really are something, you know that?”
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.”
His fingers move over mine, a soft, featherlight stroke that makes me shiver. “Take it however you will. And for the record, you can’t frighten me by rattling off statistics about your future. That’s not what I’m scared about.” He pulls his hand away.
I blink at the sudden loss of his touch. I want to ask him what he means—oh, how I want to dig into that little comment. But now I’m the one who is too scared. Instead, I insist, “Okay, seriously. Your. Turn.”
“Fine.” Hunter studies his half-eaten plate of food for a moment before quietly saying, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for driving that day—for being the reason Lyla is gone.”
The desperation in his voice is like a punch to the chest. “Do you want to forgive yourself?”
His gaze shoots up to mine. “What is that supposed to mean?”
My resolve falters, but I press on. “I know you’ve only told me a little bit about what happened, so I might be completely wrong, but it’s just .
. . I don’t know if you want to allow yourself to be forgiven.
It kind of seems like you’re holding on to your pain and guilt as some sort of punishment you think you deserve. ”
Hunter’s mouth flattens; his entire body stiffens.
“I’m sorry, that was too far.” I hurry to add, “I shouldn’t have—”
“Yes,” he cuts me off, “that was too far. But your semantics are right—I won’t forgive myself.
” His voice is stony, reminding me far too much of the Hunter I first met weeks ago, not the version who has slowly been opening up to me.
“Because the only way to forgive myself is to say what I did was okay. And it will never be okay.”
I’m balancing on a thin sheet of ice that’s fracturing all around me, but something drives me to swallow and hesitantly say, “Forgiving yourself doesn’t mean it’s okay.
It means that you can make mistakes—really horrible mistakes sometimes—and still be worthy of love.
That you don’t have to be punished for the rest of your life for it. ”
Hunter shoves his plate away. “It’s not like I just wrecked an expensive car,” he says, voice low.
“Or screamed at my parents and haven’t called in a few months.
Those are -mistakes—stupid, sure, but you can fix them.
You can say sorry, and maybe they’ll forgive you.
” His eyes flash in the darkening room. “But I didn’t do something fixable.
I drove drunk. And because of that, my sister died.
I don’t get to say sorry. I don’t get to fix it.
She’s gone. And I put her in the ground. ”
“I know,” I whisper tremulously. “And I know that pain will never go away. But I guarantee your sister loved you—and that she still does,” I rush to add when he tries to cut in again. “I bet it breaks her heart to see you so lonely and unhappy.”
“Liv, I took away her life. She didn’t even get to graduate from high school.
” Hunter’s knuckles are white where he grips his arms folded over his chest—as if he’s trying to hold himself together.
“If she can see me, how could she be anything but furious? If she’s still out there somewhere—in heaven or whatever—she must hate me. ”
My heart feels like it’s being clenched by a fist, squeezing with pain for him—for the darkness he battles. I understand why he thinks that, but I refuse to let him think I agree. “I don’t believe it works like that. How could it be heaven if she’s up there focused on hating you?”
Hunter glowers at me. “Well, so far this game is really fun. And it’s your turn again because right now, I’m winning.”
I search his face for a moment; I can feel my pulse in my throat.
Night has taken full hold of the house, casting both of us and the rest of our uneaten dinners in shadow.
I can see his face, but the details are obscured.
His expression is flinty. I can’t push him any further—not tonight.
Not about that. I’m actually shocked he hasn’t left yet—that despite how angry he seems, he’s still sitting across from me.
That’s the only reason I exhale slowly and say, “Two of my biggest fears are that I will never find my person—or that I will.”
Hunter’s scowl eases into begrudging confusion. “I . . . don’t understand.”
This time, I’m the one who swallows and looks away. “Because if I never find my person, I’ll be alone all my life—however long it may be. I don’t want to be alone forever. But if I do find my person, I’m condemning him to losing me and going through pain I can’t bear to be the cause of.”
He examines me from hooded eyes, then says, “Shouldn’t you be telling yourself you’ll live as long as possible?”
I throw my hands up, exasperated. “I try to. I really do. And when I’m thinking only of my own future, I can usually keep myself in that place.
But when it comes to thinking of actually being with someone else—when I even dare to dream of marriage or a family—I can’t ignore the reality I’d be sentencing them to.
What my mom went through after my dad died .
. .” My voice is hoarse. “I can’t be selfish enough to knowingly choose that fate for someone I love.
And who would want to fall in love with someone who could die at any time?
Answer: No one.” I fiddle with my fork. “I’ve learned it’s better to warn them up front so they can get out while it’s still easy to walk away .
. . if they don’t want to deal with the risk.
So far, everyone has taken the escape clause. ”
“I doubt—”
“Like you said earlier,” I cut him off this time, “I don’t blame them. I’m not sure I’d be willing to take that risk if the situation were reversed.”
Hunter blows out a breath. “Wow. We really are messes, aren’t we?”
I nod with a humorless laugh. “Messy, messy messes.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. We both fall silent for a few seconds, then I say, “It’s your turn again.”
“No. No more. I’ve had enough of this ‘game.’ We’re clearly both messes. Point proven.”
When I look up, Hunter’s eyes are on me.
His gaze, even in the dark, is unyielding, making me feel as though he’s somehow stripping me bare.
The memory of his thumb on my lips rises, sending a frisson of heat snaking down my spine.
He keeps looking at me like this. There’s no denying the pull that exists between us.
But he’s already hurting, and he knows I’ll only make it worse if he gives in to it.
Letting myself get any closer to him will make it harder when he makes the right choice: to walk away.
“Honey, I’m ho-ome!” Talia singsongs simultaneous to the front door swinging open, startling us both. “Why is it so dark in here?”
Hunter jumps to his feet, shoving his chair back. “I need to . . .” He doesn’t finish, turning on his heel and striding away, leaving me sitting alone at the table, my heart in my throat.
He’s already retreated halfway across the family room when Talia switches on the lights. He barrels right past her.
“Hi, Hunter,” she says, but if he acknowledges her, I don’t hear his response.
He rushes out of the condo, doing what he does best—disappearing when things get too real.
He’s gone with a slam of the front door.