Chapter 12 #2
One time she burned a hole in that suit—just once—and Ariana never let her live it down.
Sobbing during a well-known TV drama while ironing resulted in her losing focus, and she’d apologized countless times for not turning down the heat.
The result was a giant, crusty, shrivelled, repulsive-smelling burn mark on the front right side—unfixable.
“I adored that suit jacket. My wardrobe has never been the same since.”
“Stop trying to make me laugh,” Leah squinted.
“Why don’t you want to laugh?”
“I don’t feel like laughing.”
“Why?”
“Are you broken?”
Ariana sniggered. “I’m just curious why you don’t want to laugh.”
“Because . . .” Leah hesitated. She was stubborn, avoiding the real reason—her inability to shut off the longing she still felt for Ariana.
“Because?” Ariana probed some more.
She wasn’t letting it go.
“You know, all this time apart made me forget how annoying you are.”
“I’m happy to remind you,” Ariana teased.
Leah laughed, but it was forced. Words she wanted to say hovered on her tongue but never made it out.
For years she’d imagined this moment—or one like it—just the two of them, free to talk and rehash the past without consequence.
Except there was no such thing. Everything had consequences, and whichever way she spun it, that would always be true.
“Leah . . .” Ariana whispered.
Don’t fall for it. Don’t say anything.
“Leah . . .please.”
She recalled her mother’s words from years ago, imprinted in her mind—a reminder whenever she felt the urge to stray:
Nothing new ever comes from old feelings.
Her mom learned that the hard way after the divorce.
She told Leah about her own temptation to go back, to seek the safety of her comfort zone.
It was all she knew—her life, her love—but a brief relapse, a moment’s poor judgment, showed her that while her feelings might never change, their story—and what led them there—wouldn’t either.
“What do you want me to say, Ari?”
“Anything.”
“Are you happy?” Leah blurted.
“I . . .I don’t know.” Ariana hesitated. “What about you? Are you happy, Leah?”
The question hit her harder than she expected. She needed time. Some parts of her life were happy, sure—but was she truly happy? It seemed they were both puzzled by the question.
“That depends,” Leah answered, buying herself time.
“On what?”
“On how you define happiness,” she shrugged.
“Okay, so based on what you think happiness is—are you happy?” Ariana pressed.
“No, I don’t think I am.” Leah answered honestly, feeling tears prick her eyes. Not now.
Pull yourself together.
“That makes me sad,” Ariana whispered.
“Don’t pity me.” Leah rolled her eyes.
“I’m not, I just—”
“You just what?”
“There aren’t many things in this world I hope and pray for with all my heart, and I guess your happiness has always been one of them.”
“Is that how you justified leaving me?” Leah fired back. “You pray for my happiness because of guilt, Ari.”
“That’s not true.”
“If it’s not guilt, then what? You pity me because you broke my heart and know I’ve never gotten over it. So you tell yourself you want me to be happy, just so you can sleep at night?”
“Leah, that’s unfair—”
“Is it?”
“You know I want you to be happy, Leah, more than anything.”
“Why? Why do you care?”
“Because . . .”
“Because you feel guilty!” Leah finished.
“No, that’s not it!”
“Then what is it?” Leah pressed. This was her first real chance post-breakup to understand Ariana’s motives. After the dust, the tears, the pain, and the hatred, she saw clearly now—and she needed to know why.
“Because . . .I love you!” Ariana yelled.
“Loved,” Leah corrected.
Ariana gripped the steering wheel tightly. Her chest heaved; her breathing grew heavy. She was visibly distressed. Leah wanted to reach over and comfort her—it was instinct—but she didn’t.
She broke your heart.
Ariana shook her head, opening her mouth to speak, but no words came. Leah looked out the window, wanting honesty—what did she have to lose?
“You know, sometimes I find myself thinking about us.” She didn’t turn to see Ariana’s reaction, but heard a soft exhale.
“I could be walking in the park, daydreaming at my desk, reading a romance book and a character’s wit reminds me of you.
I went to Chelsea Market a few weeks ago; in the food hall there was a Spicy Scallop Roll.
I stopped to look at the ingredients, thinking maybe I could replicate it at home—and it took me a moment to realize what I was doing.
” Leah shook her head, letting out a low, pitiful chuckle. “I don’t even like scallops.”
“I love scallops,” Ariana whispered.
“Exactly! That’s my point.”
The car fell silent.
The hardest thing about speaking her truth was knowing it wouldn’t change a thing.
She loved Ariana—but Ariana loved someone else.
It was the cruellest part of being human: to mourn the loss of someone you love, except that person wasn’t gone completely—they lived on the same earth, the same country, the same state, maybe even the same street—and there was nothing she could do to change it.
Imagine living with the knowledge that your soulmate is within touching distance—but can never be touched.
“I’m sorry I hurt you, Leah.”
It was just as sincere as before, and the time before that. Leah believed Ariana never meant to hurt her, but it didn’t make it any less painful.
“Do you ever think ‘what if’ things had been different between us?” Leah asked.
“I do,” Ariana replied softly. “It’s hard not to.”
Leah’s heart raced—a small surge of joy knowing Ariana thought of her too. The happiness question had sparked conversation, but Ariana’s answer still echoed in her mind: I don’t know.
How could she not know?
If someone had asked Leah that question when they were together, her answer would have been easy and resounding: absolutely. In fact, she’d have said she was the happiest she’d ever been and ever would be.
Why couldn’t Ariana say the same? What made her hesitate? Did she regret her choice? Did she believe she’d made a mistake? Or was that wishful thinking on Leah’s part?
Leah watched the lake house lights appear in the distance. They’d taken the final right turn; soon the tires would crunch the familiar gravel drive.
“Ariana—” Leah turned to face her.
Ariana’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead. She squinted.
“Hannah . . .”
“Erm, it’s Leah.”
“No,” Ariana pointed to the figure standing at the foot of the driveway. “That’s Hannah.”
Oh.