22. Alana
Alana
The months after our breakup was the darkest part of my adult life. While I was at the gun range with Lance, doing anything to keep my soul-crushing depression at bay, Grae has the luxury of blank space in his brain. Nothing. None of it is fair.
I alone spent twelve years carrying the burden of our breakup. Thousands of nights wondering what I did wrong. Where my failure was. I kept every other relationship at arm’s length because I didn’t know what I did to hurt Grae so badly that he would leave me, and I didn’t want a repeat experience.
I had my theories. He wanted Amanda because she was everything that I’m not and could give him clout, power and fame. Or maybe that I wasn’t experienced enough for his new life. But I kept coming back to the same conclusion—I wasn’t good enough.
Now as he sits on the bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, I think I was wrong. Grae’s shoulders are hunched as if the weight of twelve years crashes down on him at once.
And I guess it was.
“My memories come back and you’re gone,” he says, shaking his head.
“I spent years thinking I fucked up. That I must have done something so terrible that you’d walk away from your future.
Still, anytime I ask anyone about it, they change the subject.
I assumed they were shielding me, or that they didn’t want to relive whatever boyfriend crime I committed.
Like they got me in the breakup and now they’re stuck with me. ”
Twin insecurities, separated by a country, left to grow on their own and mutate into the clusterfuck of adults we became. Cool. Awesome.
The air kicks on and the sound surprises me. It feels wrong that something so mundane could interfere with a moment this big. The hum of the motor fills the room, and the breeze raises goosebumps along my arms.
“What happened?” His voice is thick with uncertainty. It should hurt to recall the night, but I’ve replayed it so many times over the years that it has lost its edge. Like a rock in a river, it has smoothed until it can’t cut me anymore.
“It was the last night of the underground poker games. I was supposed to sell them to Thiago and his boss for forty grand to start a new life with you in California.”
He scrubs at his scalp, like he’s washing his hair of all the sins, and groans softly. I don’t know if it’s because he forgot about the game, or the money, or how close it was to the move. He glances up and dips his head for me to continue.
“You texted me. Said you’d be there in a few minutes. I guess you took the train down from New York or something. So, I went back to my dorm room. You showed up. We had sex.” I pause, unsure how much more to say.
“What?” he prompts, trying to sound calm. But his hand drags down from his hair to his face, anxiety visibly spiking.
“It was different.” I remember his hands on my hips, digging in, leaving marks. “Not like other times before. It was rough.” Panic and terror have always been twins for Grae. Sometimes I understand the lies they whisper in his ear. Sometimes I don’t. But right now, they are screaming.
“Did I—” He bolts for the bathroom before the words can finish. Even from across the room, I hear his retching echoing the toilet. Old Kinsley would have run after him. Would have told him it wasn’t his fault. Would have taken the pain on herself.
Alana is too tired. He’ll come out when he is ready.
I wait while he groans and dry heaves. There’re a few notifications on my phone, but none of them are worth pulling me out of this moment. He needs to deal with the truth, and I need to unburden myself of it. Knowledge shifts from person to person like a tennis match.
Ten minutes later, water runs. He returns, unsure where to put his hands. It takes two attempts for him to ask, “Did I hurt you?”
This answer is well rehearsed. “Not physically. It was rough, but I consented.” My fists rub against my thighs trying to release the built-up tension in my body. “It was afterward that did the most damage.”
“This is literally my worst fucking nightmare.” He keeps his distance. “That I would black out and hurt someone. Worst of all, you. I don’t think an apology covers it.”
“No, it doesn’t. But there’s more.” A part of me wants to unleash all the pain he caused, and to sear it into his soul like he did to me. I also spent years sparing him from the harsh truths. But I can’t hide the darkness from him.
“You told me it was over. That you didn’t want to be with me anymore. You left my room. I ran after you and asked why, and you said, ‘You were high school royalty—The Unfuckable Princess Kinsley. Who wouldn’t go back for one final ride?’”
Grae lowers himself onto the bed, guiding his body like it might shatter. The truth hurts him more than any lie I could invent. When he finally speaks it’s low and raw. “You lost everything. No friends. No family. No future.”
“Yeah.” It guts me all over again.
“Why would you ever forgive me? I abandoned you, went off and got rich and famous while you—”
“Whoa, buddy.” I snap my head up and throw up my hands. “I’m doing just fine. I don’t need your pity.” The words make him flinch.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Still… why would you agree to start this again?”
I’ve asked myself the same question. This entire conversation was exactly what I was hoping to avoid with his limited timeline.
“You caught me at a weak moment. Once again, I was alone and all in my feelings. You were supposed to be a distraction. It wasn’t supposed to be all this.
” I wave my hand up and down at his slumped body.
It’s a lot. I’ll give you a few minutes.
” Now I walk into the bathroom and run water over my wrists.
Then grip the sink until my knuckles drain white.
Three deep breaths, Alana.
I glance up. Steam fogs the bottom of the mirror. Dark circles are under my eyes, and faded scars are on my body. I’ve done terrible things and maybe this is my punishment. Maybe I don’t get a happily ever after.
I hear movement and Grae’s voice in the bedroom. “I need the first flight to L.A.”
He’s running. Good. He should. There is nothing for him here, and definitely not with me. I open the bathroom door and lean against the frame. He doesn’t notice me as he hastily throws clothes into his bag.
“Bro, I’m aware you’re on paternity leave, but I need this, okay?” Grae ducks under the bed, probably hunting for pants or socks and pops back up like a puppet. “Storage units one through seven. Have some interns meet me there. Hell, if Bonnie or Carmen are in the office, send them too.”
“You’re going to need supplies,” the voice on the other end says.
“Mmm. Totes. Lots of plastic totes and bins. The whole thing is a disorganized creature of nightmares.” He pauses waiting for the other person to talk. “Label makers. Probably two so we can have multiple teams working. How much time do I have to get to the airport?”
“Takeoff in two hours.”
He zips his bag. “Okay. See you soon.” He swings it over his shoulder, and we lock eyes. There’s an edge and a determination I didn’t expect. “I’m going to fix this, Alana.”
I know all the words in that sentence, but I don’t understand them. “What?”
He exhales. “Rephrase. Do you want me to fix this?” What?
“I fix things. That’s what I do.” I point at myself like he doesn’t know exactly who he’s talking to.
“I know,” he says, softer now. “But do you want me to fix this?”
“Like… help? Are you saying you need help? I’m very confused.”
He shakes his head and tries again. “I’m going to L.A. Would you like me to fix this for us?”
For us.
He is supposed to be breaking up with me. That’s what I would do if I were in his shoes. Right? I cross my arms and tilt my head like a dog trying to interpret a new sound.
“I don’t ask for help. The last time I did, it launched my boyfriend’s career, and a year later I was stuck picking up the pieces.”
“Jesus Christ. You haven’t asked for help since prom? I need to catch a plane and don’t have time to unpack that right now.” He steps closer and places his hands on my shoulders. “Alana, you don’t have to do everything alone.”
“History begs to differ.”
“I have a plan,” he says. What the hell is happening? This is a trap. I would push his hands away, but he steps closer and cups my cheeks instead.
“I kept a journal, even through my blackouts. I don't know why I would have ever said that to you, but I'm willing to bet the answer is in there, or my phone from that time. I'm going back to L.A. to go through my storage lockers to find it. To get an explanation for us.”
That is… an actual plan. Grand-gesture, rom-com nonsense. My stomach twists into a knitted blanket of knots. I’m not used to feeling confused but also cautiously optimistic.
“I’m going to find them, because you deserve an explanation.
If I can’t give you anything else, I’m giving you this.
” He kisses me before I can argue with his logic, and my traitorous mouth kisses him back.
What he’s offering can’t fix the past, but it can give me a future with clarity.
When the kiss breaks, he keeps me close, “I’m definitely catching feelings,” he whispers.
“And I’m willing to dig through multiple storage units to find what we both need, even if you can’t return them after learning the truth. ”
Despite every red flag and warning, I nod. He lights up like ten thousand fireworks, finally letting me go. He shifts his bag and opens the door. “Stay as long as you want, just lock the door behind you. I’ll text you when I land.”
Seconds later the front door closes, and I’m left in his apartment like I just belong there. As I replay the last ten minutes I catch a new detail. Did he say he’s buying two label makers and a mountain of totes to organize his storage units? Be still, my beating heart.
What the hell did I get myself into? And… am I happy about it?