Chapter 9
BETH
Life was sand. And I had no fist, but opened palms.
I walked up the driveway of Rowan McRae’s apartment, the blue front door looming ahead, mocking me.
There was a time when the sight of that door filled me with warmth. When stepping onto his porch meant slipping into his arms, his laughter rumbling against my ear.
Now the door was a reminder of the pain I had caused, a relationship I had ruined with my own hands.
Taking a steadying breath, I climbed gently up the steps, the floorboard whining beneath the weight of my feet as I walked across the porch.
I exhaled through my nose, raised my knuckles, and placed a tentative knock on the door.
I waited…patiently. He needed to open the door. He really had to.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to be here. I made up my mind long ago that this was over, that I would never show my shameless self here again. And I really meant that.
But three days ago, I was trying to declutter my emails and saw that Rowan’s account was still logged in on my phone from that time he had to log in to check his email.
I saw there was a new email he hadn’t replied to. It was from a gaming company he had applied to months ago. And they finally sent him a reply.
I was happy for him. He was a mathematician and working as a game developer had been one of his dreams. This was a job a thousand times better than a high-school math teacher. But Rowan hadn’t replied even though the email said his reply was needed within a week.
See, I didn’t come because I was a shameless ex that came crawling back. I came because I needed to be sure he was okay. He needed to reply to that email. Maybe I would feel less guilty about making him lose his job if he landed this one.
Raising my hand, I knocked again, gently. And finally, I heard the shuffling of footsteps behind the door, and it sent a sharp jolt to my chest. My breath hitched, and my hand trembled.
He was there.
He was coming. But I wasn’t sure if I had the courage to meet him, to face him.
The lock turned and shame waited to envelope me like a cold, wet shroud.
But when the door opened, it wasn’t Rowan.
It was a woman; older than me, tall, wavy chestnut hair, feline-like grey eyes. She smelt like lavender, smiled like the stars were tucked beneath the curve of her lips.
Oh.
My stomach dropped. And for some reason, a dull ache twisted through my ribs.
Surely, I couldn’t be heartbroken right now.
I didn’t even have the right to, no matter how selfish and shameless I was.
Did I expect him to still hold on to me, not move on, and welcome me with open arms whenever I showed up at his doorstep like this?
“Hi,” I forced out, my voice strained.
“Hello.” The woman stepped out fully, shutting the door behind her. She was wearing a white cotton robe, the one that had Rowan, embroidered into the neck. The one I gifted to him.
I swallowed, forcing down the lump in my throat. “Um, I’m looking for Rowan. Rowan McRae.”
The woman’s brows furrowed. “And you are?”
I ignored the question. “Does he still live here?”
“Yes.”
“Can you just tell him to check his email?” The words came out tight, forced. “It’s–it’s really urgent.”
She hesitated. “Who are you?”
My jaw clenched. Why must she interrogate me? It was just a simple message. “Just tell him to check his email, please.”
Then I turned sharply, barely holding myself together as I hurried down the steps, my vision blurry.
A chuckle rang inside my mind, it dragged on for an annoying 20 seconds. “You’re such a clown, Beth Fraser. Look at you, playing victim.”
Rowan had moved on without me. As he should. He deserved better. But why was this reality such a bitter pill to swallow?
I wanted him to move on. I needed him to be happy, be with someone better. Someone better than I could ever dream of becoming. Besides, I had a huge crush on someone else now, someone I had sworn Rowan didn’t hold a candle to when it came to beauty and charisma.
Was I hurting right now? Or was this a normal reaction to seeing your ex moving on to someone new?
“But you moved on too, Beth,” the word echoed in my head. “You like someone else now. You have been thinking about him for days.”
Callan Raskov.
But I hadn’t heard from him since that day. Not a call, not a single text. It was like he vanished into thin air, like he never even existed.
His reaction at the parking lot that day was the truest form of a man in agony, a man fighting an inner demon ripping his soul apart.
But I couldn’t tell what the agony was. A chronic illness?
A form of panic attack? I didn’t know what it was.
I didn’t have a means of reaching out to him.
Yes, I had his phone number. But I must have called a hundred times now.
It was unreachable. So I held onto the part where he said he would call me as soon as he could.
But it had been ten days and I hadn’t heard from him. I didn’t need anyone to spell it out to me. That was probably his goodbye.
“No man will ever choose you,” Mother’s voice sliced through my thoughts. “Even if he did, he will realise you carry this darkness inside you and walk away.”
I hated it when Mother was right.
???
I stepped into the house, locking the door behind me, my head resting on the hard wood.
Mother was out working, spreading the gospel of Christ somewhere, perhaps. So the house was quiet. It was always quiet. But this time, the silence echoed. I could hear my own thoughts. And I hated my thoughts right now.
Raising my head off the door, I kicked my sneakers off and walked to the kitchen, my limbs moving on their own.
My eyes burned, but I wasn’t sure why I wanted to cry.
That Rowan moved on, or that Callan Raskov was too good to be true after all?
I thought the latter hurt the most. He was so beautiful and kind.
He was so cute, I just wanted to hug him so tightly.
I grabbed a loaf of bread and set it on the counter. I opened the peanut butter jar and fetched a knife.
The three things were in front of me.
Knife. Bread. Peanut butter.
But my mind kept reeling back to the past, treading through painful memories, making me relive them as punishment for sins I didn’t remember committing.
Abandoning the perfect meal it would have been when bread met butter, I left the kitchen, my steps staggered as I headed to my room.
The door slammed behind me. But it wasn’t enough. Finding a corner in the room, I curled up in a ball, my arms wrapped around my knees, my forehead pressing against my arm.
The sob tore from my throat before I could stop it, raw and aching.
Everything I had ever held dear always slipped through my fingers like sand. No one would ever stay. They would all move on, just like Rowan did. Just like Callan Raskov did. Happiness was like smoke. I always tried to hold it in my palms, but it always escaped, like a ghost that was passing by.
Maybe one day, the only constant in my life, Kenzo Takahashi, would get tired and move on too.
Maybe I was meant to be alone.
My fingers dug into my arm, my nails pressing against my skin as I tried to hold myself together. But I was already unravelling. Because I was really scared now.
What if I was meant to be alone?
What if Mother’s eternal fingerprints weren’t my punishment at all? What if my innocence that was stolen from me in an alleyway off Rue Augustin Boulevard wasn’t the real price I was meant to pay?
What if loneliness was the debt all along?
What if the one thing I wanted more than anything else in the world was never meant for me?
To be chosen. To be special.
I wanted to be someone’s choice. Second choice. Third. Fourth. Fifth. I didn’t care as long as I was a choice.
But the circle always repeated itself, and no one ever chose me in the end.
Not the boys from the lacrosse and football team.
Not the blonde American from the chess club I spent last summer pretending it meant something.
Not Rowan McRae.
Not Callan Raskov.
No one.
I would never be anyone’s definite choice. I would never be able to keep anyone.
Because life was sand and I had no fist, just opened palms.