Chapter One
A note. A stupid fucking note. She left in the middle of the
night and left me a note.
How can I have the best
and worst fucking experiences of my life all in the same fucking
day?
And since when do I curse
this much?
Never in a million years
did I think this would be me. A heartbroken, sorry shmuck, and on
spring break no less. I have fucking whiplash from the events of
the past twenty-four hours.
This is why you don't have
a girlfriend in high school.
First, I have the most
mind blowing, life altering
afternoon with the most beautiful girl on God's
good earth, and then, because of my own pathetic jealousy, I let
her put herself in danger.
You can't imagine what
it's like to see the girl you care about more than your own damned
self pinned to a wall in a dark alley with a fucking monster
attacking her. To watch her live out her worst
nightmare—literally—because I was too blinded by my own insecurities to stop it
right away.
I take another shot of
tequila in an attempt to erase the image that's been laser printed
onto my brain.
But one good thing did
come of that shitty fucking night. I found my fucking balls. After
everything was said and done, and Rory was safe in my arms again, I
told her I loved her.
Me. Sam Caplan. The guy who had a rule about not having a
relationship in high school so I wouldn't repeat my parents'
pathetic, cliched mistakes—link myself to some chick I thought I
loved until I hated both her and myself. Because love wasn't real,
right?
And then in walks Rory.
With her downplayed beauty, and her perfect little body. Her
defiance and her vulnerability. God, it's like it just snuck up on
me and yet at the same time it hit me like a goddamned freight
train the moment I caught sight of her—freaking out by the lockers
at school, acting all tough even while she was trying not to fall
apart.
I rub my eyes with the
heels of my palms. My head hurts from overthinking every detail of
the past couple days like a fucking girl.
Rory loves me too. She
said it. She meant it. I know she did.
But then I got into a
fistfight with her father
in a goddamned police precinct. And I'd been so
good at controlling my "anger issues" lately. But that
son of a bitch was there
to help her attacker, and called her a liar, and when he reached out to
grab her arm, I fucking lost it. No way was I going to let another
man—whoever the hell he was—lay a hand on her without her
permission again. Not after everything she'd already been through.
No fucking way.
A loud crashing sound
across the room is the only indication that I've thrown another
glass against the wall. I groan and rub at my temples. That was my
last glass. I take the next shot straight from the bottle.
I hit her fucking father.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The best part—the truly
hilarious part—is that even after that, I was still
choke-on-your-own-breath, heart-stoppingly shocked when she ended
it.
Fucking idiot.
Never have I had a
stronger urge to punch myself in the face.
I stare at the screen of
my phone for the thousandth time since I woke up yesterday to find
she'd gone back home with nothing but a fucking note left in her
place. I will my phone to buzz with a call from her, or even a
text, explaining something. Though I guess that's
what the note was meant to do.
But it still doesn't
actually explain anything.
What the fuck do you need
explained? You fucking hit her father!
I groan again. Rory's seen
more violence—been the victim
of more violence—in her eighteen years than any
woman ever should. Than any person
ever should. And I lost my temper right in front
of her, hit her father, and got dragged away in goddamned handcuffs
just like her abusive ex the night before. The thought that she
might think I'm like him
makes me feel physically ill. The reality
that I think I
might be like him—or like my own father—makes me think that maybe
she was right to end it.
I lean my head back on the
seat of the sofa from where I sit on the hotel room floor. The
truth is I've doled out my share of violence. I used to get into
fights all the time. I came precariously close to punching Dave—my
friend since Pee Wee football—just a few days ago. Right in front
of Rory too. In fact, she's the only reason I didn't hit him. My name in her
voice—that's the only thing that snapped me out of it.
But I would
never hurt a girl. And I
would never, ever, fucking ever
hurt Rory.
She knows that.
Doesn't she?
I open her contact card
and for the hundredth time slide my finger between the call and
text options before closing it again. I open my text conversation
with Kendall instead and reread the part where she assures me she
went to see Rory and that Rory is okay.
I sent her over there as
soon as I found the note. As soon as I realized she'd gone. That
she'd left me without so much as saying bye because she "didn't want to
wake" me.
Fucking
bullshit.
How the hell do I go back
to being her friend now that I've kissed her? Now that I know how incredible she
tastes. Her mouth… the rest of her. After being inside her. After watching her come
apart—hearing those sweet, sexy little sounds she makes when she's
losing control. When she's giving
up control—to
me. Knowing how
much trust it would take for her to give herself to me like that,
and hearing her call out my fucking name—knowing it was me who made
her feel that good. How can I just be her friend after
that? After sleeping
with her in my arms. After telling her I fucking love her! And
hearing her say it back.
I feel fucking
desolate.
But I have to pull myself
together. Because I am her friend—she said I was her best friend—and I at least have to
salvage that. Rory's been through hell, is still going through hell, and she
needs me right now, even if only as a friend.
Rory thinks he's going to
get away with attacking her again. And why wouldn't she? He got
away with it the last time. And this time, even after the
detectives' reassurances that he wouldn't get out, he was released
on bail the very next day. But he's not the only one with a
powerful father in the legal system, and the arraignment may be
over, but there's still the trial. So if I have to beg a favor of a
father I hate—one I haven't so much as spoken to since I kicked him
out of his own house more than five years ago, then that's exactly
what I'll do. Because no way will I let Rory be right this time.
That motherfucker is getting jail time for what he did to my girl,
I will make sure of it.
And then I remember once
again—she's not my girl.
I wince.
Fuck. It would be so
much easier to go back to seeing her as my friend—since we were
only actually together for a
day—if I ever really saw her as just a
friend. But I know now that I've loved that girl for longer than I
even realized.
My heart jumps into my
throat as my phone buzzes with a message.
And sinks into my stomach
when I see it's just Tuck. Again.
The poor kid has no idea
what to do with me; I've never given a damn about a girl before in
my life. We've been best friends since kindergarten, and right now,
neither of us is recognizable to the other: Tuck—happy, in love,
and in a committed relationship with Carl, and me—miserable over a
girl.
I open the
text.
Cap we're gonna miss our
plane hurry up!
I sigh and peel myself off
the floor. I down one more shot of tequila for the road, stuff
Rory's fucking note into the pocket of my jeans, and haul my duffle
bag over my shoulder.
I take one last look at
the room where she first kissed me, where I first kissed her. Where
I made love to her.
I sigh again.
Made love. I won't lie,
I'm far from a saint, I've never had trouble getting laid, but that
was the first—and second and third—time I've ever done
that.
But it's also the room
where she ripped my heart out of my fucking chest and walked away
from whatever it was we were, whatever it was we were becoming.
Without so much as looking back. But hey, at least she left a
fucking note. And that memory makes it easier to leave this
room.
I join the group in the
lobby and we pile into cabs to head to the airport. Everyone knows
Rory was attacked in an alley. I think most of them also know we
hooked up. But only Tuck, Carl, Andy, Tina, and I think Dave, know
that the guy who attacked her was her ex-boyfriend and that our
hook up was more than just a casual hook up. At least at the time.
Only Tuck and Carl know she broke my fucking heart. Everyone knows
I care about her, I think they've all known that for a while, so my
moping around like a depressed loser is easily explained away by
stress over the assault.
We wait at the gate to
board the plane back to New York and I pull out my tablet to read.
Anything to avoid a fucking conversation. I really don't feel like
bullshitting right now. And every time Carl shoots me an
inquisitive look, all I can think is she's probably reporting my
every move to Rory, and the last thing I want is to make her feel
any worse by acting like I'm upset. God forbid I act the way I
feel. But Rory has issues with guilt, and blaming herself for shit
that just isn't her fault, and hell if I'm going to add to that.
Especially when I know this is all my own damned fault. Because how
could I expect her to handle
a relationship with someone who can't even keep
his anger in check? Who's so fucking quick to throw punches? Most
girls would run from that. A girl with Rory's history?
We never had a fighting
chance.
I snicker sardonically at
my stupid fucking silent pun. Tuck raises his eyebrows at me and I
look away. He must think I'm losing my damned mind. Hell, maybe I
am.
I offer to switch seats
with Carl on the plane so she can sit next to Tuck, and then again
with Andy so he can sit with Tina. In the end, I'm sitting next to
a stranger, which is perfectly fine with me.
I'm tired as hell, but I
don't close my eyes. I know if I drift into sleep I'll only
see her. Either
being strangled in an alley or screaming from a nightmare.
Or I'll see her long, soft
hair spread out on my pillow, her skin flushed, eyes shut, and
mouth open, crying out my name as she falls apart beneath
me.
Damn it.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to force
thoughts about football to tame my inconvenient arousal. But then,
of course, football makes me think of her all over again.
What doesn't make me think about
her?
Since I met the girl my
hormones have been out of fucking control. It's like I'm thirteen
again.
I slip her note from my
pocket and read it over for the millionth time. I search for some
truth. But, again, all I see is her trying to take the blame for
everything. Everything that was my fault. Because, yeah, I
pulled that motherfucking bastard
off of her, but I also let him drag her into that
alley in the first place.
And yeah, she ended it,
because she couldn't "handle it". But who would expect her to
handle a relationship with a guy that puts her in danger of
violence and then becomes violent himself? Against her own father.
Even if the asshole fucking deserved it. I choke on a bitter laugh
when I reread the part where she tells me to try not to worry about
her—where she tells me to go out and have fun, and quickly disguise
it into a cough when the stranger next to me gives me a
look.
I run my fingers over the
only three words that make any sense. I
love you. I ignore their context. I don't
care if she loves me for being a good friend, or any other reason.
The fact is, she loves me. She said it and then she wrote it. So if
the right thing is to back off and just be her friend, then I can
do that, for her, and I'll be okay, because one way or another, she
does love me.