Chapter 50
GRACE
I’ve never had my heart broken before.
I thought I had. My high school boyfriend broke up with me via text message, and I recall being sad, but it didn’t feel anything like the way my heart crumbles to my feet when Asher says, “Our contract is complete.”
The words don't make sense at first. They rattle around in my brain, searching for meaning.
We were starting to become something, something more than just two people together for the sake of an arrangement. At least, that's what it felt like to me…
Pain knocks into me, and I feel like I might collapse. Was I naive? Was this truly all for show and none of it ever meant anything?
I can't believe that, can’t let the thought be true.
The tightness is my chest grows, and I'm still looking at Asher, still waiting for an explanation that makes any sort of sense.
"I've already taken care of the money; it's been wired to your bank account. Your loans have been paid in full, in addition to the amount we agreed on." He pulls an envelope from his pocket and hands it to me, but I don't reach for it. "You'll receive divorce papers from my lawyers."
"Y-You're ending things?" I question, my voice squeaking on the last word.
"The contract is complete," he says, as if that stupid sentence is supposed to explain everything.
Maybe it does. Maybe it's me who's wrong for thinking we could ever be anything more than this. Confusion swirls through my brain, and I clutch at my chest, as if there’s a literal knife there, but there’s nothing physically wrong with me, even if it does feel like someone stabbed me.
"I'll have your stuff moved back into your apartment," he says softly. “The car is waiting for you downstairs.”
And that's it.
“No.” I shake my head as I feel the tears welling. Instinctively, my hand goes for my throat, wanting to feel the collar there, needing the proof that there’s something between us. But there’s nothing. It broke during the accident and hasn’t been replaced.
I choke on my sob.
“Grace…” Asher’s voice stays calm and tender, but he doesn’t touch me, no reassuring hand on my knee or face. “This is for the best. We’ve accomplished what I set out to, and it’s better that we end this early. After what happened…”
“You’re wrong,” I spit out through tears. “You’re scared, and I get it, I’m scared too, but you’re wrong. There’s something between us… Asher, I think love you.”
He winces at the words, and my heart breaks all over again.
He doesn’t love me.
This was never real for him.
He doesn’t love me.
I try and fail to hold back my tears, but they fall down my cheeks. Asher doesn’t make a move to wipe them away or hold me; all of his caretaking has somehow just vanished.
“Please.” I try once more, the word a broken whisper as it leaves my lips.
“This is for the best,” he repeats without a hint of emotion.
I don’t know what else to do but to leave.
I knew this day was coming, but I thought I had a few more months before it was all over.
I pack a bag with my laptop and the most important things.
And truthfully, I don’t think I want anything else.
Not the designer clothes or fancy skincare products.
I don’t want anything that’s going to remind me of him, of our time together.
Asher doesn’t look at me as I leave. We don’t say goodbye, don’t hug. We just go right back to being strangers. The new driver brings me to my shared apartment with Kacey. And once I’m there, in her arms, I sob over a man I was never meant to fall for.
But my stupid heart didn’t listen.
I spend three days wrapped in the fuzziest blanket I own and curled up in my old bed, watching A Star is Born, eating too much ice cream, and blaming my tears on the movie.
These are the things that you do when you break up with someone, and it feels like the world has stopped spinning and nothing has meaning anymore.
At least, these are the cliche things the women in my favorite rom-com's always do.
But no amount of ice cream or sobbing to Lady Gaga is making me feel any better.
At some point, I open my banking app, the enormous number glowing on the screen.
I'm rich.
But that also doesn't make me feel better. In fact, it makes me feel worse.
It's paired with an email in my inbox that informs me that my student loans have been paid in full. Something else that should give me relief, but instead, my stomach twists, and more sobs form in my chest every time I see it.
Was this truly nothing but an act? And now he's gotten what he wants and I'm cast out.
No longer needed.
Useless.
Not worth his time or energy.
Kacey thinks I should be glad to be away from him and his family after almost dying because of them, but even that thought doesn’t bring me peace.
By day four, Kacey's had enough of me staying locked in my bedroom. She drags me out, forcing me into jeans and too skimpy of a top.
"We're getting drunk," she announces, leading me out of our apartment and into a cab.
But less than a minute into the ride, panic seizes my chest, and I start hyperventilating.
"Stop!" Kacey shouts to the driver, who pulls over and is quickly paid before my best friend pulls me out of the car and sits me down on the curb.
I've been crying for days. But most of those tears have been while watching the same movie on repeat.
I've been shoving all my feelings down, not letting myself ruminate on Asher too much.
I've barely processed what happened in that car, that Richard held a gun to my head and almost killed me.
And the worst part is, I'm only alive because of Wallace.
His eyes in the rearview mirror haunt me; he knew exactly what he was doing as he swerved the car and crashed us.
He was giving me a chance. An opportunity to escape.
To live. And I've been spending it holed up in my apartment, mourning a relationship that was never meant to last forever.
On day five, I make Kacey take me to Wallace’s funeral. It takes two hours via subway because I refuse any cars or busses. We sit in the back, and I cry some more as his family talks about what a wonderful man he was.
I think about apologizing to his wife, an older woman dressed in black, who sobs as she drops a rose into his grave. But I don’t. Too ashamed that he’s gone and I’m still here.
I see Asher near the front, and the sight of him only breaks my heart further.
I grab Kacey’s hand and make us leave before he sees me.
By the time we make it back into the city, I’m crying again.
When I finally look up, I'm surrounded by the tall buildings and bustling lifestyle I fought so hard for.
I've been convinced for most of my life that if I wanted to be a writer, this is where I need to be.
But right now, I feel trapped within the walls of this concrete jungle and this whole city reeks of Asher.
It wasn't even a full year, and somehow, he wove his way into every aspect of my life.
"I want to go home," I mumble to Kacey.
"Okay…" She squeezes me tighter. "Want to walk?"
"No." I shake my head. "I mean, yes, I want to walk. But I don't mean our apartment. I want to go home. I think I need to go back to Michigan."
To her credit, Kacey doesn't fight me. She gets me back to the apartment, and after she holds me in bed for the rest of the night, she spends the following day helping me pack and book a last-minute flight.
And then, I do the thing I've been avoiding since I graduated from college.
I get on a plane and go home.
As soon as my mom wraps her arms around me, I burst into a fresh set of tears. She's wearing a flannel shirt and an old pair of worn-in jeans. She smells like pine and fresh-baked muffins. All of it washes over me, feeling like comfort and home.
Asher called her after the crash and told her I was okay. Apparently, she wanted to hop on a plane right then and there, but he assured her everything was fine. That it was under control, and instead, she video called me when I woke up.
She doesn't push me for details as we take the two-hour drive from the Detroit airport to Cedar Falls.
And she lets me stop sixteen times on the way so that I can stand outside and breathe through my panic attacks.
Not once does she comment or complain. We sit mostly in silence, listening to music.
Occasionally, her hand drifts over, squeezing mine, a silent way of telling me she's there.
The rest of my family doesn't share her calm, though. As soon as I enter the front door, Owen is there, fists clenched and a scowl on his face. "What did that asshole do? I'll kill him."
"Owen," Mom chides him. "Give your sister some space."
"I'm with Owen on this one." Dad is standing behind him, his gray mustache turned into a frown and his arms crossed over his chest. "Tell us what happened, Gracie girl."
Mom waves her hands at both of them, shooing them away. "Grace will tell us when she's ready. You two leave her alone." She herds them into the kitchen, and then I'm left with just my younger brother.
Luke shifts on his feet, his hands twisted behind his back. He looks at me like he doesn't know what to say.
"It's okay," I tell him. "I'm okay."
He studies me for a long moment, his deep brown eyes assessing me. "No, you're not." The words are cutting, even though he doesn't say them aggressively. But he's right. I'm not okay. He takes two steps toward me, opening his arms and pulling me into a hug. "It's okay to not be okay."
For the first week of being home, I try to help my family on the farm in an attempt to keep myself busy. The good thing is, nothing reminds me of Asher here. But the bad thing is, I'm not built for farm life anymore.
When Luke heads back to school, I'm left with my dad and Owen, who try not to patronize me, but after the fourth time I spill fertilizer and the third time I break the sprinkler system, they send me back inside.
My mother busies me with planning the approaching seasonal events. She puts me in charge of Santa on the Farm, our annual weekend where families can get pictures with Santa and pick out a tree. But it turns out, organizing contracts and partnerships also isn't my strong suit.
So after two weeks, I find myself staring at the walls in my childhood bedroom and thinking about sex.
I'm ashamed of the way my brain goes there. I'm longing for Asher, but I'm also missing the way he calmed my brain. The way his rules forced me to take better care of myself, the orgasms I got as rewards for all my writing. I'd write 2,000 words right now if it meant I'd come as hard as I used to.
I chalk it all up to being touch starved. But then, a bright idea enters my head.
I don't need him to make me come. I'm perfectly capable of doing so myself.
And I don't need him to reward me for writing. If I want to write, I can reward myself.
And for the first time since the accident, I open my laptop and start writing. At first, it's only because I need a release. But after a few pages, the emotions I've been bottling up come pouring out onto the page.
I give all my pain to my character. She's loved and cared for. The happiest she's even been. And with a few words, I rip it all away.
Then starts the healing.