52. Reed
The rest of the party passes in fragments, while I try and hold myself together.
I smile, shake hands, pose for pictures, and accept congratulations I don’t deserve.
Someone even asks when the wedding will be, and I have to choke out a response I haven’t had a chance to rehearse, about summer being our favorite time of year, but we have yet to lock down a date.
People laugh, saying things like “It’s about time you tied the knot.
” And all I can do is try and keep myself upright, because it doesn’t matter what any of them say, all I can hear are Wilder’s words.
I bought that before Vegas.
Before everything fell apart, before we became nothing, before I ruined everything.
My fingers tighten around the wrapped present tucked discreetly beneath my arm, that I hid by the door on my way back in after talking to him.
People are leaving now, drunk on my false celebrations, and I force myself to smile through their goodbyes.
I lost track of Eloise about an hour ago, she slipped off to use the restroom and I haven’t seen her since.
I should look for her, but all I can think about is Wilder’s gift.
Luxury cars disappear one by one down the long driveway, and my father is still entertaining the last of his business partners, who will no doubt be here until the early hours of the morning.
Especially since my mom and Freddie have long since gone to bed.
It means no one stops me when I slip off upstairs, back to my old room.
It hasn’t changed in years, still the same dark wood furniture I’ve always hated, and still the same four walls that saw me broken and bleeding too many times to count.
I wait until I am safely behind the locked door, before I pull out the gift from beneath my jacket.
The wrapping paper is simple, black of course, with a pretty ribbon that I know he didn’t tie.
I bet he got Matt to do it for him, and the thought almost makes me smile.
My fingertips hover over it for a long moment, almost afraid to open it, because I have no idea what’s inside.
It’s not the first time he’s bought me a gift, Wilder is one of the most thoughtful people I know, and his other presents are now buried at the back of my closet.
My hands shake as I carefully start to peel back the tape, surprised to find that inside is a hardback book.
It’s cream colored, expensive looking, and when I flip it over, the title makes me pause.
Dear Juliet.
My throat tightens, because I know instantly what this is.
It's a book featuring a collection of photocopied letters left on the Juliet Wall in Verona.
Love stories written by people who had nowhere else to put them, and I almost laugh at the irony.
I open the front cover expecting some kind of inscription or handwritten message, but come up empty.
Then something catches my eye, a small blue tab sticking out halfway through. Blue. Of course.
My fingers tremble as I turn to the marked page, the photocopied letter faded around the edges and written in beautiful, careful handwriting.
Dear Juliet,
I met the love of my life when I was nineteen years old.
We were young, frightened, and convinced we had more time than we did. I chose the sensible path instead of the brave one, and I told myself I was protecting him. That loving him was letting him go.
I never saw him again.
Decades have passed and I built the life everyone expected of me. I got married, had children, and when my wife passed away, all I could think about was him. Because it didn’t matter how much life I lived, none of it ever truly felt like living without him.
If anyone reads this before they make the same mistake, please understand that regret lasts much longer than fear.
So don’t let them go, pick the person who makes your heart race, the one who looks at you and sees you for who you are, and not who you’re trying to be.
Tears blur my eyes as I stop reading, because I already know why he chose this page.
A small note has been written on a yellow sticky tab beside it, in Wilder's handwriting.
Thought you'd like this one.
There are no other words, no I love you or I miss you, just a simple quick note, as if he thought we would pore over this gift together. The thought has me slamming the book closed before my tears can spill onto the page. I clutch it against my chest as I look around my room.
God. This fucking room.
This room has seen every version of me. The hopeless kid who still had dreams and aspirations, the frightened teenager sitting on this very floor, trying to decide whether the bruises were visible enough that I should skip school.
The nights I'd curled into the corner beside the dresser because every rib hurt too much to lie in bed, and the mornings I'd stood in front of this mirror, teaching myself how to smile without showing pain.
I'd spent years believing nothing good could ever exist inside these four walls, then somehow, without even trying, Wilder found a way. For the first time I’m crying here not because of pain, but because of love.
Because what the two of us had was real, no matter where we stand now, and I’ll cherish his love forever.
It's well after two in the morning by the time I finally get back to my apartment, and silence greets me instantly. I spot her heels by the door, so at least I know when I lost track of her that she made it home safe. Her bedroom door is closed and I don’t want to bother her, not after everything that happened tonight.
She deserves one last night of shoving her head under the covers, pretending none of this is happening.
I'm too exhausted to think about anything except the ache lodged beneath my ribs, so I don’t pause until I get to my room.
I place the book gently on my bedside table, then crawl beneath the duvet without even taking off my suit.
It’s been two weeks since I last laid beside Wilder, and I haven’t had a good night's sleep since.
I almost hate him for that, because I used to sleep just fine, but then I spent weeks curled in his embrace, feeling safer than I ever have before.
Now there is only the gentle hum of the AC and the sound of my wasted regrets.
I roll onto my side and let my hand reach out to the empty half of the bed, then I close my eyes and let myself pretend he’s here.
The last thing I see before sleep finally claims me, is the blue tab still peeking out from the pages of the book.
When I wake the next morning, it’s also the first thing I see, the blue tab taunting me like a beacon of hope.
For a moment I almost convinced myself that last night didn't happen, but I know it did.
I can feel it in the heavy weight of my shoulders, and the too stiff suit now completely rumpled inside my bed.
I scrub a hand over my face before forcing myself out of bed, and find the apartment is unusually quiet.
I guess Eloise isn’t up for much this morning.
I shower longer than usual, hoping the hot water will somehow wash away the weight sitting on my chest, but it doesn’t, and when I’m dressed, I head to hunt down my best friend.
"You want some coffee, babe?" I call as I walk toward the kitchen, but I don’t get any response. Turning on the coffee machine, I head toward her room and knock twice. “Eloise,” I call through the door, but again I’m met with silence.
Pressing down on the handle, I say her name again as I slip inside, and at first nothing looks unusual.
Her bed is neatly made, her curtains half open, but then I notice her closet.
Hangers are sitting crooked where dresses used to be, and when I flick my eyes to her drawers, I find them all slightly ajar.
There are clothes missing from all of them, gaps on her bookshelves, and the framed picture of us from graduation has gone from her dresser.
My eyes land on a folded piece of paper resting in the center of the bed, with my name written across the front. My fingers tremble as I unfold it, finding it painfully short and to the point.
I'm sorry, I can't do this.
I need to choose myself.
I read it again, then again, as though more words might appear if I stare at it long enough, but they don’t.
My phone is seemingly already in my hand before I've even consciously decided to move back to my room and pick it up.
I call her but it goes straight to voicemail, so I do it again and again, until the reality of the note starts to set in.
Fuck. What am I going to do?
The next two hours are spent calling everyone we know to see if they have heard from her, but they all say no.
Every time I speak to another person, I get more and more panicked, and I’d go as far as calling the police if it wasn’t clear she left of her own free will.
Still, I do everything in my power to try and find her, and when I don’t, I do the only thing I can do.
I go to see my father.
When I arrive back at his house, it’s quiet with my mom and Freddie already gone, and the cleaners having already erased last night's celebrations. I make my way down the hall toward my father’s office, knowing he won’t be anywhere else on a Saturday morning, and find his door already open.
He’s sitting behind his enormous oak desk, reading through a stack of papers as if it’s just a normal day, and when his eyes meet mine, he doesn’t look surprised to me.
In fact, he looks almost happy, and it only makes me feel worse, especially when he seems to dismiss me and look back down at his work.
I stop in front of his desk, forcing myself to take a deep breath. I don’t see any point in prolonging what I need to say, so I just blurt it out. “Eloise is gone.” I never knew three words could fall so heavily, but they land with a thud between us.
He calmly turns another page before him, as he replies, “Yes, I know.”
I blink back a little in confusion. “You know?” I repeat, completely thrown, based on what I anticipated would be his reaction.
“Yes, I know, her parents called me an hour ago.” He finally looks up and puts down his pen. “Apparently she emptied out her trust fund first thing this morning and boarded a plane.”
My mouth goes dry as I shake my head, still trying to process his words. “I don’t,” I start, but my voice catches in my throat. “I don’t know what happened.”
It’s not a lie, I don’t know what happened.
I don’t know where she went, but I do know why she left.
My father studies me for a long moment and then unexpectedly, he smiles.
“It’s okay, son,” he sighs. “I know what happened.” He pushes back his chair and rises slowly, looking at me with nothing but empathy, as he rounds his desk until he reaches me.
His hand lands gently on my shoulder, so close that I can smell the same expensive cologne he has always worn, as he looks down to meet my stare.
I’m too off-guard to even stiffen at his proximity, even when he leans in close, as if he is going to embrace me, bringing his mouth to my ear.
“You were too much of a fucking pussy to keep her satisfied.”
The words barely finish leaving his mouth before his hand lashes out, and the crack echoes through his office.
My head snaps sideways, and pain blooms across my cheek, as the force of his punch vibrates through my skull.
For one suspended second, I simply stare down at the rug beneath us, tasting blood where my teeth have caught the inside of my lip.
I don’t look up, I can’t, because I know what comes next, but still he demands it. “Look at me.” I don't, and another blow catches my chin, hard enough to force me to stagger backwards. “You’ve embarrassed me, humiliated this family!” he roars, his voice no longer quiet.
“I didn’t,” I start, desperately needing him to know I did nothing wrong.
“Don’t,” he warns coldly, the one word cutting me off.
“Don’t you dare fucking talk back to me.
” Instead of responding, I slowly straighten myself up, knowing it’s what he expects.
His chest rises and falls with controlled fury, as his eyes burn into mine.
“This was supposed to secure everything, and you fucking ruined it.”
I wipe the blood from my lip with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry, Father.” Like always, the apology comes automatically, after years of conditioning, but it changes nothing, not to him.
His fist flies out again, this one sending me flying to the floor, and I hit my head on the corner of his desk on the way down. Pain explodes in my head, the throbbing instant, and this time I can’t stop the blood choking out from the back of my throat.
“Don’t fucking try to humor me with your bullshit apologies,” he sneers, kicking me roughly in the ribs, and I know I’m truly in for it now.
He keeps talking, but I no longer hear another word, letting my mind transport itself to another time, another place.
I’m not here fighting for my life, I’m at the top of that castle, falling for the first person who ever truly saw me, and it’s the only thing that gets me through.
I take blow after blow, until exertion finally gets the better of him.
I push to my feet in time to see him straighten his cufflinks, rolling his eyes at the specks of blood now on his shirt. “Fix this, or the next person I’ll invite in here will be your brother,” he says coolly, and the pain pumping through me now is nothing compared to the panic his words invoke.
“Yes, sir,” I reply quietly, before turning on my heel and staggering away, with only one thought in my mind.
What the fuck am I going to do?