More Than Him (12 page)

Diary, I'm going to skip the part where my heart breaks, because there are no words.

I almost stayed. I almost took the few steps it would have taken to have her in my arms and fake that everything was okay.

Then I remembered what I’d caused. I remembered the first thought I had when I decided to leave her there in that hospital. What if I leave and her life is better? Like my asshole parents left me, and my dad came along. He gave me this life, gave me a home, and somehow, made me feel worthy of it.

What if someone else offered her that? Some other guy she meets a week from now, a month from now, a year from now? What if he could give her the world, and all I could give her was a broken heart, and a broken arm? Then what?

I told her I loved her. She needed to know.

And then I left.

*

Thirty-two weeks post Amanda.

I've been MIA, and for that, I'm sorry, Diary. Truth is, I've been doing better. The meds help.

I wrote to her. It took all the courage in me to actually send it. I wonder if she burned it. I probably would have.

*

Thirty-five weeks post Amanda.

Rebekah, that girl from France that I wrote about before, she tried to kiss me. I pulled back so fast I think I scared her. She said she didn't know I was with someone. I told her I wasn't. Not really. But then again,
really
. Does that make sense?

She said even if they didn't know it, or I didn't know it, my heart belonged to her.

'Tell me about her' she said.

So I did.

Not all of it. Just the good stuff. It felt nice to talk about her. To remember her the way I wanted.

When Rebekah left, my thoughts were still on Amanda. I always thought about her.

*

Thirty-eight weeks post Amanda.

Jamal and Manny organized for me to come back to medic camp, just for a few days. I was excited to see them again. But what was even more exciting is why they asked me to come back.

A fully recovered Amuhda waited for me.

Call me a pussy, but she was a sight for sore eyes. I admit, I cried.

‘Hello Mr. Loma,’ she’d said, with the quietest, softest voice I'd ever heard.

I smiled huge. First time I'd smiled like that since leaving Amanda. She had to have a translator, but we talked for a bit. She said I was handsome, and that I was her prince. I was no one’s prince, but I'd let her call me whatever she wanted. Then she asked me if I would marry her. Poor girl. I told her I couldn't. I said my heart belonged to another girl. Her name was Amanda. She found that hysterical. Amanda and Amuhda. I loved her laugh. She held her stomach just like Amanda does.

Diary, I know you're sick of hearing this. But I miss her.

Nightmares: getting better.

Dreams about Amanda: Too many. And they're all so, so good, that it hurts so, so bad.

*

Forty-three weeks post Amanda.

Dear Diary,

It took forty-three weeks, but guess what? I think I'm healing. Being here has opened my eyes to so many things, and even though I didn't travel so much, I saw the world. I saw what I needed to, and that was enough. I've learnt to control my anxiety when necessary, but honestly, it's gotten a lot better—to the point where I can go a day or so without flashbacks. The heart palpitations are few and far between, the shakes . . . they're there, but it's better than screaming and pissing my bed at night.

When I was kid, I used to always find it odd when bullies made fun of other kids and asked them to go cry to their mommy. I remember wondering if they knew that some kid's moms were the cause of their cries, not the other way around.

Huh. I wonder who I cried out for.

*

Forty-five weeks post Amanda.

I have nothing to write. Just that I'm here, and I'm okay.

*

Fifty Weeks post Amanda.

It's time.

I'm ready.

Dad and I have been talking about what I'm going to do when I get home. He'd organized that I defer, so UNC still awaits. I don't know if Amanda is still there. I still haven't spoken to anyone yet. Apart from that one phone call from Jake, no one else knows anything. That's the way I wanted it. Dad said housing was full on campus dorm-wise, and he'd prefer that I live off-campus anyway, just in case . . .

Just in case.

I don't know what he meant, but I sure as shit would prefer it, too.

Because I was getting back a month or so before summer break started, we'd have enough time to get things sorted: a place to stay, a car, all that shit. I made sure he knew that he wasn't to spend a single cent on me. Not until I got there. Sixteen-year-old Loma—fuck—I'm calling myself Loma now! Anyway, sixteen-year-old me loved that Mercedes. Twenty-one-year-old me? Not so much. I'd be happy with something that gets me from A to B.

To be honest, a part of me hoped that Dad would transfer me to a different college, somewhere further away. But I knew he wouldn't. He wanted me to face things head on, deal with the consequences of my actions, all that shit.

I'm prepared. I think. Actually, I have no fucking clue. All I know is that I'm ready to face it. I'm ready to take whatever the world has to give.

'You're staying in the main house when you get home,' Dad said. It was my punishment for being gone the extra six months. Whatever. The pool house just reminded me of Amanda, anyway.

First date. Final goodbye.

Sill missing her, Diary.

Next entry. I'll be home.

*

Home.

It's been three days.

I'm still hiding out.

Bought a car, though, that's something. It's a shitty old truck. It'll do. Anything will do. Dad said he wants to sell the house, find something smaller. The largeness of it makes him lonely. Truth—it's kind of upsetting. I grew up in this house, learned to ride my bike in the driveway. This house holds a lot of good moments for me.

When I told him, he just smiled, said maybe it was worth keeping.

He'd also done some upgrading to the house, high cement fencing and a security gate. He even got security lights and cameras in certain spots. He told me that there had been a string of burglaries in the area. I knew it wasn't true, but I didn't call him out on it. Honestly, having that extra security helped me to actually sleep easier at night.

I'm better, but I'm not, not really. If I were to use psychology terms, I'd tell you I was quiet, withdrawn, introverted. Not my usual asshole-self. Dad said he missed his asshole. That made me laugh.

I did something stupid today. I drove my car two hours away. Guess where? Not hard. I don't know why I did it. I just wanted to see her, maybe just to assure myself that she was okay. Ethan's jeep was in the driveway, along with a green hatchback. It could be hers.

Three hours I sat in front of the house like a creeper, then the front door burst open. Ethan first, then Alexis, her best friend. And then Tristan. The outside security light turned on, she walked out, locked the door, and checked it at least five times. My hands shook. I sat on them, moved further down my seat and pulled my cap down past eyebrows. Fucking creeper.

Then I heard it. Her laugh. 'Oh my God,' she squealed, holding her stomach.

I drove away.

It was too much.

I shouldn't have been there.

What the hell was I thinking?

At least she was happy.

That's something, right?

A few hours later I had the words that seemed so fitting tattooed on my arm. One day, I swear, I'll look at it, and maybe it won't hurt so much.

*

Three weeks of being home.

I saw her.

I don't think I fully understood how broken I was until my eyes caught hers and she smiled up at me.

Suddenly, it felt like all of the broken pieces of me locked into place, one by one. I felt it physically as much as mentally.

We talked. I can't for the life of me even remember what was said. It's like my heart and my mind were constantly battling, and I didn't know which one to voice. At one point, my heart won out, and I let a familiar comfort settle over my actions, or it could have been the panic that kicked in.

Baby, I called her.

And something in her snapped.

I deserved the slap.

Just like I'll deserve any and all future punishment I get from her.

11

Amanda

I woke up the next morning feeling worse than I did the night before. It had never been my intention to hurt Logan, not even emotionally. What I did was horrible. The guilt of it consumed me.

What hurt the most was his reaction. It was as if he saw me for the first time—who I really was. I thought he'd known me better than that, but I guess a year can change a person's perspectives.

It sure as hell changed mine.

At first, of course I hated him. I hated that he could just leave, without a single warning, not even a goodbye. But slowly, with every day that passed and every visit with his dad, things started getting easier. With each piece of the puzzle that was his life, his decisions and actions began to make sense—to me, anyway. It wasn't as if I forgave, and I definitely wouldn't be able to forget what he did, but I'd slowly begun to accept it.

Each conversation I had with his dad was like peeling away a layer. Logan—he built these high walls around him. He put on a persona so that no one got close enough to care for him. With me, those walls came down. I couldn't tell you why he let me in, or what it was about me, or about us, that led him to believe that it was okay for us to fall in love the way we did. The kind of insanely deep, destructive love.

Destructive.

That's exactly what we were.

Logan.

I couldn't sleep. I spent the entire night staring at the ceiling of my living room. Whatever I’d thought she might have felt when I left, it was worse than I thought. I knew she'd be upset, sad, hurt—but she was devastated beyond words, which is probably why—instead of talking—she chose to slap me.

I couldn't blame her. I deserved it.

I fucked up. The worst part is that instead of talking to her about it, I practically shoved her out the door and into her car because I was too much of a pussy to deal with things. I should have tried to calm her down, to calm myself down, just enough so that we could actually use words to get through the mess we'd created. But I just bailed, because obviously, that's how I deal with shit.

I cursed under my breath and removed the covers off my pathetic bed. You'd think that sleeping on the floor or tiny fold-out beds would make me want the comfort of a luxurious mattress. It didn't.

***

I needed to get out of my head, and out of my apartment. No one knew I was back yet, so there was only one place I could go—the bookstore. It was like history repeating itself. Stupid, regretful, lonely boy finds solace in a random bookstore while he pines for the girl of his dreams that he fucked up with.

Chantal—the owner of the store—paused mid coffee-pour when she saw me. I had to rush over and stop her from spilling it everywhere. Once she placed the coffee back and handed the cup to her customer, she wrapped her arms around me. "You stupid boy," she whispered in my ear. She pulled back and playfully slapped my chest. "Where the hell have you been? I'm so mad at you."

I laughed, and rolled my eyes. "Get in line."

I spent the next hour answering her million questions. I told her about working with Doctors Without Borders for the past year. I didn't offer anything about Amanda, and she didn't bring it up. I respected that a lot.

She stood up when a customer walked to the register. "I know you just got back, but can I ask a favor?"

"Of course. Anything."

"I have a huge delivery at four, can you help out?"

I agreed. It wasn't like I had shit to do anyway.

At four on the dot I was back. "It's not here yet," she said, motioning for me to take a seat. Since the first day I’d come into the store, creepily looking for Amanda, I'd always sat in the same spot. "I'm sure it's on it way."