True L̶o̶v̶e̶ Story (35 page)

4 months later

I don’t make any New Year’s resolutions this year. I’ve sworn off of them. Anything that makes me feel guilty or requires much thought or is too responsible—I’m giving my responsible brain the year off. I resolutely resolve to not resolute to anything, period. We’ll see if I’m onto something.

The letter taped to my door four months ago was the last time I heard from Ian.

I’ve played it over in my head a thousand times:

He left that note with high hopes that I would see him again while he was in town.

He didn’t hear from me and went home even more discouraged.

When he got home, my huge letter to him was waiting.

He’s finally given up.

I know I asked for this, but a part of my heart breaks all over again with the realization. In some ways, though, it
has
helped to have the quiet. I feel better for getting all of my thoughts out and finally closing the door for good. But, oh, I miss him so much. I realize now that I don’t have it, how much every little morsel of information from him was still causing me to hang on for dear life. Now it’s a dull ache rather than the biting one that used to come with each letter. It’s for the best that I completely ended it, but it doesn’t stop the torment I feel every single day.

I’m dating someone new. His name is Carl. He’s cute and fun and doesn’t expect too much from me. He’s a writer, too, and we met at a luncheon for up-and-coming authors. We were seated at the same table and had a nice conversation. We went out to dinner and a movie tonight and had a really nice time. His kisses are even nice. They almost help me forget. For just a few moments at a time, I can almost forget.

Tessa is over at Jared’s, but she picked up the mail before she left and I thumb through it. My heart starts pounding when I see a letter from Ian.

Sparrow,

It’s Ian.

I started writing this letter a while ago. In the meantime I got your letter. That set me back a bit. Thanks for sharing some of your feelings—I understand most of them perfectly. I sure know how hard it is to put a true, complete expression of your thoughts and emotions on a piece (or a hundred pieces) of paper. Here’s one more attempt.

I know your intention in writing was not to open up a dialogue (too bad). You want it to just be over and done with. Finished. Ended. No more. Nada. Kaput. Fini. Amscray. The End. Quit. Stop. Go away. Take a hike. Bye-bye. Period. Exclamation point! (Am I getting your drift?)

So anyway, I’m not really writing to respond, though I would love to. There are so many things I wish I could make you understand—me, my heart, my motives, my true intentions toward you (what they were, what they are now, what they could be), what I mean when I say, “I love you”—but I can’t.

I can’t make you do anything against your will.

I’m not sure when I first started to understand that fact. Maybe I always have. But I know when I saw you in New York last, it became vividly clear to me. I felt as if I was looking right through you and yet not seeing you at all. As if every part of you had turned away.

And I knew then that I was powerless to do anything about it.

God knows I would have done absolutely anything to make our relationship work.

I’ve spent the last year (plus some months) hoping and praying for the miracle that would reunite us and give me the chance to love you and share my life with you again.

Now I’ve come to believe that it may never happen.

There’s nothing I can do.

If you don’t want to be with me, you won’t.

I’m trying to let you go.

I’ve decided to start seeing someone else. I don’t know how to fall out of love, but apparently, it’s possible. We’ll see.

It’s taken me months to write this. It doesn’t say a fraction of what I want to say, but I guess some things will just have to go unsaid. Maybe we’ll talk again someday. It’ll be up to you.

With shaking hands, I hold the letter and slide my back down the wall until I’m on the floor. My tears drop on what he’s written, leaving blurred ink in its place. I cry for everything that’s lost. I cry that he gave up. I cry for the anger in his words. I cry that he’s found someone that has made him consider letting me go. I cry for the day I ever met him and thought I could handle someone like him. I cry that the girl he met that day in the restaurant is long gone.

And I cry because I don’t know what to do with this person that’s left.

- 28 -

6 months later

Tessa tapes the last of her boxes and stands up, brushing the cardboard residue off her hands. “I think that’s the last of it.” She wipes her forehead and looks at me with a grin. “I think we should go out on the town tonight. Eh? What do you think?”

I know she’s trying to cheer me up and I’m determined to show her that I’m going to be all right. Tessa, Jared, and our fabulous red couch are moving to New Orleans tomorrow. Jared got a job with an excellent law firm there. They’re engaged, but no wedding date any time soon. Tessa wants all the bells and whistles for her wedding, or as she says, ‘all the balls and whistles’.

I am going to miss her desperately, but I’m so happy for her. She’s excited for a new start. We’ve agreed to call and text all the time, visit each other lots, and Skype whenever possible. Still, it won’t be the same. I’ve had her by my side since fifth grade.

“Yes. Yes, I definitely think we should. And we should stay up all night and watch movies. Jared can do all the driving tomorrow. That’s what he gets for taking you so far away.”

“Yeah! That’s right!” She yells back. “Okay, let’s get cleaned up and go!”

We are into our second drink when she brings up the topic of me moving back home. “Have you given it any more thought?”

“A lot of thought, actually. I think it’s time. With you leaving, there’s really nothing else keeping me here. I miss my parents and California. And with book sales going well, I think I could finally afford to live in California on my own. I’ve mentioned it to Louise, and she doesn’t see why we can’t handle everything through email and video chats, so … I’m going for it.”

Tessa looks relieved. “I think it will be a good move, Ro. You need a change. I know home might not seem like much of a ‘change’, but maybe it’s just what you need.”

I nod.

“There’s one other thing I want to talk to you about. Please don’t get mad at me.”

My brows crinkle up and I laugh. “You know it’s impossible for me to be mad at you, Tess.”

“Well, just hear me out and know I’m saying this because I love you.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“I just want you to be careful,” she says.

“Okay … what do you mean?”

“Well, I know that you’ve gone through hell over everything with Ian and you seem better than you were—which I’m SO glad about—but I’m just worried about the way you’re going about getting better
lately
.”

My skin flushes and I look down at my glass and wipe off some of the condensation with my napkin.

“Ro,” she says softly, “I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong. God knows, I would have done far worse in your situation. I’ve done far worse NOT being in your situation…” She giggles and reaches for my hand. “It’s just not
you
, Ro. It’s not you and it won’t ever be. Some of these guys you’re bringing home—I don’t trust them. At all. And I won’t be around to kick their ass if they hurt you—not that you would need me to at this point, I’ve
seen
you in Taekwondo class. I’m just worried about you. Don’t let what he did to you turn you into someone you’re not.”

A single tear falls. It’s been a long time since I’ve cried. The last letter day was the last time.

I look up at Tessa and grasp our hands with my free hand. “I love you, Tess. I hear ya. I need to stop this downward spiral I’m in. I’ve been looking for anything that will get him out of my head. It’s not working, nothing is.”

“Maybe it’s time to stop running
from
him and time to start running
to
him,” she says.

I shake my head and smile weakly. “When did you become so … inspirational?”

She laughs. “That did sound pretty good, didn’t it?”

“You know he’s dating someone else now. He’s moved on.”

“I think he’s only doing the same thing you’ve been doing—trying to survive.”

I think about that conversation with Tessa often. The apartment feels lonely, and I’m tempted to slide back into my bad habits. Instead, I begin making preparations to move back to California. Everything falls into place, almost as if it’s meant to be.

A few nights before I’m scheduled to leave, I’ve just had one last dinner with Louise and I’m in a cab going home. We stop outside The Living Room, a cool, eclectic music venue. Striding by with his guitar on his back, I see him. He walks with purpose. He has a little bit of his swagger back, which makes me smile. He looks healthier. Maybe letting me go was the best thing for him.

Of course it wrecks me, but I mark it down in my journal as a significant day. I think Ian is going to be okay and now I have to be too.

My parents try to talk me into moving back into my old bedroom. Besides the fact that I’m 24 and hoping to avoid going backwards with my life, being in my room gives me claustrophobia. I have to stay a week before I can move into my new place, and I want to climb the walls.

I’ve found a guesthouse in Los Gatos, a pretty suburb of San Jose. The cottage in the back is so charming. I absolutely love it. Jenny, the owner of the main house, is wonderful. She used to be a model back in the day. She’s beautiful and practically floats with every step. We hit it off within minutes of meeting and she said the place is mine.

Moving day is a gorgeous, sunny day. I’m glad to be back in the mild temperatures and sunshine. And this place—it feels really good. As I’m unpacking, Jenny comes over with a plate of cookies. I could get used to this.

“You’ve got it looking so cute in here!” Jenny sings her words.

“Thank you. I’m thinking of painting that…” I point to the desk sitting in the middle of the floor. Everything else is in its place, except the desk. “I think it has to be painted blue,” I tell her.

She nods like she completely agrees and I feel relief—and it’s not about the desk. This is where I’m supposed to be.

The days fade in and out without much excitement, but more peace than I’ve had in a long time. Until I begin dating Reggie. Who names their kid Reggie anyway? Reginald, Sr., that’s who. I should have steered clear when I heard the name, but I give him a try. He’s funny and that counts for a lot with me. He’s cute in a nerdish way—wavy hair, blue eyes and glasses. He’s the kind of guy that will probably be good-looking when he’s a lot older. Right now, he still just seems gawky. But, for whatever reason, I go out with him and then can’t seem to get rid of him.

We argue. A lot. I’ve never fought with anyone, much less a boyfriend, and it’s kind of therapeutic. I say exactly what I think and scoff when I don’t agree with him. Maybe it’s the way I should have been in every other relationship, I’m not sure, but the fact is, after months of getting a charge out of spouting whatever I want to spout out, I realize that I really don’t like Reggie. As a person. At all. In fact, everything he does bothers me.

He seems heartbroken when I break up with him.

“You don’t even like me! You don’t agree with anything I say!”

“I love not agreeing with you!” he yells.

Please.

A few months later, I go out with Art, short for Arthur. I know. It’s not much better than Reggie, but he’s dark and brooding and I kinda dig him. Catch this—he’s an artist—how perfect is that? Of course, I have to give him grief over that, but he handles it in stride. Nothing ruffles Art, nothing … except when I tell him after two months that I don’t want to exclusively date him. He suddenly goes into a rage and throws a chair across the room. It was a light folding chair, but still, I get out of there fast.

He calls every now and then, but I don’t see him again until I’m stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. He’s facing me, waiting for the light on the other side. I lift my hand to wave, when a car slams into my car … on my side.

The airbags puff up and nearly break my nose. Glass is everywhere. My knee is killing me. My neck, too. The impact pushes the car across the road and I sit in shock indefinitely. Art talks to me through the window and then opens the door.

“Don’t move,” he says, grabbing my hand. “Hold still. I’ve called the ambulance.” And then he looks down with tenderness and a touch of malice and says, “I remember when you used to hold my hand like this…”

Bastard.

Totaled car and back problems for life later, I meet Cam, the hunky construction worker who comes to work on Jenny’s house. He’s wonderful—so down to earth, hilarious, really cute and all about me. He thinks I hung the moon, he seriously does. I go out with him and have the best time. He can make me laugh SO hard, and he thinks I’m hysterical. He takes me on all kinds of fun, unique dates—like a hot air balloon ride and go-kart racing! I like him so much that I break up with him before we can even officially start dating. He doesn’t need my baggage.