Chapter Thirty
Beck
The bang of the door slamming behind her echoed through my body. Loud. Empty. Hollow.
Her face. The pain. My lungs felt like they were collapsing in on themselves, squeezing out every bit of air until no more remained.
I told myself it’d be better for her in the end—I couldn’t pull her into my toxic life. After this semester, there’d be no more college or hockey for me. I needed to take care of this giant shitstorm. Find a way to tell Megan she had a half sister out there, and talk to Aunt Tessa so we could figure out if we should try to keep it quiet or be in control of it coming out the way we wanted it to.
There’d be no more laid back nights with Lyla, pretending my life was something it wasn’t. I ran shaky fingers over my forehead. I wanted to run after her and make sure she at least knew she wasn’t plain—she was sexy and beautiful and full of life, and I couldn’t slowly ruin her one mistake at a time. But how was I supposed to talk to her after what’d just happened?
Still, I had to go after her. She didn’t have her suitcase or a car, and I didn’t want her walking the road alone.
Shit, this is going to suck.
I’d meant to ease into the conversation, but how big of a jackass would I be if I kissed her and pretended we were okay, only to pull the rug out from under her when she fell that much harder? Losing the right to kiss her and have her in my bed made my bones ache, but even deeper under that was the acidic knowledge I’d also wrecked our friendship. One of the most important things in my life, and honestly, the main reason I’d survived this past year.
Megan burst through the door, her jaw set and her eyebrows in an angry V. “What the hell did you do?”
“I…” I shook my head. I had no words, no desire to make up a lame excuse. “Is she okay?”
“No. She was walking down the road, crying, Beckett! Aunt Tessa’s giving her a ride somewhere. I tried to get her to stay, but that only made her cry harder, and Aunt Tessa sent me inside.” Megan crossed her arms. “Start talking.”
“You’re just a kid. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Just a kid? Well, at least I know that you’ll never meet anyone better than Lyla, and if you let her go, you’re an idiot. Pretty sure that makes me smarter than you, regardless of my age.” She stormed past me in a huff—so now all the women in my life hated me. Great.
I walked into the living room, sat down on the couch, and ran my hands through my hair. Maybe… I thought of Mom and Dad and the counseling they’d done so we could be a big happy lie. Even if I could get my shit together, I needed to face the facts. My time in Boston was almost up, and most of it was going to be filled with practice, playoffs, and with any luck, the Frozen Four. What was I going to do? Try to fix a relationship that’d end in two months anyway? Why draw out the pain?
So much damn pain—it felt like I’d been steamrolled by a Zamboni. If it already hurt this badly, how much worse would another couple months of holding on and getting that much closer only to separate again hurt? Not like she’d take me back after what I said, anyway.
I lay back and closed my eyes, not even bothering to move when the stupid trim of the floral headache couch dug into my skull. I wanted everything to go away. But since there wasn’t a skating rink nearby—I doubted hockey would even help right now, anyway—and Lyla was long gone, the suffocating pain of missing her, on top of missing my parents while being angry at both of them, just came rushing at me that much faster.
…
I’d put off doing this the entire week, but it was time to suck it up. All I did these days was go to class, go to practice, and return to my empty, depressing-as-hell apartment. Everywhere I looked I saw the lack of Lyla—the giant missing gap in my life. She wasn’t on the couch, insisting on a chick flick. No one texted me cat pictures or smiley faces. There were no cheesy chemistry jokes, complete with the sound of her laughter. My sheets even smelled like her, but she wasn’t there, either, and when I washed them to get rid of her perfume, the absence of her scent depressed me even more.
I knocked on her apartment door. I heard shuffling behind the mock wood. “Lyla, I just came to bring you your stuff. And to see if—”
The door swung open and Whitney stood there, a scowl on her face. “What do you want, asshat?”
“I-Is she okay?”
“No, she’s not okay. She’s the nicest girl I know, and you broke her heart.”
I leaned against the frame, trying to come up with something good to say. I wanted to let everything spill out—how much I missed her. How I should’ve told her she was perfect and sexy and the smartest person I knew. That I was drowning without her, and for the first time in my life, I got why they called it a broken heart, because all mine did was sit in my chest and ache with each beat.
Not even hockey helped, and I’d been playing like shit, to the point where Coach asked me if I wanted to sit the bench during regionals. I’d barely bit back saying that it didn’t matter anymore.
Whitney eyed the box in my hand. I’d overnighted Lyla’s suitcase and books to the apartment since I knew she’d stress about it. But because her literature book wasn’t with the rest of her things, it’d gotten left behind, and I’d found a few of her belongings at my apartment. A scarf, a pair of earrings, a couple of movies, and half a dozen girly pens and pencils she probably could do without but seemed like a shame to throw away—how’d she secure her bun without them?
Honestly, I could’ve shipped this box, too, but I needed to know if Lyla was okay. I knew it’d hurt to see her, but I figured it couldn’t hurt much worse, so I might as well shut off the constant curiosity.
Whitney yanked the box out of my hand. “Go before she comes back. Seeing you will only undo the work she’s done this past week to try to get you out of her head.”
I stopped the door with my foot as Whitney tried to slam it. “Just…take care of her for me. Make sure she doesn’t go to a party and end up with the wrong guy—I worry about her getting hurt.”
A humorless laugh came from Whitney’s lips. “She’s been with the wrong guy for the past few months. No one could hurt her worse than you have.”
I already hated myself, but the self-loathing deepened. I didn’t deserve to know she was okay, even if it was what I thought about twenty-four-seven.
“And you can bet that we’ll be hitting lots of parties, where we’ll meet tons of guys. Pretty soon you’ll be nothing but a bad memory.”
My phone rang, and when I went to look at it, Whitney took advantage and slammed the door, the lock clicking into place.
Mr. Hawthorne, of course. Most likely calling to tell me he’d worked out a settlement with Karen Walker. After discussing it with Aunt Tessa and Megan—since I thought she deserved to know before it was gossip—we’d decided to put out a press release about how excited we were to discover we had a new member of the family, and that we’d appreciate privacy as we got to know this miracle soul who gave us one more piece of Dad here on earth. It was over-the-top sugary bullshit, and no one would be giving us privacy, but at least we weren’t busting our asses to hide it so it could blow up in our faces later.
Part of me even thought Dad might be proud. I wasn’t sure where Mom would stand. Perhaps they’d both decided to be with people they loved, since they’d clearly fallen out of love with each other. Guess we’d never know.
I answered the phone, listening as Mr. Hawthorne finalized the details for the press release. He then let me know that Karen had signed the settlement. This weekend Megan and I were scheduled to meet our half sister, Avery. Since Megan was still mad at me over everything that’d happened with Lyla, she’d probably spend most of the time shaking her head and telling me, yet again, what a jerk idiot I was.
I was pulling out of my parking spot when I saw Lyla crossing to her place, her bulging backpack slung on both shoulders, her bright red hair in a bun, at least three pencils through it. I lowered the phone, no longer able to concentrate on anything Mr. Hawthorne said. She was as pretty as ever, but she didn’t look good—stress hung on her features, and the way she dragged each step made me think she was sleeping about as well as I was.
She headed up the concrete staircase to her apartment, and I watched, longing and regret slowly suffocating me. I reached for my door handle, ready to jump out, apologize for being a giant fuckup, and beg her to take me back.
But then I remembered what Whitney had said. The last thing I wanted was to make things any harder for Lyla. So instead of soaking in her profile every second I could while wishing with everything in me for her to look my way, I shoved the gearshift into place and drove out of the parking lot.
The frayed string between us stretched further and further, until it snapped, severing everything we’d had for good.