Chapter Thirteen

AMELIA

Four years ago . . .

This doesn’t feel right. The lights are off in his apartment, but his car is parked out front. I haven’t heard from him since I text him about dinner earlier today, and I’m worried. He got off work a few hours ago.

Hesitantly, I round my car and go to his front door. I’m about to knock when something crashes against the door, scaring me backward and into one of the front pillars of the apartment complex.

“Oh God,” I whisper.

What’s happening?

Heart racing, hands shaking, my nerves on edge, I take a deep breath and step forward. When I place my hand on the knob of the door, I hear another crash but this one came from the other side of the front room. Despite being frightened, I need to know if Aaron is okay or if I need to call the cops, so I open the door. This is not what I expected. Aaron with a torn shirt hanging off his arms and shoulders, his hair a wreck, and beer bottles scattered across his destroyed living space.

Rage vibrates off him, his shoulders shaking, his head searching for the next piece of furniture I’m assuming he’s going to throw. Wanting him to be aware of my presence without scaring him, I quietly clear my throat and call out to him. “Aaron, are you okay?”

From the sound of my voice, he whips around, his chest heaving, his eyes frantic, and his arms poised and ready to continue their destructive path. When he speaks, his voice is unlike anything I’ve heard from him. It’s pained, yet seething. “Leave, Amelia.”

His demand washes over me. This is a side of him I’ve never seen and frankly, it’s frightening, but I can’t leave him like this. I can’t leave him here to continue to destroy his quaint apartment or harm himself.

So on wobbly legs, I move closer.

“I told you to leave,” he snarls before dipping to the ground and picking up a bottle of liquor only to down a large gulp.

He’s drinking.

He never drinks.

What happened to him? What has upset him so much?

“Aaron, can you put the bottle down? Maybe we can get you into a cold shower or something.”

“I don’t want a cold shower,” he shouts and throws the bottle against the wall. Amber liquid and glass shatters to the ground.

My heart starts pounding rapidly, my body wanting to flee from how out of control he seems. He won’t hurt me. So I take a step closer.

“Leave, Amelia,” he repeats and tosses a chair across the room before he stalks to the back of his apartment and slams the door.

Pressing my hand against the wall to hold myself up, I take a deep breath and try to steady my nerves. I have no idea how to approach him, how to help him. Aaron has always been happy, smiling, joking. This side, this beastly side, is all new to me, and after a year of dating this man, I’m seriously puzzled.

A part of me wants to leave, to nurse my shattered nerves and wait for sunrise to bring another day, but the part of me that loves him, that would do anything for him, is calling for me to follow in his tumultuous footsteps.

Once again, gathering my wits, I dodge tossed furniture and make my way to Aaron’s bedroom, where we’ve spent many nights together and many lazy mornings. This room holds precious memories for me, so I hope and pray he isn’t destroying it like his living room.

Leaning forward, I put my ear against the door and listen for him. I don’t hear anything so I take my chances and open the door. The lights are off, but the moonlight pours through his uncovered windows and I see him sitting on the floor in the corner, his head in his hands, his knees bent to his chest.

In a matter of seconds, my heart stutters and every bone in my body aches for the man hunched over in the corner. Quietly, I shut the door and start toward him. Sensing my presence, he lifts his head, and I’m met with aged, wary eyes. The brightness I’m accustomed to is nowhere to be found. Who is this man?

I don’t say anything this time. Instead, I slowly walk toward him, not wanting to scare him away, and sit down so my body is facing his. I place my hand on his cheek, feeling the scruff of his jaw on my palm and turn his face so he’s forced to look me in the eyes.

Hollow, empty, a bland expression. Once again, my heart breaks. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he whispers, reeking of booze and trying to pull away, but I don’t allow him.

This might not be the best time to talk to him given his alcohol-addled brain, but I can’t continue to let him be destructive. I will never forgive myself if he hurts himself.

“Aaron, talk to me. Don’t shut me out. What’s going on?”

He lowers his head and dangles his hands between his legs, utter defeat in the slouch of his shoulders. “You should leave, Amelia. You’re not going to like what you hear next.”

“Try me,” I challenge. No matter what he says, I’m not leaving.

Lifting his head, he leans it against the wall and stares blankly at me. “You’re going to stay?” He sardonically laughs. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Stop trying to scare me off, Aaron.”

“I’m not trying to scare you off, Amelia.” His voice has a slight slur in it but other than that, he’s quite clear. “I’m trying to avoid the inevitable.”

“And what would that be?”

“Breaking up with you.”

The air stands still, stagnant in its musty torment as I try to comprehend what he’s saying. Break up with me? Where did that come from? I think back to everything that’s happened the past few days, I try to pick apart why he would be acting so vile, so unlike the man I love.

But nothing is coming to mind.

We’ve spent the last few nights at each other’s places. We’ve gone on dates, cooked dinner together, spent every morning wrapped in each other’s arms while he whispered in my ear how much he loves me. To say I’m confused is an understatement.

Trying not to turn into an emotional basket case, I take a deep breath and ask, “Why are you breaking up with me?”

“Don’t you see?” he asks, waving around his room that has yet to be destroyed. “You could have so much better, Amelia. You could be with someone in college, someone with a future, someone with a loving family, or at least one parent who cares about him.” He runs a hand down his face and mutters under his breath so I almost don’t hear him, “Someone who can give you stairs.”

Stairs? What is he talking about?

“I don’t want anything or anyone but you, Aaron.” Where is this coming from? And what about his parents? I’ve met his mom once and she seemed nice, so . . .

Standing abruptly, knocking me back, he starts crossing the room, his hands twitching at his sides. When he glances in my direction, all I see is darkness. He’s lost, and I’m not sure I can do anything to aid him.

“You don’t want me,” he roars as he shoves his nightstand across the room, shattering his lamp. I tuck myself in the corner with my knees pulled into my chest. “No one fucking wants me, besides the one woman who doesn’t deserve me.” Turning swiftly around, he cocks his arm back and jams it through the wall, leaving a gaping hole before he storms into his living room where I hear him clink some bottles together and then collapse onto the floor.

Muscles frozen in place, despair gnaws at my gut as I wait for more movement in the other room.

What woman is he talking about? I try to piece together what he’s said. Parents not caring, no one wants him besides a woman who doesn’t deserve him, a loving family and . . . stairs?

I push my hair back and think. Is he talking about his mom? It’s the only thing I come up with, but why would he be so angry about her?

Standing on shaky legs, I dodge the broken pieces of his lamp and peek into the living room. Lying on the ground, his large body splayed across the floor, is a mumbling Aaron. His eyes are closed, his hand gripping an empty bottle, and the tension in his body easing with each breath he takes.

I stay still, watching him until I’m convinced he’s completely passed out. Able to breathe a little lighter, I start cleaning up, starting with the bottles that have been rolling around his floor. Twelve beers and a bottle of whiskey. I pray the bottle wasn’t full when he started drinking it. Guessing how much he’s really had, this is going to be a very long night. Despite what he said, I’m not leaving him.

He wants to break up with me? I don’t buy it. Something hit him hard tonight, and he’s trying to keep me as far away from it as possible, as far away from him. Too bad it’s not that easy to get rid of me.

I take off his work boots and try to make him as comfortable as possible before I head into his room to clean up the mess in there. I have never seen anyone this drunk, and I would be lying if I didn’t say it terrifies me. More so, seeing the man I love so miserable.

I’m in his room, trying to make his bed in case I’m somehow able to move him into it, when his phone starts ringing. I search the floor and find it in the corner under one of his shirts.

His mom.

I shouldn’t answer this. I really shouldn’t, and yet, curiosity wins out.

“Hello,” I say quietly.

She must not hear me over her crying because she says, “Aaron baby, I’m sorry, please don’t be mad at me.”

I really shouldn’t have answered this. Feeling awkward, I say, “Mrs. Walters, it’s Amelia.”

Her crying stops and her voice clears. “Amelia? Oh, where’s Aaron?”

“Uh, he’s kind of passed out.”

“Was he drinking?” The heartache I heard when she answered the phone is no longer there and instead anger ensues.

“Yes, ma’am. It seems like he’s had a lot to drink.”

I can hear her mutter something on the other end of the phone but can’t make it out. “I told him not to drink. I told him to not be like his daddy.” Like his daddy?

Confused and wanting to get to the bottom of this, I ask, “Mrs. Walters, what happened tonight? I came to Aaron’s apartment and found him very angry and drunk. He was saying things like wanting to break up with me. I’m kind of lost.”

I can hear sniffling and once again, Mrs. Walters morphs into the crying mess that she was when I first answered the phone. “Oh Amelia, it’s his brothers. He’s upset because I always talk about their success. He should really be more like them.”

He has brothers?

What the hell?

Why would he not tell me he has brothers? That seems like a basic thing you tell someone when you’re dating.

But more importantly, why would a mother compare her children? It must be a cantankerous topic for Aaron given the way he reacted tonight.

I always talk about their success . . .

A conversation I had with Aaron earlier in the day pops in my head. He was talking about how he wished he could change careers, how he wished he could move into construction, to really do it instead of talk about it. He spoke of wanting to prove to himself that he’s worthy of more. At the time, I thought he was speaking of his career, but from what his mom is telling me, I think this goes deeper.

Anger starts to spiral out of me as I defend Aaron. “With all due respect, Mrs. Walters, Aaron is a fine gentleman, caring, generous, with a beautiful heart. I don’t know what his brothers are doing with their lives, but what I do know is Aaron is thriving. He’s living life, and you should be proud of him for that, not comparing him.”

More crying.

“Oh, Amelia, do you think he hates me? He’s my everything. I can’t have him mad at me.” This has to be one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had. I don’t understand any of it. She’s mad at him one minute and then begging for his forgiveness the next.

Blowing out a long breath and wanting to hang up, I say, “You’re going to have to ask him that yourself, but I would suggest not calling until maybe Sunday. It seems like he needs to get his head on straight.”

“Will you tell him I called?”

“Yes, but only if you promise me something.”

“Anything,” she answers in desperation.

“You can’t tell him we talked. I feel like I walked in on something he’s not ready to talk about. I think this is a conversation we need to have when he’s ready. So promise me you won’t tell him about this conversation. It’s important.”

“I promise. Thank you, Amelia. You’re so good for him.” She hangs up, and I wonder if it’s a good thing or a bad thing she thinks I’m good for him. He has been a great thing for me. His support, his friendship, his love. I feel so whole with him. But why didn’t he tell me he has brothers? Why would he think we should break up? Was that because of something his mother said to him? Something about him?

I place his phone on his nightstand, which I put back in its place and stare at Aaron. What are you hiding from me? Why are you hiding things at all?

***

In the distance, I can hear a bellowing, but in my half-awake state I can’t quite make it out. I stretch my legs and instantly feel a tweak in my back. Crap. I try to open my eyes, but they’re blurry and burning from the sun beaming through the bare windows.

My head pounds and my stomach growls at the same time as another bellowing sound pulls me from the morning fog surrounding my brain. Sitting up—my neck, shoulders, and back screaming at me—I realize the floor I was sleeping on is missing a warm body.

Aaron.

I hear no sign of him until I hear the toilet flush and water running. Getting up as quickly as my body will allow, I head toward his bathroom where I see Aaron, sans ripped shirt, his hair askew, brushing his teeth. He’s slouched over the bathroom sink, looking pale and weak.

He must have been sick. That’s what happens when you drink twelve beers and whiskey. Normally, I wouldn’t feel bad for someone who had indulged in so much alcohol, but this is different. Aaron was in pain.

The floor beneath me creaks, giving away my approach. He sees my reflection in the mirror and his eyes squeeze shut. He spits out his toothpaste, rinses his mouth, and rests his hands on the counter. His back flexes, his muscles contorting, and when I think he’s going to once again tell me to leave, he turns and reaches for me.

I allow him to pull me into his chest where he wraps his arms tightly around me, enveloping me into the warmth of his body. This is the man I know, the loving one who wants nothing more than to be holding me close to him. And I needed this. I wasn’t sure what he would remember or say come morning, so this hug is exactly what I hoped for.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice groggy. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I run my hands up and down his back, trying to comfort him.

“It isn’t, Amelia, so please don’t say it is.”

“Okay.” I nuzzle into him closer, worry still prickling the back of my neck. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.” He kisses the top of my head.

“Last night, when you said you wanted to break up with me. Did you mean it?”

His body goes stiff. When he pulls me away, there is panic in his eyes. “I fucking said that?” He searches my eyes, pleading with me to say it’s not true.

He doesn’t remember, so he was blackout drunk last night. For some reason, that makes me even more sad. What was so bad that he had to get so drunk to forget? What was so bad that he believed the only way forward was for us to break up? Why us?

Why does his mom have such a negative effect on him?

Wanting him to know the truth, I nod. “You did. You said it was inevitable.” I bite my bottom lip. “Is that true?”

“What? No.” He steps forward and grips my face with his large, shaky hands. “Fuck, that’s not inevitable. God, I hate that I said that. I love you, Amelia, more than anything. That will never change . . . ever.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Thank God. The alternative would have broken me. He places a soft kiss on my lips and pulls me into his chest where he holds me for a long time, as if he’s scared if he lets me go I’ll be gone forever.

I’m not going anywhere. He is it for me, my soul mate, the one man I can never see parting from, despite the hidden demons within. He’ll share those in good time. I just have to be patient.