More Than Enough
Page 74
Why don’t you hate me, Riley?
I showed up five hours later and went straight to bed. No words spoken. No affections shared. Just like I’d planned. I never looked at her. Never acknowledged her.
Like I said, I wanted her to hate me.
Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell.
No worse than after the fourth hour of lying in our bed—the bed I spent days in, watching her, falling in love with her… she has her arms wrapped around me, her breaths warm and even as they hit my bare chest. I reach over and switch on the lamp on the nightstand, my heart breaking as I look at her sleeping peacefully. My fingers twirl in her hair—her messy hair I’d always loved. Her lashes fan across her cheeks, cheeks I’ve kissed so many times before and for a moment, just one single moment, I second guess myself, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. I run the back of my fingers across her face… so beautiful and so innocent and so damn perfect and I know, deep down, I know she doesn’t deserve anything I’m doing to her.
I don’t deserve her.
As gentle as I can, I remove her arms from around me and get out of bed. I look toward the bathroom, to the still-smashed mirror and I feel my heart shatter. Not just for her, but for me too. It’ll hurt.
Her.
Me.
Everyone around us.
I switch off the light, grab my bag and head for the door, taking one more look at the girl I’d planned on spending forever with. The light from the hall filters through the room, landing on her. Slowly, her hand moves, feeling around the bed, her eyes snapping open when she feels the emptiness. The same emptiness I feel inside me.
Then she sits up, her eyes slowly moving to me.
She covers her mouth with the back of her hand, a single sob escaping her. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
But I do. Because it’s the last thing I’ll ever say to her. She needs to know. I owe her that much. “I’m so sorry, Riley.”
I check into a hotel nearby because I’m too fucking tired to drive. The more time that passes, the more I see Dave. Yes, I know he’s fucking dead. Doesn’t stop him from making an appearance in my life.
Most of the time it’s in the mirror. I should be seeing me. I see him. Right now, I don’t know what’s worse.
Sometimes I hear his voice, the sound of his cry right before he pulled the trigger.
Sometimes—and these are the worst—he just appears out of nowhere. Today he sat in the car next to me. I had an entire conversation with a dead man, out loud. He told me about his brothers, how many birthdays he missed and how much he missed them. I told him he was a fucking pussy. That if he really felt that way he should’ve thought about how much they’d all miss him. It’s not like he’d come home and they’d be able to make up for lost time. He was dead. He was also a fucking asshole.
I blame it on lack of sleep. There’s no other explanation for it. Apart from the fact that I might possibly be certifiably insane.
“I thought you liked Riley.” “I love Riley,” I tell Dave, or the ghost of him, or my vision of him, or whatever the fuck is happening right now.
“You’ve got a pretty fucked up way of showing it.”
“What the fuck would you know?”
“Man, she would’ve been better off with me.”
I rub my eyes, trying to fight off sleep. “You’re fucking delusional, dude.”
“Says the guy who sees dead people.”
Forty-Six
Riley
I drop the pen on the notepad and read my letter to Dylan over and over again. Sighing, I tear out the page and put it in the new jar and set it on the bench. I run my fingers across his tools, my lips pressed tight to suppress my cries.
I’m sick of crying.
I’m sick of wiping away the tears.
I’m sick of hurting.
I’m sick of not finding a solution to the pain.
I’m sick of all of it.
“Ry?” Jake calls from behind me. His grin widens as he walks up the driveway and I curse myself for leaving the garage door open. “Dylan inside?”
I fake a smile and shrug.
His eyes narrow as his footsteps slow. Then he laughs nervously. “Where is he?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell him.
He drops his gaze to the boxes on the floor—the real reason I’m out here. “What’s all this?”
I smile, a real one, and for a second I forget about the hell I’m living in. “It’s a new work bench… some state of the art thing. I was hoping it would be here before he got home but they were a few days late on the delivery. Not that it matters.” I shrug. “He’s been home a month.”
Jake rears back a little. “I’m confused. Kayla said… wait. So he’s been home a month?”
I nod. “On base. But he’s—” I can’t lie. He’s not home. “Around.”
“Asshole didn’t even tell me he was back. Did he just want to spend alone time with you or something?”
I laugh. I can’t help it. And then I cry. Something else I have absolutely no control over.
He settles his hands on my shoulders as he dips his head, his eyes right on mine. “Are you okay, Ry?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You don’t seem fine.”
I wipe my eyes and take a breath. And then another. Looking for the strength that’s not-so-slowly diminishing. “I’m okay. Really.” I point to the boxes by my feet and release another lie. “It’s just overwhelming. I’m trying to grasp how I’m going to build all this and remove the other one and I don’t know…” I scratch my head and look back up at Jake. “I just want to make him happy. That’s all.”
He tilts his head, as if searching for my hidden meaning. He won’t find it. It’s the only piece of truth I’ve voiced since he’s been back. I do want to make him happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
“I can call the guys to come and help if they’re around. I know Cam’s here. He might be able to get one of Lucy’s dad’s workers and we can get it done in no time.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “That’d be good.”
Jake gets on the phone and fifteen minutes later, Cameron shows up with Lucas—Jeremy’s friend from high school and Cam’s brother-in-law.
“I brought a professional,” Cam says, tapping the back of his hand on Lucas’s chest as they walk up the driveway.
“That’s good,” Jake says to me, “I’m good at lifting heavy shit, Cameron’s good at designing it, but neither of us are great with tools. That was always—”
“Dylan,” I cut in, and Jake and Cam instinctively bow their heads.
“’Sup, Hudson,” Lucas says, nodding in greeting.
“So you know what you’re doing?” I ask, shuffling on my feet.
He nods again. “Yep. I’m working construction full time for the old man now.”
“And me!” Cam says, pointing to himself. “I’m his boss.”
“Fuck off.”
I showed up five hours later and went straight to bed. No words spoken. No affections shared. Just like I’d planned. I never looked at her. Never acknowledged her.
Like I said, I wanted her to hate me.
Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell.
No worse than after the fourth hour of lying in our bed—the bed I spent days in, watching her, falling in love with her… she has her arms wrapped around me, her breaths warm and even as they hit my bare chest. I reach over and switch on the lamp on the nightstand, my heart breaking as I look at her sleeping peacefully. My fingers twirl in her hair—her messy hair I’d always loved. Her lashes fan across her cheeks, cheeks I’ve kissed so many times before and for a moment, just one single moment, I second guess myself, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. I run the back of my fingers across her face… so beautiful and so innocent and so damn perfect and I know, deep down, I know she doesn’t deserve anything I’m doing to her.
I don’t deserve her.
As gentle as I can, I remove her arms from around me and get out of bed. I look toward the bathroom, to the still-smashed mirror and I feel my heart shatter. Not just for her, but for me too. It’ll hurt.
Her.
Me.
Everyone around us.
I switch off the light, grab my bag and head for the door, taking one more look at the girl I’d planned on spending forever with. The light from the hall filters through the room, landing on her. Slowly, her hand moves, feeling around the bed, her eyes snapping open when she feels the emptiness. The same emptiness I feel inside me.
Then she sits up, her eyes slowly moving to me.
She covers her mouth with the back of her hand, a single sob escaping her. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
But I do. Because it’s the last thing I’ll ever say to her. She needs to know. I owe her that much. “I’m so sorry, Riley.”
I check into a hotel nearby because I’m too fucking tired to drive. The more time that passes, the more I see Dave. Yes, I know he’s fucking dead. Doesn’t stop him from making an appearance in my life.
Most of the time it’s in the mirror. I should be seeing me. I see him. Right now, I don’t know what’s worse.
Sometimes I hear his voice, the sound of his cry right before he pulled the trigger.
Sometimes—and these are the worst—he just appears out of nowhere. Today he sat in the car next to me. I had an entire conversation with a dead man, out loud. He told me about his brothers, how many birthdays he missed and how much he missed them. I told him he was a fucking pussy. That if he really felt that way he should’ve thought about how much they’d all miss him. It’s not like he’d come home and they’d be able to make up for lost time. He was dead. He was also a fucking asshole.
I blame it on lack of sleep. There’s no other explanation for it. Apart from the fact that I might possibly be certifiably insane.
“I thought you liked Riley.” “I love Riley,” I tell Dave, or the ghost of him, or my vision of him, or whatever the fuck is happening right now.
“You’ve got a pretty fucked up way of showing it.”
“What the fuck would you know?”
“Man, she would’ve been better off with me.”
I rub my eyes, trying to fight off sleep. “You’re fucking delusional, dude.”
“Says the guy who sees dead people.”
Forty-Six
Riley
I drop the pen on the notepad and read my letter to Dylan over and over again. Sighing, I tear out the page and put it in the new jar and set it on the bench. I run my fingers across his tools, my lips pressed tight to suppress my cries.
I’m sick of crying.
I’m sick of wiping away the tears.
I’m sick of hurting.
I’m sick of not finding a solution to the pain.
I’m sick of all of it.
“Ry?” Jake calls from behind me. His grin widens as he walks up the driveway and I curse myself for leaving the garage door open. “Dylan inside?”
I fake a smile and shrug.
His eyes narrow as his footsteps slow. Then he laughs nervously. “Where is he?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell him.
He drops his gaze to the boxes on the floor—the real reason I’m out here. “What’s all this?”
I smile, a real one, and for a second I forget about the hell I’m living in. “It’s a new work bench… some state of the art thing. I was hoping it would be here before he got home but they were a few days late on the delivery. Not that it matters.” I shrug. “He’s been home a month.”
Jake rears back a little. “I’m confused. Kayla said… wait. So he’s been home a month?”
I nod. “On base. But he’s—” I can’t lie. He’s not home. “Around.”
“Asshole didn’t even tell me he was back. Did he just want to spend alone time with you or something?”
I laugh. I can’t help it. And then I cry. Something else I have absolutely no control over.
He settles his hands on my shoulders as he dips his head, his eyes right on mine. “Are you okay, Ry?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You don’t seem fine.”
I wipe my eyes and take a breath. And then another. Looking for the strength that’s not-so-slowly diminishing. “I’m okay. Really.” I point to the boxes by my feet and release another lie. “It’s just overwhelming. I’m trying to grasp how I’m going to build all this and remove the other one and I don’t know…” I scratch my head and look back up at Jake. “I just want to make him happy. That’s all.”
He tilts his head, as if searching for my hidden meaning. He won’t find it. It’s the only piece of truth I’ve voiced since he’s been back. I do want to make him happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
“I can call the guys to come and help if they’re around. I know Cam’s here. He might be able to get one of Lucy’s dad’s workers and we can get it done in no time.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “That’d be good.”
Jake gets on the phone and fifteen minutes later, Cameron shows up with Lucas—Jeremy’s friend from high school and Cam’s brother-in-law.
“I brought a professional,” Cam says, tapping the back of his hand on Lucas’s chest as they walk up the driveway.
“That’s good,” Jake says to me, “I’m good at lifting heavy shit, Cameron’s good at designing it, but neither of us are great with tools. That was always—”
“Dylan,” I cut in, and Jake and Cam instinctively bow their heads.
“’Sup, Hudson,” Lucas says, nodding in greeting.
“So you know what you’re doing?” I ask, shuffling on my feet.
He nods again. “Yep. I’m working construction full time for the old man now.”
“And me!” Cam says, pointing to himself. “I’m his boss.”
“Fuck off.”
