Washed Up (Bayside Heroes)

I swallow, shaking my head over and over. “No. No, you don’t mean that. I’m sorry he found out that way, Amanda, but this doesn—”

“We never should have even entertained this!” she screams, her eyes still pouring tears as she brings them to meet mine. “Don’t you see what we’ve done? We betrayed his trust. We hurt him.”

I try to swallow past my sandpaper tongue but can’t.

“He just needs a little space, a little time. He’ll understand. He’ll—”

“This can’t happen,” Amanda says, sniffing and storming past me into the kitchen. “We can’t happen, and you need to go.”

I catch her by the elbow, turning her to face me. “You don’t mean that.”

She won’t look at me, even when I bend to her level.

“Amanda, look at me.”

She still won’t.

“You care about me, just like I care about you. It wasn’t a mistake. We’ve been fighting it for months when we’ve both known all along that the only time we feel right, the only time we feel anything is when we’re together.”

Her face crumples at that, more tears streaming.

“We will figure this out. It will be okay,” I promise. “Just… please. Don’t push me away right now.”

I’ve never wished so desperately that I could warp time. I wish I could turn back the dial, go back to this morning, kiss her sweetly and slip out the door and avoid this whole thing. I wish we had more time. I wish we could have talked it through, made a plan, figured out how to tell him — together.

Amanda blows out a breath through her lips that seems to steady her, but then she lifts her chin. “I want you to go.”

I close my eyes, the words like another punch to the face. I’m tempted to beg again, to drop to my fucking knees and plead for her not to do this. I’m not above groveling. I’m not above laying myself bare and pleading with her to see how badly this will kill me.

But I won’t disrespect her like that.

She wants me to go.

So, I’ll go.

Releasing her elbow, I slowly trudge up the stairs. I take my time putting on my shirt and pulling on my sneakers, hoping maybe she’ll change her mind with me out of the room. But when I descend the stairs again, she seems more resolute than before.

My heart is an aching, bleeding thing as I swipe my keys off the hook by the door. I pause there, though, hand hovering over the knob, every voice inside me screaming for me to stay.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise her again. “What happens next is up to you.”

And then I leave.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

GREG

“I need you to lead this,” Beck says as we walk through the doors of Shipwrecked on Monday. He nods at where Dane is already seated at the bar. “You know him better than I do.”

“And you know Lars better, which is the only reason I let you drag me into this in the first place.”

Beck frowns. “Why are you so grumpy?”

“Long weekend,” I mutter.

He appraises me with a furrowed brow as we approach the bar. I’m sure he can tell as well as anyone else that I’m far from okay, but thankfully drops it, not pressing any further as we flank either side of Dane.

I order my usual soda and bitters solemnly, a deep sigh leaving my chest that I’m here at all. A bar is the last place I want to be, let alone pestering one of my best friends for details about his love life when mine is in shambles.

I almost wish I drank.

Maybe if I did, I could escape the crushing pain of the last few days, of the soul-draining realization that I held Amanda in my arms only for her to slip through my fingertips in the next breath.

I can still feel her there, like a phantom limb I’ll never be rid of. I smell the scent of her shampoo when I’m at the hospital, hear a laugh that sounds just like hers in my condo building, see a head of long brown hair walking down the street that nearly makes me call out her name.

All weekend long, images and sounds and smells have tortured me.

And all weekend long, Amanda has ignored my calls.

I take my first sip in apathetic synchronization with Beck, my mind far away, a mud slide of what if’s continuing its destruction in my heart.

What if I just showed up at her house?

What if she slapped me for disrespecting her wishes?

What if she invited me inside?

What if she’s thinking about me, too?

What if she wants to see me?

What if she never wants to see me?

What if this is it?

What if there’s no fixing it?

What if I have to live with this loss forever?

I must have sighed, or made some kind of noise, because I catch Dane watching me, the line between his brows thick and worried.