Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)

“Would it be so bad?” I dare to ask. The muscles of his back turn to stone. He tips his head back and chuckles without humor. It’s the saddest, most hopeless laugh I’ve ever heard.

“Yeah,” he says harshly. “It would be. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a fourteen year old boy and have to strap a baby to your chest in a carrier––a carrier I had to rig up because we couldn’t afford the store bought kind, and go to the supermarket to get formula because the woman that’s supposed to be taking care of us hadn’t been home in three days?” Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Tears glaze my eyes. “A baby that I had to bathe and change and stay up all night with because he had an upset stomach. And then go to school the next day.” As his voice grows more weary, my chest caves at the weight pressing down on it. “Do you?”

“No, I don’t,” I answer timidly. I can feel his pain and frustration in the marrow of my bones. I can’t even begin to fathom what it must’ve been like for him. Me, an only child spoiled and suffocated with love and support. What would I know about that kind of sacrifice? Nada. And I love him even more for being strong and responsible when all the adults around him weren’t. For carrying the burdens of an entire family on his shoulders––and he’s still doing it.

“I’ve raised kids already. I’ve raised kids, but I’ve never been one. This isn’t something I’ve thought about lightly.”

I’m fully crying now. He’s right. I know how much thought he’s put into this. And I’m so mad for him. So mad for the childhood he was robbed of, of the joy he never had growing up, of the feeling of safety he never experienced. It’s also robbed him of the chance to experience his own children––because he will never have them.

“I love you very much…you should know that,” I say through a blur of tears. He turns swiftly to face me, his expression one of utter shock. “I’m not saying that to coerce you. I’m saying it because I want you to know that if I felt only a small fraction of what I feel for you then maybe I could carry on. But I can’t, not with you. I love you too much to pretend that I would be happy with your terms. And leaving you later would only hurt more…I’m going back to my parents tomorrow morning. I hope we can remain friends, you mean the world to me, but I’ll understand if you can’t.”

I can feel him pulling away from me already. I can see the distance in his eyes. And I know it’s self-preservation, though it hurts all the same.

“You don’t have to leave,” he says quietly, so quietly.

“Yes, I do.” Without another word, he walks out of the room––taking my heart with him.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I’m pretty sure there are only a certain number of tears each person is allotted in a lifetime and I have hit my quota. The next day, I moved back into my parents’ house, got under the covers, and cried for three days straight. That was a week ago. I haven’t shed a tear since.

I miss him. I miss him like I miss the heart I left behind. In its place there’s a vacuum now, a frigging supernova that sucks up everything good in the world and devours it. I feel nothing other than this gnawing hunger for him. And I know it’ll be with me for far longer than the shame and guilt I felt for Matt because this time there’s no anger to direct at the agent of my misery. There are no villains in this piece. We’re both justified in what we want.

I check my phone in case I missed a text. Pathetic––I know.

Mercedes wants to know what you marinate the pork chops with.

That’s from earlier today. Texts from him started coming in the day after I left. Usually inane questions, or random information. As transparent as his intentions for sending them are, I don’t tell him to stop. I can’t bring myself to sever that last thread of hope.

Sam asked about you today. Mandy is doing great.

Ughhh, it’s horrible. Every time I think I’m turning a corner, thinking of him less, I get a text from him and it sends me straight back into the bowels of emotional hell.

I haven’t slept through the night once since I left his house and tonight is more of the same. It’s two a.m., and after tossing and turning for two hours, I’ve given up hope. Not even a new novel from one of my favorite dark romance authors can hold my attention.

My IPhone vibrates with a text and my head jerks off the pillow. My heart drums fast and hard inside my chest in anticipation of who might be texting me at this late hour. If it’s Amber, I’ll kill her for giving me false hope.