In Pieces, page 8
But I guess I’m not quite as good at it as he was, because as I go through my Monday classes, I get four more, and by the time I’m leaving my shift at the student health and guidance center, I’m texting him back, agreeing to meet him for coffee like a damned fool. I even blow off the call from my mom—something I never do—telling her I have to study, fearful she’d hear the uncertainty in my voice, sure she’d more than disapprove if she knew what I was up to.
And I wouldn’t blame her. I disapprove.
I can’t help but think of the last time Brian and I actually spoke.
If you’d have told me then that it would be the last time, I wouldn’t have believed you. Not then. Not after he’d spent nearly a year slowly and methodically stamping out my many insecurities and doubts, even as I sensed that my anxiety had begun to burden our relationship—had begun to burden him. But that night…that night had been special.
Brian had taken me out to dinner at our favorite restaurant before he planned to go to yet another party at his friend Cooper’s. I didn’t want to go, feeling more and more that Brian was starting to get annoyed when I’d inevitably wind up in a corner somewhere, reading on my phone or otherwise avoiding the crowd. So, when his halfhearted invitation came, sandwiched between comments about needing to “put in time with the boys,” I took the hint. He was leaving for Dartmouth in just a few months, after all, and while I knew I’d be missing him more than I could even imagine, he had all kinds of people he’d be missing—his family, his friends—and it didn’t occur to me that I should have been his first priority. That night more than ever.
His parents had been away, and we decided to go back to his house to fool around, which went pretty much as usual, at first. But much like Brian’s patience with my flaws and quirks had been waning, his patience with the progression of our physical relationship was, too, and as much as he tried to hide it, his frustration had more than begun to show.
And I didn’t even blame him for it. He was almost eighteen, and we’d been together long enough by most high school relationship standards, but a part of me was still holding out for something I didn’t understand. And I still don’t, even now. Brian loved me—he said he loved me. I loved him. Or I thought I did.
But, that night—that night, his talk of Dartmouth and leaving…it got to me. It ignited old fears and insecurities. Brian kept telling me how much he loved me, and how badly he wanted to prove that to me—physically. “The only thing I know right now, Bethy, is that nobody will ever love anyone as much as I do, right now, in this moment.” And what’s a puppy love-struck fifteen-year-old girl to do?
Like I said, I thought I loved him. I did love him. I…don’t know anymore.
Brian took my virginity in his childhood bedroom, between his dinner date with me and his appearance at Cooper’s party. It had been painful but it was over fairly quickly, and I’d been scared but Brian said all the right things.
He’d promised to meet me in our gazebo after the party—the one in my family’s backyard where Brian and I used to meet in secret the summer before, with blankets and wine coolers for slightly more innocent sleepovers, back before Sammy had become more tolerant of our relationship. But it turned out Sammy had been right about Brian all along. I never should have trusted him.
I fell asleep that night still waiting for Brian, hours after he said he’d come. I awoke in that gazebo early the next morning, wrapped in the blankets from his truck, but I was utterly alone. In Brian’s place was a note—one that appeared to have been hastily written on a piece of paper presumably torn from the notebook he kept in his backseat—both swearing his love for me, and breaking up with me.
He was doing it for me, his note said. It wouldn’t have been fair to trap me in a long-distance relationship, to hold me back from living my life, and he loved me enough to let me go, and make a clean break before it’s too late.
But it was already too late for me.
I was in denial at first, sure it had to be some incomprehensible, exceptionally un-funny joke, or something. But Brian didn’t take my calls, or return my texts, and I started to unravel.
Then he changed his relationship status on Facebook, and I could actually feel my heart shatter into pieces, the wreckage sinking into my stomach and making me sick.
It was all a misunderstanding—it had to be. I didn’t feel held back by our relationship, or want him to let me go, and I was pitifully certain that if Brian would just give me the chance to explain, that I could sort everything out between us.
It was when I saw him at school on Monday—when he looked right through me as if I were a ghost, refusing to even acknowledge that I still existed—that I finally understood. There was nothing to sort out. Brian was done with me. He’d finally slept with me, and now he was moving on to the next conquest. That’s when the rest of me shattered, too.
Brian was out of school for over a week after that, rumors and the sight of Sammy’s, David’s, and Tucker’s knuckles making sure I knew that Brian had been punished—whether for fucking me, or breaking my heart, or dating me in the first place, I never really knew.
But he never spoke to me again.
Even when I continued to call and text, even when I begged him for just a single minute of his time.
Even when I told him it was life or death.
But Brian couldn’t be bothered with me then, so what could he possibly have to say to me now that three years have passed?
I sigh out loud. I guess I’m about to find out.
My phone is close to dying, so I power it off, saving the last of the battery for my walk home. I make my way to Jazzy Java, the coffee shop just off campus where I’ve agreed to meet Brian, fully aware that David prefers the more straightforward Coffee House. The last thing I need is another confrontation between him and Brian. I agreed to meet him, after all—his excessive persistence notwithstanding. Even if it’s only to tell him to leave me alone.
I walk briskly, gathering courage, squaring my shoulders and straightening my spine to feign what I can’t muster. I enter the shop with an artful portrayal of confidence, surprised and pleased to realize the majority of it is earnest.
My heart—though still not fully healed and permanently scarred—continues to beat, despite Brian so expertly coaxing me to hand it over, only to toss it in a Dumpster. But my heart is my own again. It hasn’t belonged to him in quite some time, and whether that’s because he threw it away like he never wanted it in the first place, or because I finally gathered the strength to pick it up off the floor, the fact remains—I’m over Brian.
I push through the crowded entryway, unconsciously reaching into my bag for my phone, absently scrolling or checking for messages—a tool I often use to distract myself—not expecting to see Brian yet, as he’s never been punctual for anything in his life.
But I’m wrong, because he’s there, perched anxiously on a royal purple, tufted velvet sofa in the corner, with two large cups of coffee. He looks handsome—he always has—and his obvious anxiety does nothing to mitigate his all-American good looks. His hair is still buzzed short on the sides, but kept longer on top, and his blond streaks are lighter at the ends. He runs his fingers nervously through it. My confidence drains with the color in my cheeks, and my stomach rolls with anxiety.
This was a mistake.
I’ve spent the past three plus years growing and healing, and I thought I was strong enough for this. But it only takes one moment for me to realize I’m just the same naïve little girl I always was. Vulnerable. And I need to get out of here. I’m just about to turn and flee when his eyes land on me.
Shit.
Brian’s hand shoots up, but he thinks twice and retracts it halfway, waving uncertainly, his face contorted with a grimace of a smile. He’s beyond anxious—he’s completely frazzled. And surprisingly, it eases my own nerves marginally.
I take a hesitant step toward him, and then another, until I’m approaching the purple couch in the back of the shop. Brian stands to greet me and when he leans in to kiss my cheek, I let him. His lips feel as unsure as the rest of him.
“Bethy.”
I gulp. I wish he wouldn’t call me that. “H-hi,” I stammer.
His eyes skate over the two coffees, the couch, and he gestures jerkily. “Do you want to sit?”
What I want is to run away and hide until he graduates in May. But I sit instead, because I am not a coward—not anymore. Brian hands me the coffee he obviously ordered for me. There’s milk and artificial sweetener on the table.
“Didn’t remember how you take it,” he murmurs.
“Um, milk and sugar.” As Brian gets up to replace the sweeteners with real, diabetes-inducing, pure cane white sugar, I think idly to myself that David always remembers exactly how I take my coffee.
Brian lets a few minutes pass while I fix my coffee and take a few sips. He quietly sips his own, watching me cautiously as if I might run at any moment. And I might.
“You look really pretty, Bethy,” he murmurs.
I look down at my faded boyfriend jeans and loose white T-shirt, a navy blue scarf covering any cleavage that might have shown.
“Thanks,” I say back. “Look—”
“Look—” he says at the exact same time.
We both laugh nervously, and each gesture for the other to go first. “You asked to meet me,” I remind him.
Brian nods. He’s about to begin again, but I cut him off.
“But look, Bri. Brian. I’m not interested in rehashing the past. You’re here now, for better or worse, and I get that we’re going to run into each other. I’m sorry I didn’t respond to you when you showed up at the bar. And the party. I was just kind of in shock, you know? I didn’t know you were here, and then I—I just wasn’t expecting to see you, I guess. But the past is the past, and I don’t have hard feelings, okay?”
Brian stares at me. I guess he’s not used to so many words falling from my mouth so quickly. But he doesn’t know me anymore.
“Well that makes things kinda difficult for me, to be honest.”
I frown at him.
His eyes widen. “No. I didn’t mean…Not that you don’t have hard feelings; that’s a big relief, actually. But I did kinda want to talk about the past.”
I swallow audibly. “I don’t see what good that’ll do,” I admit. “It’s over.”
“But what if it isn’t?”
What?
Brian sighs. “Okay, I don’t want to upset you. That’s not why I’m here. I just want to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m really so fucking sorry, Bethy.” His voice cracks.
“I forgave you a long time ago, Bri.”
Brian nods, but I know him well enough to know he’s not satisfied. “Well, that’s good,” he mutters, nodding vaguely to himself. He stares at me, indecisive, as if he doesn’t know what to say—whether or not to say something.
And I hope he doesn’t. Whatever it is, it can do no good. The only good that can come from this conversation is for us to shake hands and go our separate ways.
But Brian won’t give me that, I can see it even before he rubs his palm over his face and huffs out a frustrated exhale. “Fuck, no, it’s not good, Bethy. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I never deserved you at all. But I need you to know I’m sorry. I’ve spent three years being sorry. And I’ll spend the rest of my life being it, too. I never should have ended us. I was just scared, and I was going away to school, and I thought I wanted different things. You know, freedom. New experiences. But I was young, and stupid, and listening to the wrong people, and it’s the biggest regret of my life.”
My heart races, and I subtly pinch the sensitive skin on the inside of my elbow to make sure I’m not dreaming.
Ow.
Nope, definitely wide awake.
It’s just that I’d imagined this scene so many times—a contrite, sorrowful Brian, full of apologies and regret. But now that it’s sitting before me, I realize it’s just far too little, three years too late. My love for him, if it was ever real in the first place, burned itself out long ago.
“But you didn’t just break up with me, Brian. You took everything from me, and then you ghosted me. You killed me.” I don’t let myself dwell on how literal that metaphor can be taken. Part of me wants to scream and shout, to tell him everything, to make him understand just how much I’d needed him—how alone I’d been, how scared…but it won’t change the past. And there’s no point in blaming him for what he couldn’t know, for what he’ll never know. He made his choices, and I made mine.
Brian’s eyes shine with actual tears. I’ve never seen them before, and they strike me silent. He nods. “I know. I had to.”
“You had to?” Don’t get emotional, I remind myself. He doesn’t deserve any more of my tears.
“I loved you, Bethy. But I thought I was doing what was right for us. Or what was right for me, anyway. It was stupid, and selfish, but I knew that if I saw you, spoke to you, I would beg you to take me back, and I was convinced that wasn’t the right thing.” He seems like he wants to say more, but stops himself.
I look down at my lap, picking at my cuticles. “Like I said, I forgive you.” But my voice is no longer sure.
“I just want to start over,” Brian pleads.
“Start over? Are you serious?”
Brian blanches. “Or not start over. But start again, maybe? Or just—I don’t know. I just want another chance, Bethy.”
“No.” The word is firm and resolute, and Brian blinks in surprise. But I don’t care, because is he fucking kidding me? “There’s no such thing as starting over, Brian. Our histories—they make us who we are. And I’m not the same naïve little girl who fell in love with an older boy who broke her heart. You left me. That was your choice. And I’m sorry if you wish you could take it back. I really am. I know what it feels like to wonder what I could have done differently to change things. To blame myself for our breakup. But you know what the difference is, Brian?” I wait a beat. “You are to blame. I never was.”
I stand up. If I’d known this was what he was planning, I honestly wouldn’t have come.
Brian stands, too, eyes frantic, hands reaching. “No. Please don’t go. I’m sorry. Please just stay and finish your coffee.”
I swallow my frustration and sit back down, wrapping both hands around my mug. I should leave. I know. But I’m not good about doing what’s best for myself when other people are hurting, even people who have hurt me, apparently. “I don’t want to talk about starting over or second chances. There’s no such thing,” I tell him. “I just wanted to tell you that I forgive you, and I want to move forward. That’s all I can offer you.”
Brian nods, but he’s just placating me. “Okay, Bethy.”
“Beth,” I correct him.
He glares at me a moment, wounded, and it twists my chest even though I know it shouldn’t. “Beth,” he finally agrees. “No starting over. I got it. Moving forward.” He nods to himself. “But I can’t pretend you’re not here. I think about you every minute.”
“Brian—”
“Right. I’m sorry. What I meant was—” He sighs in frustration. “I meant, you’re here. I’m here. We’re having coffee, and the world didn’t end, right?”
I narrow my eyes at him, wondering where he’s going with this.
He licks his lips, calculating. “I mean, we can do this again, right? Just get coffee. Be friends?”
“Brian—”
“Just hear me out, Bethy—Beth. We were never friends, right? I fell for you the moment I saw you, and we…well, you were there.” He laughs nervously.
“I was there,” I agree timidly. I don’t want to think of that perfect summer. Before the rest of the world got in the way, as I’d always feared it would.
“Can’t we just try to be friends?” His eyes beg and implore, and I succumb to the inevitable masochism.
“I guess we can try,” I concede.
Brian breathes deeply, fighting a triumphant grin, and it’s a little contagious. I’ve never had someone so excited about my friendship.
“But just friends, Brian. I’m not looking to date. Not you, or anyone. I need to focus on school and just, you know, having a good time.”
“Right. I get it.”
I’m not sure he does, but I suppose I have no choice but to give him the benefit of the doubt.
* * *
It’s dark when I get back to campus, but students are out and about, chatting and smoking in clusters around the student union. It isn’t unusual for early evening, but the excitable atmosphere is. People talk closely, gesturing wildly, whispering with wide eyes. Anxiety flows from student to student, and it’s palpable.
What the hell is going on?
I reach into my bag and power on my phone.
It buzzes and buzzes, indicating missed calls and texts—way more than I would have expected. I turn onto Washington, toward the Standman quad, about to read one of the several missed texts from David and Lani when I bump into a slim body.
Torrence, a girl from my Shakespeare class, starts apologizing at the same time as I do.
“I wasn’t watching where I was going,” I admit.
She’s talking with a girl I don’t know, and she introduces her as her roommate, Asia.
“Nice to meet you,” I murmur, but it’s obvious I’ve interrupted some serious conversation. I’m about to get on my way when Torrence raises her eyebrows expectantly.
“Did you hear?” she asks cryptically.
I blink at her. “Hear what?”
The two girls exchange a glance. My stomach drops. Something is up.
“There was an assault this weekend. On campus!” To their credit, they don’t seem to be gossiping; they appear sincerely horrified, and I mirror their sentiment.
“W-what kind of assault?” Though already I suspect.
“A girl from SDG was almost raped,” Asia says with appropriate somberness.
My throat tightens. “Do you know who?”
“Liz Poletti.”
