her.”
“I don’t hate her,” I snap.
“ I know that,” he says, leaning against the catering table. “But she doesn’t, and you speaking to her boyfriend but acting like she’s invisible isn’t helping.”
I blow out a breath, my shoulders dropping with the force of it.
“Maybe just talk to her, man.”
“No.”
“Josh.”
“What?!”
Rob shakes his head. “Don’t be an asshole, okay? You’re not the only one who went through what you guys did. In fact, she had it worse. Have you even stopped to think how brave it is for her to be here right now? She’s come back to a place that’s caused her pain and grief and enough suffering to last a lifetime. Maybe try not making it about you this time and—”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He raises his hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” He sighs. “I like Becca. She’s a good girl. And she was good to you and she loved Tommy—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, my tone flat.
“Just talk to her. She’s out in the driveway.”
* * *
Two years ago, I’d stood in this exact same spot beside her, watching her do the exact same thing… holding a camera to her eye, one hand gripping the body, the other twisting the lens. I remember looking at her profile, her dark skin and high cheekbones beneath eyes I wanted nothing more than to get lost in. I’d asked her why she was taking photographs of a dying flower. She’d turned to me, my breath catching when her eyes caught mine. And I’ll never forget what she said: “ Some things will always be beautiful, even in the face of death .”
I’d wanted to ask her what she meant. I didn’t. Maybe I should have. Maybe that simple question could’ve saved us.
Now, she’s holding a different camera.
But she’s still the same Becca.
And I’m still so miserably in love with her.
She snaps away a few more times before lowering the camera and turning to me, her free hand pointing to herself, and then to the yard. She begins putting the camera back in its bag, and without meaning to I reach out and stop her, my hand covering hers. “I’m sorry,” I rush out. “I’ve been acting like an asshole—”
Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out, and I feel the stabbing pain of the knife in my heart, over and over, because I caused that. Regardless of how many times people have told me that it wasn’t my fault, that a lifetime’s worth of torture and turmoil led to her actions, they’re wrong. And I know that, because with every single click of a shutter I hear, every piece of elation I feel when I land a trick, every time my name’s shouted from the stands, I think of her. And I know that it’s because of her I get to have all that. And I wonder if every time she opens her mouth and silence falls from her lips, every time she types on her laptop to communicate, every time she shows a message on her phone because her voice no longer works—she thinks of me. Because I’m the one who made her that.
“It’s hard for me to have you both here,” I continue, my voice cracking. “But that’s on me, not you. I’m sorry I keep hurting you, Becs. It’s the last thing I want.”
She looks up, a perfect frown on her beautiful mouth, and I force myself to not reach out and run my thumb across her lips. After putting the camera away, she grabs her phone from the back pocket of her denim shorts and starts to type, moving closer so I can read it. Friends?
No single word in the history of unrequited love has ever caused more pain than the word friends . Not that I’d know. I had Nat, and then I had her. I smile. I nod. “Sure.”
Her grin is instant, and for some pathetic reason it causes more pain than that single word. But I remember Robby’s speech and remind myself that it isn’t about me, so I return her smile and throw in another nod, because it’s what I promised I’d do, but in my mind, I’m already picking out the boards I plan to
“I don’t hate her,” I snap.
“ I know that,” he says, leaning against the catering table. “But she doesn’t, and you speaking to her boyfriend but acting like she’s invisible isn’t helping.”
I blow out a breath, my shoulders dropping with the force of it.
“Maybe just talk to her, man.”
“No.”
“Josh.”
“What?!”
Rob shakes his head. “Don’t be an asshole, okay? You’re not the only one who went through what you guys did. In fact, she had it worse. Have you even stopped to think how brave it is for her to be here right now? She’s come back to a place that’s caused her pain and grief and enough suffering to last a lifetime. Maybe try not making it about you this time and—”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He raises his hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” He sighs. “I like Becca. She’s a good girl. And she was good to you and she loved Tommy—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, my tone flat.
“Just talk to her. She’s out in the driveway.”
* * *
Two years ago, I’d stood in this exact same spot beside her, watching her do the exact same thing… holding a camera to her eye, one hand gripping the body, the other twisting the lens. I remember looking at her profile, her dark skin and high cheekbones beneath eyes I wanted nothing more than to get lost in. I’d asked her why she was taking photographs of a dying flower. She’d turned to me, my breath catching when her eyes caught mine. And I’ll never forget what she said: “ Some things will always be beautiful, even in the face of death .”
I’d wanted to ask her what she meant. I didn’t. Maybe I should have. Maybe that simple question could’ve saved us.
Now, she’s holding a different camera.
But she’s still the same Becca.
And I’m still so miserably in love with her.
She snaps away a few more times before lowering the camera and turning to me, her free hand pointing to herself, and then to the yard. She begins putting the camera back in its bag, and without meaning to I reach out and stop her, my hand covering hers. “I’m sorry,” I rush out. “I’ve been acting like an asshole—”
Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out, and I feel the stabbing pain of the knife in my heart, over and over, because I caused that. Regardless of how many times people have told me that it wasn’t my fault, that a lifetime’s worth of torture and turmoil led to her actions, they’re wrong. And I know that, because with every single click of a shutter I hear, every piece of elation I feel when I land a trick, every time my name’s shouted from the stands, I think of her. And I know that it’s because of her I get to have all that. And I wonder if every time she opens her mouth and silence falls from her lips, every time she types on her laptop to communicate, every time she shows a message on her phone because her voice no longer works—she thinks of me. Because I’m the one who made her that.
“It’s hard for me to have you both here,” I continue, my voice cracking. “But that’s on me, not you. I’m sorry I keep hurting you, Becs. It’s the last thing I want.”
She looks up, a perfect frown on her beautiful mouth, and I force myself to not reach out and run my thumb across her lips. After putting the camera away, she grabs her phone from the back pocket of her denim shorts and starts to type, moving closer so I can read it. Friends?
No single word in the history of unrequited love has ever caused more pain than the word friends . Not that I’d know. I had Nat, and then I had her. I smile. I nod. “Sure.”
Her grin is instant, and for some pathetic reason it causes more pain than that single word. But I remember Robby’s speech and remind myself that it isn’t about me, so I return her smile and throw in another nod, because it’s what I promised I’d do, but in my mind, I’m already picking out the boards I plan to
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