Page 152 of Demo
I choke out a sob as I pull in a strangled breath.
We stare at each other for a moment, a lifetime passing between us, and then she drags her eyes to the side and spots the pen I left on the table. Slowly, she reaches over and takes it, then taps the back of it on the table to push the inked tip out. I spread my hand back over the contract, as if I’m going to push it away, then I pull my hand back.
Lizzie’s fingers are shaking as she fidgets with the pen in both her hands. She bites her bottom lip and looks up at me. Her lips, also shaking, part as she pulls in a shallow breath. “Who are we if we’re not Knox and Lizzie?” she asks before breaking into sobs.
That does it. My chest cracks right in half. Right down the center. And I nearly fold in on myself. Seeing Lizzie do the same, I reach over and grab the back of her neck with one hand and cup her cheek with the other, as we sit, knee-to-knee, forehead-to-forehead, and cry.
“We will always be Knox and Lizzie, you hear me, baby? Because a hole will open up in the universe and swallow the entire goddamn world up if that’s ever not the case. We just …” I pull my hand away and use my shirt sleeve to pinch snot off the end of my nose, then bring my hand back to her face, “… we just have to find a way to be happy again. Because we can’t live like this.”
She’s nodding her head against mine, through her tears, and I tip her head up just enough that my lips dance across hers as I speak. “I never loved before you. I will never love after you. I will love you until the day I die.” Then I kiss her.
I kiss her through her sobs, like I’m trying to siphon them from her. I take her face in both my hands and try to memorize the way it feels. The weight of her skull in my palms, the tickle of her hair on my fingers, the angle of her lips on mine.
Then I pull away and stand, grab the pen out of her hands, sign the top paper, flip it up and sign the one underneath, and then flip that one and sign the last page. Then I drop the pen and lean down and kiss her on the top of the head. “Goodbye, Lizzie.”
I turn and walk away, the sound of my boots on the hardwood hardly standing up to the sound of her shrieking. I burst through the door and bound toward the truck, turning toward the house as I open the truck door to see my dad passing by a window as he goes to her.
I told him what was going to happen and asked him to be there for her when I left.
I jump in the truck, slam the door and start the engine, needing to get out of there as fast as I can. I back out of the driveway and onto the road, then drive. I drive for a mile or so until I can no longer see past my tears, so I pull over. I turn off the truck and cross my arms over the steering wheel and slump my head against it as I cry.
I cry sad tears. I cry angry tears. I cry tears for emotions I can’t even name and didn’t even know I had. Then I pull my head back and slam my fists into the steering wheel and the dashboard. My knuckles ache, but it’s not enough to soothe the pain in my chest.
I lean my head back and scream, then I slump back against the steering wheel. I can’t catch my breath. My lungs don’t work. My chest, it hurts so bad. I’m not going to survive this. How do people survive a broken heart?
Unthinking, I turn the engine on and start driving again. A while later, I’m turning down familiar suburban streets, practically blowing through stop signs as the sun sets. As I get to the property, I haphazardly part the truck half on the grass, half on the road and jump out. I storm up to the framed structure and I fucking hate it. I hate everything it could have been. Everything it was supposed to be. Everything it will never be.
And I can’t stand the thought of anyone else having it.
Climbing up the temporary back steps I jog inside and run my hand along the two-by-fours we nailed in place just last week to frame the kitchen. I spin around and look out the hole where a small window would go, over a farmhouse sink. The whole house looks like a life-size model made out of popsicle sticks—just rows of two-by-fours with gaps big enough to walk through.
I weave in and out of the boards as the pain inside me continues to grow and my anger bubbles over. Lashing out, I rear back and kick at a board framing the half-wall between the would-be kitchen and dining area. It doesn’t budge, so I kick it again, and again, and it finally gives. I give it a few more until the top dis-lodges, then I grab it with both hands and tug it side to side, my hand getting cut on a nail.
I finally fall back with the board in my hands. I stand straight, drag the short piece over my head and bring it down on the rest of the half-wall. I do this a second, then third time but the board breaks in my hands, sending split wood into my flesh and I throw it to the side like a baseball bat after hitting a home run.
“Fuck this,” I spit out as I turn and head toward the back yard.
We still have tools back there from when we had to excavate to lay the foundation. I spin around, spotting the chop saw, the tool bench … then I find what I’m looking for. I grab the handle of the sledgehammer and sling it over my shoulder.
I vaguely register headlights getting larger as a vehicle pulls up to mine, but I don’t wait to see who it is. I hop up the steps as I grip the handle with two hands and start to squeeze and twist.
I hear my name as Bram comes running toward the house. “Knox! What the hell are you doing, man?” But before he gets to the house I bring the hammer down on the half-wall, right in the center, and it buckles—boards splitting and spinning out in every direction. I take another swing, this time knocking out a door frame.
“Go home, Bram,” I say, and I’m surprised and happy at how winded I am. My heart is beating out of my chest and my blood is pumping hard, but at least it’s by choice.
“Knox, I know things are screwed up right now, but look at what you’re doing!”
I spare a glance at Bram, and the look of pity he is giving me pisses me off even more. “What am I doing, brother?” I ask as I circle the would-be living room. “I’m ruining the house? Guess what? I already fucked it up!” and I strike out at another set of vertical two-by-fours in one of the interior walls, and they dislodge. Bram hollers at me to stop, but I walk to another area of the boxed-out living room.
“It’s not over,” he says, his hands out toward me like he’s approaching a wild animal. “Dad said Lizzie hadn’t signed the papers when he called me. You guys just need some more time.”
I spit out some of the excess saliva that’s pooling in my mouth as I suck in air. “You ever been away from Em for a period of time? Cuz I’ve been away from Lizzie before, and let me tell you, it nearly killed me.”
“Knox—”
“Maybe it should,” I say as I bring the sledgehammer to rest on my shoulder again.
“Come again?” Bram says as he draws his head back, aghast. “What did you just say?”
