Page 218 of The Way I Hate Him
“Smart choice.” He goes to my bed and sits while I shove my suitcase full of clothes. “He does this, you know,” Ryland says, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand to attention. “He lets his past take over his present to guard himself from anyone hurting him. He’s done it to Abel and me. He’s masked his pain with drugs, with alcohol, with sex . . . anything to get his mind off the abandonment he feels deep within him.”
“Looks like I was just one of those masks.” I toss my shirts in the suitcase.
“That’s the thing . . . you weren’t. You were anything but a mask. If you were a mask, he wouldn’t have waited so long to make a move on you. He would have made it right away. He cares about you deeply.”
“If that were the case, he never would have said the things he said.”
“He was pushing you away on purpose,” Ryland says.
“Well, job well done, he did it.” I turn toward Ryland and ask, “And why the hell are you defending him right now? You realize he broke me, right? Absolutely broke me.”
“I’m telling you about him, not defending him, because I don’t want you to be broken. I want you to know it’s him, not you. There’s nothing wrong with you. You did everything right, Hattie. He’s the one to blame, he’s the one who needs to work out his feelings, the demons chasing him down.”
“Then why . . .” My breath catches in my throat. “Then why does this feel so awful?” I let out a sob, and Ryland is quickly at my side, hugging me as he pulls me into his chest and wraps his arms around me.
“Because you love him, that’s why. Because you’ve suffered through a lot of loss, and this just adds to the pile of helplessness you’re feeling. But this time, we’re going to be here for you. We’re going to get you through this.”
I press my face into my brother’s chest, feeling so overwhelmed, yet so grateful for him. For Aubree. For Maggie. For the people in my life who’ve filled a void in my heart that Cassidy left. Without them, I’m not sure where I’d be.
* * *
“How didyou sleep on that couch for over two months?” I ask Ryland as I stagger into the kitchen, searching out coffee.
“I don’t have any feeling in my back anymore.” He leans against the counter, drinking a cup of coffee.
It’s been three days of staying on the couch, and at this point, I’m convincing myself I’m not heartbroken just so I can get back to my apartment. Still, every night, when Mac goes to sleep and I’m hanging out with Ryland and Aubree, I always burst into tears, rendering me another night here, on the couch, because they refuse to let me go back to the apartment still sobbing.
And I don’t want to be upset anymore. I don’t want to have these feelings bouncing through me constantly. I don’t want to see his handsome, distraught face when I close my eyes or hear his darkly intense voice while sitting silently in the dark. I don’t want to have this need to see him, to tell him that I’m someone he can trust, I’m someone who’d never hurt him. I want to be able to hold on to the last thing I told him . . . fuck you. I want to hold that pain, that anger so I don’t have this need to be near him.
Because I miss him.
It’s hard not to when he commanded my heart so quickly.
With Matt, I felt relieved.
With Hayes, I feel like the air has been stolen from my lungs.
I grab a mug from the cabinet and the creamer from the fridge, filling up the bottom portion of my mug.
“I still don’t think that’s the right way to do it,” Ryland says as the early morning light peeks through the windows. Mac is still sleeping and probably won’t be up for another half hour. Ryland gets up early to work out, shower, and make sure Mac is set for the day. Like I said, not sure how he’s doing all of this.
“This is the right way to make coffee,” I say, remembering the same conversation I had with Hayes. “No mess, no spoon.”
“Whatever you say, sis.” He sets his cup down and asks, “Want some eggs?”
“I’m good.”
“Are you?” he asks. “Because it seems like you keep skipping meals, and I think you know how I feel about that.”
“I’m eating, Ryland.”
“Yeah, what did you have for dinner?” When I can’t answer, he says, “And for lunch? What about breakfast? I think the only thing I’ve seen you eat is some Cracklin’ Oat Bran. I know you’re sad, but that doesn’t mean you get to let your body starve.”
“Let me guess, you’re making me some eggs this morning.”
“Yeah, I’m making eggs.”
Not surprised. I sit on the counter and bring my already mixed coffee to my lips as Ryland moves around the kitchen, starting breakfast.
