Page 92 of If You Were Mine (After We Fall 3)
I felt like I was on an elevator whose cables were about to snap—heading for the inevitable crash that would happen when she discovered the truth. I had to get the fuck off.
What had I been thinking to let myself love her? To let myself need her? Why had I thought for even one second that I was capable of this—of surviving the loss of her?
Because I knew in my bones that no matter what you did or said or tried, love wasn’t enough to make anyone stay.
The realization that one day this would all be over and she’d be gone sliced right through my heart. It stopped beating. My throat closed up. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe.
Pulling over to the side of the road, I put the car in park and tried to get control of myself as I gasped for air. You are not a child. You are a man. You can fight this. You still have control. You can get out of danger. You can leave first.
By the time my breathing returned to normal, and I could feel my heart beating again in my chest, I’d made up my mind.
It had been a mistake to let her break down my walls. It would hurt her, but in the long run, I’d be doing her a favor. The sooner she realized love was a losing game, the better. Or maybe loving me was the losing game, and she’d have a better chance at happiness with someone else. Someone who believed in her fairy tale life with the porch swing and the bikes and the lemonade stand. Someone who could give it to her. Share it with her. Someone who could love her without disappointing her.
But it wasn’t me.
It had never been me.
* * *
I couldn’t fall asleep that night. Instead I lay awake trying to think of how to leave her. She was going to be furious no matter how I did it. She’d call me names. She’d say I’d lied to her. She’d accuse me of breaking all my promises.
I could take it. Hell, I deserved it.
What I knew I couldn’t take were her tears. Her pleas to stay. Her vulnerable sweetness. If she fell apart, it would kill me. So why force myself to watch it? Why make this any harder than it had to be? But I couldn’t just leave without saying anything. I owed her a reason, at least.
A text was too insulting, even for me. But a letter could work. I’d write her a letter and leave it at her house—I had a key. If I got it done tonight, I could take it there tomorrow after she left for school. She’d find it in the afternoon when she got home.
I got out of bed and went into the kitchen, where I grabbed a pen and a notebook. Sitting down at the counter, I stared at the blank page in front of me. This will crush her. She doesn’t deserve it. It’s all your fault.
“Fuck off,” I growled at myself. Then I put the pen to paper.
Dear Claire,
I’m sorry. I thought I could do this, but I can’t be what you want. You are better off without me.
Theo
My stomach churned. Burying my face in my hands, I sat there in agony for a few more seconds, unable to even look at the letter in front of me. For the first time in years, I wanted a drink. Wanted to numb myself to the pain of facing my true self.
Fuck-up. Liar. Coward.
I was. I was all those things and worse.
But at least no one would have the power to hurt me again.
I ripped the page from the notebook, folded it
into thirds and dug an envelope from a drawer. When the letter was safely sealed inside, I left it by my keys on the counter and went back to bed.
I tried not to think about her. I turned on the television. Opened a book. Buried my head beneath the pillows as if they could keep a thought from getting in. But nothing worked. I was awake all night long, imagining her face when she read that letter. It made me sick.
At least I wouldn’t have to see it.
Thirty-Five
Claire
* * *
