Hold Us Close (Keep Me Still) (3 page)

I
’ve only seen him like this once before. When we first started dating in high school, his mom invited me to Thanksgiving. His dad was drinking. And awful. He hit Landen in the face right in front of me.

Later we sat alone in his basement and he was just like this. Broken. Closed off. Angry. Lost.

Somehow, I was enough back then. Our feelings for each other, his need for me, broke through the pain. But I can’t reach him now.

Because now I’m the one causing his pain. And he’s causing mine. This is unfamiliar territory for us.

I stare at him for what feels like an eternity. Our hurt feelings are swirling around us, pummeling him farther into the ground, and backing me up against the wall. He props an elbow on his knee and stares vacantly at nothing.

I lick my lips and take a step closer to him. Pulling in a lungful of air and hopefully all of my courage, I open my mouth to speak.

“Don’t,” he says before my words escape. “Don’t say it will all be okay. Don’t say we’ll get through this together. If you…” He shakes his head and looks away once more. I hear the words he doesn’t say.
If you die on me, then we won’t be getting through anything together.

His voice is dead and cold and it backs me up. “Why are you doing this? Why are you pushing me away?” My questions are barely a whisper, and he’s so far gone I don’t know if they even reach him. Until he looks up at me. His normally vibrant green eyes are dark and ringed by exhaustion.

“Because I’m afraid.”

The tension holding me rigid eases up and I relax a little for the first time since yesterday. “I know. Me too. But that’s part of it, right? I think we’re supposed to be—”

“Not of that.” He shakes his head. His eyes close briefly and I take step closer. “Well, not of
just
that.”

“Of what then? Of…” I crouch down so we’re face to face. “Of something happening to me? Of being left alone with a baby to raise? Of becoming your father?” Hearing all of it out loud makes my heart hurt for him. It’s a lot for anyone to deal with. And they’re perfectly rational, valid fears for him to have.

His eyes widen as they meet mine. The hardwood disappears from beneath me and I’m lost in his desperate, pleading gaze. “Of telling you the truth.”

Confusion contorts my face and has me tilting my head. “I don’t understand.”

He rubs his hand across the back of his neck and brings it around to his face. His long fingers rest on his lips for a moment, as if he’s trying to keep the words in—the ones he obviously doesn’t want to tell me.

“Layla, I always knew I wanted to play soccer. And from the first time I saw you…” The hint of a smile plays on his lips. But I’m looking into his eyes and there’s no trace of a smile in them. “The first time I saw you, my world stopped. Things I thought mattered—soccer, how much my dad hated me, the fact that I’d never really had anywhere to call home, all of it—it just ceased to mean anything. All I could see was you, and I had to know you, had to have you.”

“You do have me,” I tell him, hoping the reassurance will help him to say whatever he needs to so that we can move forward.

He nods, and the thick knot in his throat bobs as he swallows. There’s a sudden shift in the air. I don’t know how or why, but I feel it and it sets me on edge. My pulse speeds up, sending blood rushing in my ears. Whatever he’s about to say is bad. I know it way down deep in my bones. He’s going to say something awful and change everything. Ruin everything.

“Landen, maybe we should—”

“There’s something else I know,” he begins, silencing me with the cold calm in his voice. “Something I’ve always known. About myself.”

I nod. “Okay. Whatever it is, I’m sure we can—”

“There’s one thing I never want to be, Layla. Ever.”

The icy hand of dread grips me by the back of the neck. I want to launch myself at him, stop him before he says it. But I’m frozen where I stand. “Landen—”

“A father.” He closes his eyes and lowers his head. “I never want to be a father.” It’s a confession and an apology all in one. Barely spoken above a whisper and yet it feels like he just shouted it in my face. My body caves, crushing my insides.

Seven words. Seven awful words change my entire life. In that moment, the room might as well have split down the center, cracking wide and deep between us.

It wasn’t “I’m nervous about becoming a father,” or “I’m scared of not being a good father,” or even “I didn’t ever
plan
to become a father.” His words are present tense. And final.
I never want to be a father.
They echo off the walls, slamming into me over and over. Seven sharp daggers carving into my heart.

His confession turns the chill of anticipation to the hot burn of anger. “Well, it’s kind of late for that. Maybe you should’ve mentioned that one of the, oh, I don’t know, twelve dozen times we had unprotected sex? Or just at any point in the three years we’ve been living together.” I jerk upright and turn but he’s longer, taller, and quicker than I am. He’s on his feet and reaching for me in a split second.

Grabbing me by the arm and spinning me to face him, he pulls me closer in what feels like a hug and a goodbye all at once. My vision is blurry from the tears but I can see the intense anguish on his face.

“Layla, just…let’s just talk for a second. Your aunt said…she mentioned—”

“No,” I say, giving him a forceful push and managing to free myself from his grasp. “Don’t. Don’t say it. I can imagine what she said because she’s the kind of person who sees something in the way of what she thinks is right or necessary and misses the big picture.”

I’m shaking my head, but he continues. “It’s just that, she has a point about—”

“Don’t, please God, don’t,” I choke out. My tears fall and Landen pulls at me again, trying to hug me or hold me or…I don’t even know what. I thrust my arms out in a pathetic attempt to push him away. “Don’t say it.”

“Dammit, Layla! Just think for a second. With your medical condition and my—”

“Stop!” I practically scream at him. “Listen to me, please. Just stop. Just stop talking,” I beg. Reaching up, I place my fingertips against his lips. “Don’t, Landen. Don’t say those words out loud. Because once you do, then we’re ruined. No matter what happens, you’ll never be able to un-say those awful words. Promise me you won’t say them. Promise me.”

Understanding flashes in his eyes and he nods. I remove my hand from his mouth and back up a step, nearly slamming into the computer desk. His gaze flickers to the door and I want to slap him. He always does this. Runs. Bails when anything gets too intense. We’re having a baby he doesn’t want and his idea of dealing with it is going for a run. For the first time since we met almost five years ago, I realize I hate him. Oh, I still love him. But I hate him a little bit too. I didn’t even know I was capable of hatred. The realization makes me feel sick.

I sigh and yank myself away from him.

This is a first. This time, I’m the one who walks out.

T
he sound of the drywall giving way against my fist is only slightly satisfying. The pain distracts me but only momentarily. For all the years I wished to escape my father and his hatred, I’ve spent more time than I want to admit wishing he was still around to kick my ass. Apparently I’m sick and twisted and need it.

What a great parent I’m going to make.

You are worthless.

The burning heat of my rage flares inside of me. It’s red, darkening to black, and then white-hot and blinding.

You ruin everything.

Glass shatters on the floor but I don’t even know what I’ve hit. My fist connects again with something solid but I don’t feel one iota of relief. So I hit it again and again with the soundtrack of my dad’s voice telling me exactly what he thinks, what he knows, is true.

Her chance to have the ax of doom hanging over our heads removed finally came, and I fucked it up. Life as we knew it is ruined. Destroyed.

Much like our apartment.

W
hen I come to, I’m sitting on our bathroom floor, propped against the doorframe. Surrounded by broken ceramic tiles, a cabinet door I must’ve torn from its hinges, and my own shame.

What the hell?

My left hand hurts like a son of a bitch. Glancing down, I see it’s swollen and my knuckles are caked with dried blood. My right hand isn’t much better. Looks like I clawed my way out of a wooden box.

Jesus.

Groaning, I use the sink to pull myself up. My bloodshot eyes widen in the shattered mirror.

Because it isn’t my reflection staring back at me. It’s my father’s.

Before I have time to fully freak the fuck out, I hear the front door open. And there’s a gasp. I turn in the doorway as quickly as I can manage, hoping I can somehow shield her from the destruction.

But I don’t make it.

When I step over the pieces of busted lamp in the middle of the living room floor, she gapes at me. The horror and hurt shine from her face so brightly I can’t look directly at her.

“Baby, I’m…” What am I? There’s nothing I can say to make this any better. I watch her take in the evidence of my rage, watch her run her hand gently over the splintered glass covering the picture her friend Corin took of us when she and Skylar visited last summer.

“You’re broken,” she whispers, eying a vase of seashell pieces she adds to every time we go to the ocean. Miraculously, it’s still intact.

Am I?
Pain shoots up my arms as I attempt to clench my fists. Yes, yes I am.

My soul tears in two as I watch her grieve for every piece of damaged furniture. I’m two men now. One of them loves her so much he wants to drop to his knees, beg for forgiveness, and make a million promises—whatever it takes to keep her here. To keep her from saying to hell with this. With me.

The other one sees past the most recent destruction as the older evidence of my temper comes into view. Small cracks and dents I’ve made over the years. I don’t deserve her forgiveness. I’m never going to change.

She needs to see.

She needs to understand.

I can’t do this.

E
veryone can leave.
I learned at a young age that nothing is forever. No matter how pretty and shiny your life is, it can all change in an instant.

If you ignore the small incidents, turn a blind eye to the tiny fissures spreading through the foundation, the smallest thing, the lightest touch, can send your entire world crashing down around you.

Standing in my living room, the one I worked so hard to make feel like home, I grieve for the splintered shards of what was once my life.

Glancing up, I see Landen, his eyes warring with darkness and light, love and hatred, anger and kindness. Sometimes it’s like he’s two different people, and I can’t help but wonder which version of him will finally win the battle for his soul.

“I’ll get a garbage bag,” I say softly, because someone has to say something.

“Wait.”

His voice is scratchy, almost like he’s been crying. Well that makes two of us. I turn on a sigh.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for this, Layla. For my temper. For the way I am.” He pauses to rake a hand through his hair. “But you need to see.
This
is how I am. Who I am.”

My throat constricts and I pull in my lips so my mouth doesn’t do the turning-down-about-to-ugly-cry thing it does.

His shoulders slump and he steps towards me, something snapping beneath his foot as he does. “God, I love you so much. I swear I don’t want to do this to you. To us. But…” He offers me a pleading attempt at a smile. “But I can’t be a parent. You see that, right?”

My heart beats so hard it throbs throughout my entire body. I close my eyes for a second and listen to the sound of my own breathing before looking into his. “Landen, we had a fight. You’ve been under a lot of pressure and this isn’t an ideal situation. I get that. You lost your temper and—”

“And you’re making excuses for me. Like you always do.” He’s so close his scent surrounds me, permeates my skin. It’s sharp and clean, cologne and soap, and just…him. Familiar. It takes every single ounce of self-control I have not to pull him to me and let him make everything better. But somehow I manage. Maybe because I know it won’t be enough this time.

“So what, Landen?” I choke out over the sob rising in my throat. “My aunt wants me to have surgery on Monday whether I like it or not and you can’t control your temper? So I have to have an abortion because the two of you don’t want me to have a baby? You must be out of your fucking minds.”

I rarely curse so I’m not surprised when Landen’s eyes go wide.

I take two steps, planning to brush past him to get to the kitchen and grab a garbage bag, but his arm strikes out to stop me. Strong hands grip my shoulders and spin me so I’m facing away from him. When he speaks, low into my ear from behind me, his angry, even tone sends chills up my spine. “Look. Look around you. What do you see?”

Shaking my head, I jerk and twist in an attempt to free myself. His fingers dig in deeper—not enough to hurt but rougher than he’s ever handled me. “I see a mess, okay? One that needs to be cleaned up.”

“Look closer. Look at the walls, Layla. Look at the cabinet doors. Think. Why doesn’t the refrigerator door open unless you lift while you pull? Why do we have so much fucking art on the wall? Are we opening a museum?” His voice is thick with pain, and it cuts into me even more than seeing our home destroyed.

The answers to his questions rush to the forefront of my mind, drowning me. Two of our cabinet doors are broken because he slammed them too hard when he was angry about something that had happened at practice. The refrigerator door has been jacked up since the night I told him I was taking night classes. He was getting something to drink and nearly ripped the thing off its hinges.

I can’t even count the number of holes in the walls or recall exactly where each came from. He always apologized and I would just buy another picture to cover them.

He’s right. No child should have to grow up in a home like this.

“It’s my fault, too,” I say, turning in his arms to face him. “You’re right. I made excuses. I covered it up. Pretended it was normal.” There’s nothing I can do to stop the warm, wet tears that fall. “But we can get you some help. Maybe the team—”

But he’s already shaking his head. “It’s who I am. No amount of therapy or whatever can change that.”

“Landen—”

“I’m my father’s son.” He reaches a hand out to wipe away my tears and I see moisture gathering in his eyes. “And I won’t do that to a kid. I won’t.”

My heart breaks for him. I feel every tiny splinter as it happens. “I know you won’t. Landen, it’ll be different. You’re not—”

“I’m not doing this, Layla.”

“Not doing what?” I whisper, cringing at the thought of hearing his answer.

“Not risking being an abusive asshole that makes another human being feel worthless. I won’t cause that kind of pain.”

“You won’t. I wouldn’t let you. I’ll—”

“I used to wish I was dead.”

The depth of his sadness, the hollow echo of his voice sets off a bone-deep ache in my core. A sob escapes, making me sound like a wounded animal.

Landen huffs out a sarcastic breath and swipes his hand quickly across his eyes. “Actually, I used to wish he was dead. And then I realized that was never going to happen. So I just wished that I was.”

My knees go weak, and Landen sinks to the floor right along with me. We just sit there, holding one another. Smack in the middle of our mess. One that neither of us knows how to clean up this time.