If I Break THE COMPLETE SERIES Bundle (44 page)

His hands move underneath my thighs and he lifts me up effortlessly. I feel him slide inside of me. I gasp as he enters. My fingers dig into his back as my body adjusts around him. He goes deeper inside me, each movement reminding me of how much my body craves him, each thrust reminds me that he knows its every crevice. My body has given into him but my heart hasn’t, it’s bruised and in hiding. While still inside of me he takes my hand and intertwines his fingers with mine.

“Without you I’m nothing,” he whispers in my ear. I try to account the unsteadiness of his voice due to his body recovering from what its done. But with just those four words my heart shows itself and gives in to him. I’m still scared, so scared. The heaviness on my chest is gone and I believe he’s not cheating on me but I realize that if he’s not we have a problem—one much bigger than I ever thought. Because if Cal loves me as much as he makes believe he does, whatever is slowly peeling away at our relationship, we may not be able to fix.

...Y
ou’re
the reason I fight to be here…

I open my eyes, trying to get away from the words that have been relentlessly playing in my head. I can’t escape from his echoing voice. I keep trying to make his face disappear, but every time I close my eyes, I see him.

The words seem to hold more meaning than I ever imagined, but now they’re worthless. Something made him stop fighting. Or even if he did, at this point it’s pretty moot.

I sit up on my lumpy bed in the Ritter Inn’s lovely room—not really.

I let out a sigh as I hold my head in my hands. Sleeping has been practically useless. When it’s not his voice, it’s his parents, the Scotts’ words following me around. Scenes of Cal and me in the past haunt my thoughts every second, or even worse, my first meeting with “Chris.”

It’s been two days since I found out the so-called “truth,” whether or not I believe it. It is implausible, but makes so much sense, connecting so many dots that have been scattered about in my brain for years—all of Cal’s sudden disappearances, his void connection with family, with everyone except the Crestfield’s; but to believe that he isn’t real, that he’s a forged personality…I’ll never believe that. I can’t.

I try to forget the look on the Scotts’ faces; they carried a quiet honesty and a sincerity—even Mr. Scott. His bitterness was too genuine to be an act. Mrs. Scott’s tears were too real, her eyes so full of sorrow when she spoke. If this is all a scheme, they should both win an Oscar.

I look over at the side table where my phone is vibrating once again. It’s Hillary this time. She, Angela, and Raven have all called numerous times, but I haven’t been up to the task of talking to them. I can’t face not being able to answer questions that I don’t have answers for myself. This entire thing seems like I’m in a nightmare, just waiting to be woken up, as if everything is playing backwards in my head.

I grab the remote beside me and turn on the television in the hope that it will take my mind off of my complex thoughts. I think of Caylen, this is the longest I’ve been away from her. I miss her so much. I know that Raven is taking great care of her; she would die before she let anything happen to her, but I still miss her.

I feel guilty for my lack of communication back home, but I’m just not ready to talk to anyone right now.

I can’t begin to think of what this means if it’s all true. Whenever I do, I feel as if I’ll throw up or pass out. I don’t know anything about this Chris person, and he knows absolutely nothing about me. He’s in love with another woman, or he’s engaged to another woman. I can only imagine how his parents will explain me to him.

I think back to Mr. Scott’s words about the possibility that Chris won’t be able to handle the truth, the chance that it’ll make things worse. But what does that mean? Would Cal come back?

I’ve seen movies about split personalities, story arcs in the soap operas Raven watched when I was younger, but facing it in reality is something completely different.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. It’s probably room service, which means Ms. Ritter is making sure I haven’t trashed her room. I lazily get up from my bed and open the door.

“I don’t need…” I start to say, but freeze when I see the person looking back at me.

“Hi,” he says softly, his eyes as wide as mine.

My heart crawls up into my throat. Here—he’s here, standing in front of me. I try to move my eyes from his, but they’re locked there. I search for the intensity in his eyes that I haven’t seen in years, but there’s only uncertainty.

My hands are starting to shake, my body taking on directions of its own. I can feel my emotions start to swell from the bottom of my stomach, ready to overflow, if I don’t gain some sort of control over them.

I can’t blow up here; I can’t boil over. I have to use this time, if not for me, for Caylen. I have to see if this is him, if he’s playing me, if everything is a lie, or even worse—if it’s the truth.

Right now he has the upper hand, the element of surprise. I have to use this. I have to think…I jump out of my thoughts at the knocking of the door once again. I realize I subconsciously closed the door in his face.

I can do this. I can do this. I reassure myself.

“I’m sorry for coming like this. I-I just thought… I can come back later when you’re ready,” I hear the timid voice say before his footsteps lead away from the door.

“No!” I quickly open the door and step out halfway to see him.

He turns around and slowly approaches me, with each step he takes I feel my chest tighten, making it harder for me to breathe. My eyes avoid his now, inadvertently landing on his chest since that’s where I am height-wise with him.

“My parents said you were coming tomorrow but…I thought we…I wanted to talk to you alone if it’s okay,” he stumbles over his words.

I glance up and see that his eyes stare over my head; we both seem to be using the same tactics. I try to respond, but nothing comes out; so I step back and gesture for him to come in. I take a deep breath as he passes me, stealing a quick glance at him before I shut the door.

I reassure myself again that I can do this. I walk over to the sofa, trying to decide if I’d rather sit or stand, but my eyes still gravitate to him.

I can’t believe it’s been almost two years since I’ve seen him, not including that disaster the other day. As much as I don’t want to look at him, I can’t help it at the same time.

I fold my arms across my chest and wait for him to say something; after all he’s the one that came here. Our eyes meet and the look in his scares me. They seem so familiar, yet foreign. He looks at me as if I’m a stranger.

Whenever Cal looked at me, even when I was upset with him, or he was upset, there was always something that held me, something so intense that I hated it when I was angry and became enraptured with it when I wasn’t. But now, as I look in Chris’s eyes, I see confusion. Something solemn and apologetic and it terrifies me because Cal has never been any of those things. He never took anything back, and he rarely apologized.

The room seems to be filled with things that need to be said, questions that beg to be asked, at least on my part, but I don’t know what to say, where to begin. Where do you start with someone who you’ve known for what seems like forever who in fact, you don’t know at all?

I convinced myself that if I had him alone, I could instantly know if this was all a lie. I tried to convince myself that it was a lie. And now, just from the look in his eyes, that always gave away so little and so much about him, I do know. I don’t see Cal. I hold onto my wrist and start to squeeze, a habit I’ve developed when I’m nervous.

“I don’t really know what to say to you, or where to start,” he begins in a quiet tone, his eyes looking into mine for the first time, as if he’s seeing me for the first time, almost. It only lasts a second before he looks away. He opens his mouth to say something else, but then stops, as if he’s at a loss for words completely.

I try to think of something to say, to cut through the dead silence in the room. There’s so many things that I want to say, but not to him. Not to the person standing in front of me.

Tears start to cloud my vision and I fight with everything in me to keep them from falling. I turn away from him and wipe my eyes quickly. I see that his eyes are glued to his feet. I realize that I have to talk to him for who he is, someone I know nothing about and that’s one of the hardest realizations I’ve come to.

“Uhm,” I try to say, but my throat starts to burn. I look up at the ceiling trying to be stronger than I feel right now.

“I don’t know what to say to you either, to be honest,” I say, angry at the new tears that are falling down my cheeks. I quickly wipe them away and notice how uncomfortable he looks.

“Your parents told you everything?” I ask unsurely, commanding my voice to steady.

He sighs, still avoiding eye contact. “They told me that they’d been lying to me all of this time. That when I didn’t remember things another person was living my life for me, that they felt they should keep it from me,” he says with obvious bitterness.

“Everyone I know and trust has been lying to me. My parents, my so called doctor,” he says, his mouth formed into a frown.

“Welcome to the club,” I mumble, rubbing my temples. I’ve had a continuous headache since I got here.

There’s another period of silence. I notice that he’s wearing scuffed work boots; his jacket is clean, but it’s apparent that it’s been worn more than casually. His hair is different too, shorter almost. He looks like a model for Old Navy, so much more innocent than Cal. No dark colors, no mystery, it’s almost like what you see is what you get.

“I should have known something was wrong,” he says quietly, his words snapping me from my thoughts once more.

“I would wake up and days, sometimes months had gone by. I should have known it was bigger than what they were telling me. They made it seem like I was okay, like they had me under control. I thought my treatments were working. I didn’t know how bad it’d gotten,” he says, but it’s as if he’s talking to himself instead of me.

“The people I trusted most lied to me,” he says in frustration.

“You can’t blame yourself. It’s human nature to want to believe things are always good. When I talked to your parents, they thought they were doing what was best for you. Your interest was the only one they were looking out for.”

He looks at me a little surprised. I’m surprised myself; I don’t know why I just said that. I barely know the Scotts, and we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot, but it seems, they truly love him, so much that they’d screw anyone else over for him. Though they did horrible things, they did it all for him.

“I didn’t expect for you defend them. Especially after…they lied to you too,” he says uncertainly.

“I’m not defending them,” I say quickly.

“What they did was wrong; it hurt a lot people. But I don’t think they did it to be malicious or cruel. They thought they were protecting you. As a parent you’d do anything to protect your child from what you believe could hurt them. If I was in their situation, and I believed that I could keep you safe by lying to you, I would have,” I admit.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, his attention turns to his pocket and he pulls something out. He starts to walk closer to me, and I swallow every nerve in my body. I feel my breathing speed up. I know that he must think that I’m crazy, but his expression doesn’t show it. His earlier facial expression softens, and I find myself taking a step away from him. He notices my discomfort and stops walking toward me, instead he reaches out his hand.

“My mom said…” he drifts off, and I notice that it’s the picture I gave Mrs. Scott of Caylen. I feel a small smile spread across my face. His eyes are still locked on the picture, his expression a cross between puzzlement and worry.

“Caylen,” I say softly touching her face on the picture. When I look up I notice his eyes are on me, and we both look away.

“You named her after him… after Cal?” he asks.

I nod mechanically. His eyes stay locked on the picture as he makes his way over to the sofa and sits down.

“How old is she?” he asks, releasing a breath that he seems to have been holding in for a while.

“She just had her first birthday three days ago,” I tell him, sitting on the edge of the sofa, feeling more at ease with Caylen as the topic. I see his eyebrow rise, and he turns fully toward me.

“You’ve been raising her alone,” he looks at me sympathetically, which I feel angry about for some reason.

“No. My aunt and friends have been there since the beginning to help me with her. She doesn’t lack anything,” I explain.

“But a father,” he says quietly. He said it, not me. “I-Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.” I smile, missing her the more I think about her.

“I-I mean is... is she healthy?”

“As a one-year-old can be.”

“Are you sure?”

I frown as my gaze goes toward him. “Of course I’m sure,” I tell him a bit annoyed. I’m her mother; I think I would know if she wasn’t.

“She doesn’t do anything strange?”

“Like what?”