Has to Be Love (26 page)

I need home.

I need safe.

I need to figure out how to turn off whatever kind of crazy brought me here tonight.

As I drive home I feel … gross. Grosser than my face, my scars. Dirtier than I've ever felt before in a way that crawls over me from inside. For so long I always knew my firsts would be with Elias, and now …

I wonder if I should be trying to be with anyone. I wonder if a miracle could possibly happen and I'll wake up any second to realize this was just a dream. A really stupid, bad dream. The spidering guilt over what I did with Elias is nothing compared to the thick blackness spreading through me now. There was a reason I didn't want to go too far before I was married. How did I forget that? How did I let myself go so far with someone I don't know? What was I trying to prove? Who was I trying to prove it to?

By the time I pull into my driveway, it's evident my dream scenario won't become a reality. And that I just ran away from Rhodes in the middle of … whatever that was. And when all I want is my bed, I feel so disgusting and I'm afraid Dad will know what I just did if he sees me, so I slide lower down in my truck and let the tears fall.

34

The doctor's office in Anchorage is completely opposite in feel from the office in Seattle. The desk is cluttered with papers, pens, and several stacks of books. There are diplomas on the walls, but these walls are painted an odd shade of peach and are smudged and scratched.

My chair wobbles, and I shift my weight back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Why am I even here?

This is so stupid. I already know how little I can be helped. I catch my reflection in a tiny mirror, and I stare at the welts on my face. At the corner of my eye that leads to my thickest scar. At the twist on my mouth.

I'm not sure whose idea it was to put my doctor's appointment the day after graduation, but it was a stupid one.

Every decision I've made since coming home from Seattle smashes into my head like a brick. Saying yes to Elias, stupid. Saying yes to going to Columbia for the weekend, smart. Sending Columbia a deferment letter? Stupid. Saying no to Elias, gut-wrenching. Saying yes to Rhodes, foolish.

How can I explain the trail of rash decisions?

Yes, Elias pushed me too far emotionally—asking me for forever when I wasn't ready to give him that. And Rhodes wanted so much physically—making me realize I didn't want that with a guy as much as I thought. What does that make me? A horrible tease? At the very least, a girl who shouldn't be trusted, not even with herself.

Just getting out of the house alone this morning was a chore because Dad has been treading strangely around me and asking way more questions than normal. I had to leave him home with a baffled look on his face because I can't deal with him being at the doctor's appointment with me.

There was no time to shower this morning, and my skin pricks and crawls with the places I was touched by Rhodes.

I was raised differently. I thought I
believed
differently. I'm so ready for this wretched, swimming pit of dread in my stomach and heart and head to be
over
before I go completely insane.

My stomach rolls. I grab the trash can and lose the oatmeal I ate for breakfast.

“Oh,” a woman says. “I'm not this kind of doctor.”

And then she laughs.

I cough again, my face still buried in the trash can.

“Did we party a little too hard after graduation last night?” she asks.

I slowly lower the can with shaky fingers to see a young woman with pale skin and spiky pixie hair. Not what I was expecting after the too-quiet doughy man in Seattle.

“No,” I groan. “I don't do that.” I also am not the kind of girl to let a guy do … whatever Rhodes and I did last night. Only I did, so maybe I can't say I'm not that kind of girl anymore.

Tears press at the back of my eyes. I
do
want to be the girl that applies to—the girl who is careful with boys and about how she dresses and acts and the language she uses and who doesn't drink … all of those things …

And.

Am I?

“Oh dear.” The woman slides her chair around her desk and sits facing me, holding out tissues and wet wipes. I grab the wet wipes first and rub around my mouth, and then two handfuls of tissues and press them against my eyes. Maybe if I push hard enough I can force myself to stop crying.

“I'm not this kind of doctor either.” She chuckles while readjusting her glasses.

I finally look up. “Rough … couple weeks.”

Her eyes narrow and she leans in, scanning over my scars. “Why haven't I seen you until now?” she asks.

Why hasn't she? “I'm not sure,” I say. “I've had the same family doctor since … forever. He said something about growing up and letting the scars heal, and my dad was on board with that, so …”

“Still.” She bobs her head from side to side. “I could have maybe helped them heal a little smoother. Maybe not. But maybe.”

My stomach drops. She could have helped. Before now.

I should have pushed harder. Wanted more. Researched more. Questioned more.

“I can't do this today.” I lean back over the garbage can, waiting for the next protest.

She laughs again. “Well, Clara. I'm going to clean a few creams out of my sample cabinet. I have one that might slowly lessen the discoloration a little more than the one you said you've been using. We can do some laser treatments, but your scars aren't as bad as I guessed by reading your file. They're significant, for sure, but still … I don't think you'll gain anything by going back to Dr. Breckman instead of working with me, but that'll be up to you.”

Her voice is so … no big deal. “You see a lot of this?” I gesture in a circle pointing to my face.

“Nope. Not so much.” She shakes her head. “You're my first facial bear scars, but not my first bear scars.”

“Oh.”

“I'm from Florida, so I've seen a few gator marks as well.”

“Oh,” I say again.

“But”—she shrugs—“I don't think you're really in the mood to discuss our long-term goals for you at the moment, and that's totally fine. I'll squeeze you in when you're not feeling like you need to use my trash can to throw up in. Sound good?”

I push out of the chair and slowly set down the can, my hands still shaking, totally unsure what to do with this unexpected woman.

She slides open a cabinet door and hands me two small boxes. “Read the directions. If this feels weird on your skin or scar tissue, rinse it off. This is mild, but it might help you feel like you're doing something more than what your family doctor prescribed. Should bleach you out a little, and this other one might smooth them over a little. The silicone oil here …”

I stare but can't really absorb her words.

“Never mind.” She chuckles again. “You call me if you have any questions and do a tiny test area on the back of your hand before applying this to your face. When you first apply something new to your face, only pick one small portion of a scar to make sure you don't react.”

I nod numbly.

“And whatever's on your mind? That's what we have friends for, Clara. Go find a friend. Then call me and we'll reschedule you.”

“Okay.”

I stare at her for a moment longer, and I think that something else to do with my scars has shifted. I came here. I'm talking to her. I'm moving forward or not moving forward on my own terms. That's … something.

As mortifyingly ridiculous as this all is, I nod again and stumble out of her office toward my truck, the final bits of vomit sticking like slime in my mouth and throat.

The first thing I do when I leave her office is get a soda to rid my mouth of the taste of death. I drive past the massive bookstore in Anchorage, but I just can't bring myself to stop. My phone buzzes in what I'm sure are texts from my father, maybe Cecily, maybe Rhodes …

Find a friend,
she said. Maybe. Or maybe I just need to find a place to be alone.

35

With my eyes still swollen and blurry I finally make it back to Knik. I hit the gas too hard as another round of tears falls, and the messes I've made hit me over and over.

At the last second, I jerk the steering wheel and start toward the house Elias is building.

So much for alone. I must be going for another round of torture. I'm pretty sure confronting Elias isn't the same as finding a friend.

Maybe I'll understand the decision to walk away from him again if I see the house. I panicked in that house, and I want to remember the panicking so I'll remember why I made the first decision that put me on the path that led me to throwing up in a doctor's office this morning. That decision was the one to break up with Elias. Time to face it in a better way than shoving a ring in his hand and driving away.

I grasp my stomach with one hand, in hope it'll settle, and then stop at the end of the driveway when I see not only Elias's truck, but two others as well.

This was stupid.

But the second I slide the truck in Park, I get out instead of driving away.

They're on the roof today, but Elias isn't laughing or shoving anyone or anything. Just slapping down the shingles and nailing them to the roof. My chest cracks a bit at his total lack of … anything.

What did I do?

He's been not just my boyfriend but my best friend for way too long for me to see him this way and not hurt because of it. My knees nearly buckle under the stress coursing through me. I tap my back pocket for my notebook, even though I don't really feel like writing anything. It's there. So is the memory of how I threw up and cried at my doctor's appointment this morning.

“Elias!” I call.

But no one answers. The sound of the generator and two nail guns sort of drowns out everything else.

“Elias!” I yell again and pull in a shaking breath.

Why did I think this was a good idea? I'm bothering him at work, and for what? So I can feel better about breaking up with him?

He peers over the edge and stares at me blankly for a moment. “Just a sec,” he calls, but there's no tone of voice or anything for me to go on. It's all just flat.

I lean against the front of my truck as he climbs down the tall extension ladder. As I watch his T-shirt pull on him and the way his work pants hug him just right, I think about how careful he is with me … and I start to wonder if I was right in walking away from him.

“What can I do for you?” Elias asks as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I …”

His brows go up and his shoulders stiffen. He's trying to show that he doesn't care and I'm interrupting him, but I know him too well.

“I hate that we don't talk and it's making me crazy, and I'm sorry and—”

“Do you want me to ease your conscience?” Elias spits. “Lie to you and tell you I'm great?”

I step back, blinking, bile once again rising up my throat.

“I told you I'd do anything for you. That I'd wait for you while you went to school, that I'd help you if you decided to stay here, and you still walked away. How am I supposed to feel about you being here right now?”

“I don't know,” I mumble.

“Because it feels shitty to know how thoroughly I was dumped.”

My eyes snap toward his because I don't think I've ever heard Elias curse. Ever.

“I'm sorry,” I mumble again, and all the things I've wanted to say to him have seeped out of my brain leaving mooshy nothingness.

“And now there's rumors flying around about you and Rhodes, and I asked you about him, Clara. I
asked
you, and you played it off, but obviously …” He blinks and stops talking. He swallows and then again.

He rubs his forehead and stares at the ground for a moment, and I'm shattering. Again. I did this. Me. I broke it off with him in a horrible way, and then—

He takes a step back and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I'm just … I'm wondering if you're the girl I thought you were.”

“I …” But I have no idea if I am or not. “I'm probably not.” That's the harsh reality. Elias thought I was someone good and kind and … I'm not.

“Please go, Clara. I can't … I'm at work.” He turns and walks away.

Elias has never walked away from me. Not like this. I've known him since I was a kid and now … the hollow pit of loss I carry with me just grew. And this time it's completely my fault.

As I drive away from Elias's house, I finally slide out my phone.

Three missed calls from Dad.

Two texts from Cecily.

One text from Rhodes.
I got a call this morning. We need to talk.

He is the last thing I need, but since I'm already on a roll with torturing myself, I know where I'm headed next. It's not like the berating won't be deserved.

My insides shake as I wait for Rhodes to open the door, and when he appears, humiliation weakens me so fast that I lose my words.

“So we need to talk …” He trails off, running a hand over his unkempt, touchable, blond hair.

“Why me?” I blurt.
Okay, this was not part of my plan of things to say to him …

His brows furrow. “What?”

“Why were you interested in me?” I ask.

“I still am.” He cocks his head to the side and licks his lips a few times. I get the impression he's nervous, but I'm not positive. “Stupid as it is of me. I like you.”

“It's just that …”

Rhodes scratches his forehead a few times. “It's that I read a few things you'd written and thought, ‘This girl is pretty cool,' and then I met you. Half-confident and half-shy or embarrassed as you were cooking, and that's when I realized you might be as interesting as I wanted you to be. And then other times all that shyness flipped into a strength that I wish I had.”

“But I'm not strong. I'm …”