It Ends With Us (31 page)

I’m sorry about that. I’m sure you didn’t miss me like I missed you, but sometimes the things that matter to you most are also the things that hurt you the most. And in
order to get over that hurt, you have to sever all the extensions that keep you tethered to that pain. You were an extension of my pain, so I guess that’s what I was doing. I was just trying
to save myself a little bit of agony.

I’m sure your show is as great as ever, though. I hear you still dance at the beginning of some episodes, but I’ve grown to appreciate that. I think that’s one of the
biggest signs a person has matured—knowing how to appreciate things that matter to others, even if they don’t matter very much to you.

I should probably catch you up on my life. My father died. I’m twenty-four now. I got a college degree, worked in marketing for a while, and now I own my own business. A floral shop.
Life goals, FTW!

I also have a husband and he isn’t Atlas.

And . . . I live in Boston.

I know. Shocker.

The last time I wrote to you, I was sixteen. I was in a really bad place and I was so worried about Atlas. I’m not worried about Atlas anymore, but I am in a really bad place right now.
More so than the last time I wrote to you.

I’m sorry I don’t seem to need to write to you when I’m in a good place. You tend to only get the shit end of my life, but that’s what friends are for, right?

I don’t even know where to start. I know you don’t know anything about my current life or my husband, Ryle. But there’s this thing we do where one of us says “naked
truth,” and then we’re forced to be brutally honest and say what we’re really thinking.

So . . . naked truth.

Brace yourself.

I am in love with a man who physically hurts me. Of all people, I have no idea how I let myself get to this point.

There were many times growing up I wondered what was going through my mother’s head in the days after my father had hurt her. How she could possibly love a man who had laid his hands on
her. A man who repeatedly hit her. Repeatedly promised he would never do it again. Repeatedly hit her again.

I hate that I can empathize with her now.

I’ve been sitting on Atlas’s couch for over four hours, wrestling with my feelings. I can’t get a grip on them. I can’t understand them. I don’t know how to
process them. And true to my past, I realized that maybe I need to just get them out on paper. My apologies to you, Ellen. But get ready for a whole lot of word vomit.

If I had to compare this feeling to something, I would compare it to death. Not just the death of anyone. The death of
the
one. The person who is closer to you than anyone else in the
whole world. The one who, when you simply imagine their death, it makes your eyes tear up.

That’s what this feels like. It feels like Ryle has died.

It’s an astronomical amount of grief. An enormous amount of pain. It’s a sense that I’ve lost my best friend, my lover, my husband, my lifeline. But the difference between
this feeling and death is the presence of another emotion that doesn’t necessarily follow in the event of an actual death.

Hatred.

I am so angry at him, Ellen. Words can’t express the amount of hatred I have for him. Yet somehow, in the midst of all my hatred, there are waves of reasoning that flow through me. I
start to think things like “But I shouldn’t have had the magnet. I should have told him about the tattoo from the beginning. I shouldn’t have kept the journals.”

The reasoning is the hardest part of this. It eats at me, little by little, wearing down the strength my hatred lends to me. The reasoning forces me to imagine our future together, and how
there are things I could do to prevent that type of anger. I’ll never betray him again. I’ll never keep secrets from him again. I’ll never give him reason to react that way again.
We’ll both just have to work harder from now on.

For better, for worse, right?

I know these are the things that once went through my mother’s head. But the difference between the two of us is that she had more to worry about. She didn’t have the financial
stability that I have. She didn’t have the resources to leave and give me what she thought was a decent shelter. She didn’t want to take me away from my father when I was used to living
with both parents. I have a feeling reasoning really kicked her ass a time or two.

I can’t even begin to process the thought that I’m having a child with this man. There is a human being inside of me that we created together. And no matter which option I
choose—whether I choose to stay or choose to leave—neither are choices I would wish upon my child. To grow up in a broken home or an abusive one? I’ve already failed this baby in
life, and I’ve only known about his or her existence for a single day.

Ellen, I wish you could write back to me. I wish that you could say something funny to me right now, because my heart needs it. I have never felt this alone. This broken. This angry. This
hurt.

People on the outside of situations like these often wonder why the woman goes back to the abuser. I read somewhere once that 85 percent of women return to abusive situations. That was before
I realized I was in one, and when I heard that statistic, I thought it was because the women were stupid. I thought it was because they were weak. I thought these things about my own mother more
than once.

But sometimes the reason women go back is simply because they’re in love. I love my husband, Ellen. I love so many things about him. I wish cutting my feelings off for the person who
hurt me was as easy as I used to think it would be. Preventing your heart from forgiving someone you love is actually a hell of a lot harder than simply forgiving them.

I’m a statistic now. The things I’ve thought about women like me are now what others would think of me if they knew my current situation.

“How could she love him after what he did to her? How could she contemplate taking him back?”

It’s sad that those are the first thoughts that run through our minds when someone is abused. Shouldn’t there be more distaste in our mouths for the abusers than for those who
continue to love the abusers?

I think of all the people who have been in this situation before me. Everyone who will be in this situation after me. Do we all repeat the same words in our heads in the days after
experiencing abuse at the hands of those who love us? “From this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part.”

Maybe those vows weren’t meant to be taken as literally as some spouses take them.

For better, for worse?

Fuck.

That.

Shit.

—Lily

I’m lying on Atlas’s guest bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s a normal bed. Really comfortable, actually. But it feels like I’m on a water bed. Or
maybe a raft, adrift at sea. And I scale over these huge waves, each of them carrying something different. Some are waves of sadness. Some are waves of anger. Some are waves of tears. Some are
waves of sleep.

Occasionally, I’ll place my hands on my stomach and a tiny wave of love will come. I have no idea how I can already love something so much, but I do. I think about whether or not
it’ll be a boy or a girl and what I’ll name it. I wonder if it will look like me or Ryle. And then another wave of anger will come and crash down on that tiny wave of love.

I feel robbed of the joy a mother should have when she finds out she’s pregnant. I feel like Ryle took that from me last night and it’s just one more thing I have to hate him
for.

Hatred is exhausting.

I force myself off the bed and into the shower. I’ve been in my room most of the day. Atlas returned home several hours ago and I heard him open the door at one point to check on me but I
pretended to be asleep.

I feel awkward being here. Atlas is the very reason Ryle was angry at me last night, yet he’s the one I ran to when I needed help? Being here fills me with guilt. Maybe even a little bit
of shame, as though my calling Atlas lends credibility to Ryle’s anger. But there’s literally nowhere I can go right now. I need a couple of days to process things and if I go to a
hotel, Ryle could track the credit card charge and find me.

He’d be able to find me at my mother’s. At Allysa’s. At Lucy’s. He’s even met Devin a couple of times and would more than likely go there, too.

I can’t see him tracking down Atlas, though. Yet. I’m sure if I go a week avoiding his calls and texts, he’ll look everywhere he can possibly look to find me. But for now, I
don’t think he would show up here.

Maybe that’s why I’m here. I feel safer here than anywhere else I could possibly go. And Atlas has an alarm system, so there’s that.

I glance at the nightstand to look at my phone. I skip over all the missed texts from Ryle and open the one from Allysa.

She sent a picture of her and Rylee, and it makes me smile. Then cry. Damn these emotions.

I wait until my eyes are dry again before I walk into the living room. Atlas is sitting at his kitchen table, working on his laptop. When he looks up at me, he smiles and closes it.

“Hey.”

I force a smile and then look in the kitchen. “Do you have anything to eat?”

Atlas stands up quickly. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sit down. I’ll get something ready for you.”

I take a seat on the couch as he works his way around the kitchen. The television is on, but it’s muted. I unmute it and click on the DVR. He has a few shows recorded, but the one that
catches my eye is
The Ellen DeGeneres Show
. I smile and click on the most recent unwatched episode and hit Play.

Atlas brings me a bowl of pasta and a glass of ice water. He glances at the TV and then sits down next to me on the couch.

For the next three hours, we watch a full week’s worth of episodes. I laugh out loud six times. It feels good, but when I take a bathroom break and come back to the living room, the weight
of it all starts to sink in again.

I sit back down on the couch next to Atlas. He’s leaning back with his feet propped up on the coffee table. I naturally lean into him and just like he used to do when we were teenagers, he
pulls me against his chest and we just sit there in silence. His thumb brushes the outside of my shoulder, and I know it’s his unspoken way of saying he’s here for me. That he feels bad
for me. And for the first time since he picked me up last night, I feel like talking about it. My head is resting against his shoulder and my hands are in my lap. I’m fidgeting with the
drawstring on the pants that are way too big for me.

“Atlas?” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry I got so angry at you that night at the restaurant. You were right. Deep down I knew you were right, but I
didn’t want to believe it.” I lift my head and look at him, cracking a pitiful smile. “You can say,
‘I told you so’
now.”

His eyebrows draw together, like my words somehow hurt him. “Lily, this is not something I wanted to be right about. I prayed every day that I was wrong about him.”

I wince. I shouldn’t have said that to him. I know better than to think Atlas would ever think something like
I told you so
. He squeezes my shoulder and leans forward, kissing the
top of my head. I close my eyes as I soak up the familiarity of him. His smell, his touch, his comfort. I’ve never understood how someone can be so rock solid, yet comforting. But
that’s always how I’ve viewed him. Like he could withstand anything, but somehow still feels the weight that everyone else carries.

I don’t like that I was never fully able to let go of him, no matter how hard I tried. I think about the fight with Ryle over Atlas’s phone number. The fight about the magnet, the
article, the things he read in my journal, the tattoo. None of that would have happened if I would have just let go of Atlas and thrown it all away. Ryle wouldn’t have had anything to be so
upset with me about.

I pull my hands up to my face after that thought, upset that there’s a part of me trying to blame Ryle’s reaction on my lack of closure with Atlas.

There’s no excuse. None.

This is just another wave I’m being forced to ride on. A wave of complete and utter confusion.

Atlas can feel the change in my composure. “You okay?”

I’m not.

I’m not okay, because until this moment, I had no idea how hurt I still am that he never came back for me. If he’d have just come back for me like he promised, I would have never
even met Ryle. And I would have never been
in
this situation.

Yep. I’m definitely confused. How am I possibly lending blame to Atlas for any of this?

“I think I need to call it a night,” I say quietly, pulling away from him. I stand up and Atlas stands up, too.

“I’ll be gone most of the day tomorrow,” he says. “Will you be here when I get home?”

I cringe at his question. Of course he wants me to get my shit together and find another place to stay. What am I even still doing here? “No. No, I can get a hotel, it’s fine.”
I turn to walk toward the hallway, but he puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Lily,” he says, turning me around. “I wasn’t asking you to leave. I was just making sure you’d still be here. I want you to stay as long as you need to.”

His eyes are sincere, and if I didn’t think it would be a little inappropriate, I would throw my arms around him and hug him. Because I’m not ready to leave yet. Just a couple more
days before I’m forced to figure out what my next step is.