The Real Thing (29 page)

“I don’t know,” I answer, because I’m not sure how to put all my weaknesses into words. “I didn’t want to be rude, maybe?”

“Well, I think this is all bullshit.” He takes a step back. “And the more we talk, the more bullshit you feed me. I
did
read your email. I know it’s a damn pathetic thing to do, but I don’t care. You keep lying to me—”

“I’m not lying!” I shout, surprised my voice is able to break through the weight in my chest. But I’m
not
lying. There isn’t anything in those emails that isn’t on Facebook. “
You
were the one who just lied to me.”

“Yeah, I did.” He waves a hand between us. “This is messed up shit, and you know what? Maybe it’s not something we work through.”

My thumping heart stops. “What?”

“I don’t want to work through this.”

I clutch the counter so I don’t fall to my knees. Is he breaking up with me? This man I love, my best friend, this person I’ve wanted for what seems like my whole life? He’s breaking up with me over this. “Eric, no, I
promise
to fix it.” I have to do something. There has to be
something
I can say. “I won’t talk to him anymore. I’ll block him from Facebook. I’ll spam his emails. I’ll toss my phone in the ocean. Please, just don’t—”

“I can’t. I don’t … I don’t trust you.”

The tears break through and I let them fall freely. “So we’re just done?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You’re my best friend,” I croak. “How can we …? Where am I going to …?”

“You can stay here for the rest of the summer. I’m not going to kick you out,” he says, but that’s not what I’m worried about.

“But I love you.”

He looks like he might give in. I step toward him, wanting to be in his arms, against his body. I want his warmth and comfort and love. But when I get close enough for all of that, instead of taking me into his arms, he says, “Then you should’ve been honest with me.”

My unbeating heart fractures. I never even knew that was possible, or why anyone called it a broken heart till now. And I know the Eric who loved me wouldn’t let me stand here and break. But he is. He’s just standing there, pinching his eyes shut. I try to be strong. Resist the urge to slap my hands over my face and run out of here. But I did this.

“Okay,” I manage to whisper. Then I turn on my heel and huddle in on myself on my way to my room. He doesn’t come after me. He doesn’t say he didn’t mean it or that he still loves me or that we can work through this. It’s not like the books I read or the movies I watch or the fantasy worlds I live in.

We’re just … done.

I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help pulling out my computer and typing an email to Eric when I found out that sleep was impossible. It can’t be over. It just can’t. He just needs time and he needs to know I love him, and that
nothing
between me and Scott was more than platonic.

After I hit Send, I go to all the Scott emails and start deleting. They aren’t important, I don’t know why I kept them, and then I notice one with a subject line I don’t recognize.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Guess I’m not sure how I feel

Mia2—

I’d like to just call you Mia from now on.

So … Mia—

I know you’re expecting to proofread an email for me, but that’s because I was too chickenshit to ask you when we were chatting the other day, so I came up with some lameass excuse to email.

Thing is, I think we should meet. I know you have a boyfriend, or at least that’s what Facebook says, but you never mention him and I’m thinking that it can’t be that serious if that’s the case. Especially if you’re on Facebook talking to me all the time. Can’t imagine any guy being okay with that.

I’m rambling. I do that when I’m nervous. I just want to meet you. In person. Hold your hand and see you smile and, you know, shit like that you can’t get from the computer. ;)

So I guess I’m saying that maybe not finding Mia was a good thing. Maybe fate was telling me to find YOU.

—Scott

I bury my face in my hands and start crying all over again. Eric was right. I’m not sure if there’s any way to fix this.

And I wish there was a way to take back the email I just sent to his inbox.

Eric Matua has changed his relationship status to single

A few seconds ago

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Missing Him

I can’t sleep. It’s the first night neither one of us has snuck into the other’s room. I keep thinking maybe you’ll come in, and every sound sends my neck whipping to the door, but it’s nothing. Not that I expect you to. You need time. I understand that.

The best parts of my nights this summer have been when I felt the mattress sink next to me. Arms would wrap around my waist and pull me close. You’d always smell my hair, or my neck, and I never told you how self-conscious that made me at first, but then you’d groan and it’d make me feel like the sexiest girl alive. I love how you did that for me.

I want to go down the hall and crawl in your sheets. It’s killing me that you’re right there and I can’t do anything. I don’t want to rush the healing process. Sometimes when people need space, you have to give it to them even when you don’t want to. Because when you rush forward, and things aren’t all the way healed, it ends up throwing you backward and it takes that much longer to make things better.

So even though I’m staying in my room, and not sneaking down the hall, I’m writing this so someone knows I wanted to.

Heat crawls up my neck as I stare at Em’s email. I don’t want to write back, but I find myself hitting reply and writing out everything I’ve kept to myself since she walked out of the bathroom.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Missing Him

I have to stay in my room, and you have to stay in yours. This isn’t just a “healing process,” Em. All that’s running through my head is how I lied to the girl I love. How you lied to me. And how that shit is pretty messed up. When you love someone, you shouldn’t lie to them. There’s never a good reason for it. Some people go on and on about how sometimes they lie to protect the people they love. But I don’t think that. I think every lie is selfish. It’s to protect themselves.

I lied because I wanted to test you. I was an ass, but you lied right back. And that’s when I started thinking, maybe we don’t love each other. We thought we did, but if we’re willing to just outright lie to each other, we don’t.

I’m not just mad, Em. It’s ruined me. I thought I was broken before, but now I feel shattered. Trust is important to me. And I wonder if you’ll trust me again. Or worse … I wonder if I can trust you.

So I didn’t sneak down the hall. I walked right past that room and didn’t look back. And I’m sorry for that, but now someone at least knows why.

I hover over the send button, trying to douse the flames shooting through my neck. Shaking my head, I slide the mouse over to
Save in drafts
. Then I shut the laptop and punch my pillow.

I hate the damn Internet.

Third night this week I couldn’t sleep. I’ve tried to keep myself busy. When I’m not at work, I’m looking for work. And I’ve got a job interview in the morning, but I’m nervous as hell because I’m not really qualified. Don’t have my nursing degree, just been working as a medical assistant at the home. The guy running the interview said I don’t need to be a RN to get the job, but it sure helps. And that sure did
not
help my anxiety.

Add the fact I’ve been dodging Em like she’s got a case of chicken pox, the night sweats and breathing methods have become the routine. Yay.

I wipe my forehead with my sheet and then blow out breaths on my way to the kitchen. I sound like a frickin’ woman in labor as I fumble around for a glass and turn the faucet on. Maybe I should’ve refilled my prescription. Or at least scheduled another appointment. I can do that in the morning, I guess. Or maybe I’ll call Tolani. Talk through this bullshit.

My chest hurts. I didn’t schedule that appointment because Em helped make everything better. I haven’t had an attack in weeks. Actually, I don’t think I’ve felt this shitty since the episode I had in Samoa. I keep telling myself it’s only a job interview, but it’s more than that. This job is in Tampa. Two hours from Keiser.

It’s
just a job interview.
But my whole body freezes up because I know it’s
not
just an interview. It’s my decision to move on, but what if it’s the wrong decision? Where am I gonna go? Live with my Mom, who’s a half hour away from Em? No … I can’t. It’s hard knowing she’s in the room down the hall and not barging in there and touching and feeling and
being
with her. I won’t be able to hold out long. Moving to Miami would make it too easy to be in Em’s life.

Tolani. I’ll have to live with him for a bit. Till I get on my feet. So I
have
to get this job. I gotta move on, but I’m finding my rationale battling with my blurring vision. I can’t get a grip on myself.

My palms are sweaty. Add that to the water running down the side of the glass and my shaky hands, the glass doesn’t get anywhere near my mouth before it slips from my fingers and crashes to the floor.

Shards scatter, water floods the tile, and I lose control of my breathing. I can’t see straight. Why can’t I see straight? I can feel the pounding of my heart behind my eyes, and everything tilts. I blink, try to find some sort of stable ground. The pulse in my neck beats so fast I feel as if it’ll be humming any second. My heart will explode and I’ll suffocate here on the floor.

I breathe in, hoping for air, but I think I’m choking. I don’t know. My chest still hurts. My knees hurt now and I don’t know how I ended up on the floor. I press my palms to the ground, but it’s slippery. And sharp. I can’t breathe. Why the hell can’t I breathe?

“Hey, hey.” Cold hands grab my sweaty cheeks and tilt my face upward. “Look at me.” A smack to my temple and my vision starts to come back into focus. “Look at me, right here, come on.”

I blink, and Em’s wide hazel eyes and freckled cheeks and moistened lips stand out from the blur. Part of me wants to shove her away, but I still can’t breathe.

“Eric, inhale. Do it with me.”

She pulls in a long breath through her nostrils, but I can’t. I
can’t
. The pain in my knees rushes to my throat, and my heart won’t stop racing. Em’s grip slips on my sweaty cheeks, but she keeps her palms pressed to my face.

“Eric,” she croaks. “What … how can I …?” Her voice cuts off, and my vision goes spotty again. I’m headed to blackout zone, and I know I need to get a grasp on something, but the lack of oxygen won’t let me concentrate. Em gasps, and she shakes me. “Your anchor. What’s your anchor, Eric?”

Her voice helps push the what-ifs to the back of my mind, and I force comfortable visions to the front. The ocean. It always starts with the ocean. The warm
Florida
ocean. And the greatest thing about the ocean … feeling
weightless
. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then hold it.

More ocean. More warmth. Wading on the shore. Em’s toe in the water. Em’s legs wrapped around my waist. Em’s hugs, her laugh, her kisses, her hands, her feet, her freckles, her back dimples …

Em in the shower. Water dripping over her lips, her chin, down across her chest. My hands firm on her waist, my forehead against hers. Em’s smile before she kisses me. Her warmth, her safety, her comfort.

Her love.

She blows out a breath through her mouth. It cools my face and my breath releases. I open my eyes and she drops her hands from my cheeks.

“Are you okay?”

I study her for a moment. Memorize the concern lines in her forehead and the small hairs falling from her bun. Then I nod.

“Do you need help up?” she asks, and I shake my head, test my limbs, then pull myself up to my feet. There’s a cut on my knee, but it’s not deep.

Without saying anything, she carefully steps over the spilt water and glass, grabs an empty water bottle from the cupboard, cracks some ice, and pours it into the top. I take easy breaths and watch her tiptoe around the kitchen, fill the bottle up, screw the lid on.

“Get some sleep,” she says, and hands me the bottle, then attempts a smile before turning around and getting the mop from the pantry closet.

I open my mouth to tell her I’ll clean up, but nothing comes out. I’m close to wrapping her in my arms and taking her to bed with me. But that email, those messages … I don’t want to think about them. And I don’t know if she’s still talking to that guy or what, and I’m too tired and stressed to bring it up.

“Thank you,” I say, and take the water bottle with me to my room.

Rachel Benson posted on Emilia Johnson’s timeline

Hey! Haven’t seen you post in over a week. Crazy town. Hope everything’s okay!

4 minutes ago

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Guess I’m not sure how I feel

Scott—

I’m sorry for taking so long to reply. It’s been a hellish week. And to be honest, I’m not exactly sure how to put into words what I want to say to you. But I hope this comes out right.

You said you know I have a boyfriend, but because I don’t talk about him I must not love him. Yet, you talk about your ex-girlfriend very openly and how much you love her, then you try to pursue a relationship with me—someone you barely know and have only spoken to via Internet. I suppose some relationships do happen that way, but not this one.

I lost someone very important to me because of my addiction to social networking. You said you lost Mia the same way, so you understand where I’m sitting.

I know we’ve developed a friendship, but I feel like it’s important we just part ways. I can’t talk to you anymore because no matter how many times I try to rationalize it, it’s WRONG. I’m in love with another man. And to be fair to him, I can’t spend most of my time talking to you—someone who, no offense, I’m only connected to by a Wi-Fi signal.