I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood in my mouth. Then I draw a long, unstable breath and cross my arms. “All right, so let me get this straight—and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong. You fell in love with me and didn’t expect it, so now you want to date other people and fuck other guys—sorry, you want to explore, just on the off chance that you meet someone who is better than me.”
She averts her gaze.
“Is that what you’re saying?” My voice is cold enough to freeze everything south of the Equator.
After an eternity of silence, she looks up.
Then she nods.
I’m pretty sure she hears the massive crack in my chest as my heart splits open like a watermelon. God knows she’s the one responsible for it.
In the back of my mind, a little voice whispers, This is wrong.
No fucking kidding, asshole. There’s nothing right about this.
“I’m going to leave now.” I’m amazed that my paralyzed vocal cords allow me to speak. I’m not amazed by the naked anger in my tone. “Because I honestly can’t look at you right now.”
A tiny breath puffs out of her mouth. She doesn’t say a word.
I stagger to the door, my brain and heart and motor functions eerily close to shutting down on me, but I manage one hoarse parting line as I reach the threshold. “You know what, Wellsy?” Our gazes lock and her lips tremble as if she’s trying not to cry. “For someone who’s so damn strong, you really are a fucking coward.”
Alcohol. I need some fucking alcohol.
There’s no alcohol in the fridge.
I barrel up the stairs two at a time and burst into Logan’s bedroom without knocking. Fortunately, he’s not in the middle of boning some nameless puck bunny. I wouldn’t have cared if he was. I’m a man on a mission, and Logan’s closet is the mission.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demands as I throw open the closet door and reach for the top shelf.
“Taking your whiskey.”
“Why?”
Why? Why?
Maybe because my chest feels like someone scraped it with a dull razorblade for the past ten years? And then they took that razorblade and shoved it down my throat so it would tear up my windpipe and shred my insides. And then to add insult to injury, they ripped my heart out and threw it on the ice so an entire hockey team could slash it up with their skates.
Yup. So that’s where I’m at right now.
“Jesus Christ, G, what’s going on?”
I find Logan’s Jack Daniels bottle underneath an old hockey helmet and curl my fingers around it. “Hannah dumped me,” I mumble.
I hear Logan’s shocked breath. A bitter, spiteful part of me wonders if he’s happy by the news. If he thinks this might be his golden opportunity to move in on my girlfriend.
Sorry. My ex-girlfriend.
But when I turn around, I find nothing but sympathy flashing in his eyes. “Shit, man. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Me too.”
“What happened?”
I twist off the bottle cap. “Ask me again when I’m shit-faced. Maybe I’ll be drunk enough to tell you.”
I swallow a deep swig of whiskey. Normally the alcohol would burn its way down to my gut. Tonight I’m too numb to feel it.
Logan stops asking me questions. He wanders over and snatches the whiskey from my hand. “Well.” He sighs before raising the bottle to his lips and tipping his head back. “Then I guess we’re getting shit-faced.”
41
Hannah
I knew I would be a basket case for the rest of the semester, but I didn’t expect it to be because of the hollow cavern in my chest that used to hold my heart.
I haven’t seen or spoken to Garrett in a week. A week is not a long time. I’ve noticed that as I get older, time seems to fly by in hyper-speed. You blink, and a week has passed. Blink again, and a year has gone by.
But ever since I broke up with Garrett, time has reverted back to the way it was when I was little. When a school year felt like forever, and a summer never seemed to end. Time has slowed down, and it’s excruciating. These past seven days may as well be seven years. Seven decades.
I miss my boyfriend.
And I hate my boyfriend’s father for putting me in this impossible situation. I hate him for making me break Garrett’s heart.
You want to explore, just on the off chance that you meet someone who is better than me.
Garrett’s bleak recap of my lying-through-my-teeth breakup speech continues to buzz in my brain like a swarm of locusts.
Someone better than him?
God, it killed me to say that. To hurt him like that. The bitter taste of those words still burns my tongue, because damn it, someone better than him?
There’s no one better than him. Garrett is the best man I’ve ever known. And not just because he’s smart and sexy and funny and so much sweeter than I ever gave him credit for. He makes me feel alive. Yeah, we bicker, and sure, his cockiness drives me crazy sometimes, but when I’m with him, I feel whole. I feel like I can drop my guard completely and not have to worry about getting hurt or taken advantage of or being afraid, because Garrett Graham will always be there to love and protect me.
The only silver lining to this awful mess is that the team is winning again. They lost the game that Garrett missed thanks to his suspension, but they’ve played two more since then, including one against Eastwood, their conference rival, and they won both. If they keep going the way they’re going, Garrett will get what he wants—he’ll lead Briar to the championships in his first year as captain.
“Oh God. Please don’t tell me that’s what you’re wearing tonight.” Allie marches into my bedroom and frowns at my outfit. “No. I forbid it.”
I glance down at my ratty plaid pants and sweatshirt with the collar cut off. “What? No.” I point to the garment bag dangling from the hook behind my door. “I’m wearing that.”
“Ooooh. Let me see.”
Allie unzips the bag and proceeds to oooh and aaah over the strapless silver dress inside it. Her animated reaction is a testament to how out of it I’ve been this week. I was pretty much in a trance when I drove to Hastings to buy this dress for the showcase, and although it’s been hanging on my door for four days, I never bothered showing it off to Allie.
I don’t want to show it off. Hell, I don’t even want to wear it. The winter showcase starts in two hours and I could not care less. The entire semester has been building up to this one stupid performance.
And I could not. Care. Less.
When Allie notices my disinterested face, her expression softens. “Aw, Han-Han, why don’t you just call him?”
“Because we broke up,” I mumble.
She nods slowly. “And why is that again?”
I’m too depressed to give her the same bullshit excuse I dished out a week ago. I haven’t confessed to Allie or my friends the real reason I ended things with Garrett. I don’t want them knowing about his asshole father. I don’t want to think about his asshole father.
So I told them, and I quote, “it didn’t work out.” Four measly words, and they haven’t managed to pry a single detail out of me since.
My stony silence drags on long enough for Allie to shift in discomfort. Then she sighs and says, “Do you still want me to do your hair?”
“Sure. If you want.” There is zero enthusiasm in my voice.
We spend the next thirty minutes getting ready, though I don’t know why Allie bothers dressing up. She’s not the one who has to get up on stage and sing in front of hundreds of strangers.
Though, out of curiosity, how exactly does one sing a heartfelt ballad when their heart has been crushed to dust?
I guess I’m about to find out.
The backstage area of the main auditorium is chaotic when I wander in. Students rush past me, some carrying instruments, all dressed to impress. Panicky voices and brisk orders echo all around me, but I barely register them.
; The first face I see belongs to Cass. Our gazes hold for a beat and then he walks over, looking like a million bucks in a black suit jacket and a salmon-colored dress shirt with the collar propped up. His dark hair is styled to perfection. His blue eyes offer no trace of remorse or apology.
“Great dress,” he remarks.
I shrug. “Thanks.”
“Nervous?”
Another shrug. “Nope.”
I’m not nervous because I don’t care. I never thought I was one of those wimpy girls who walks around like a zombie after a breakup and bursts into tears at even the smallest reminder of her true love, but depressingly enough, I totally am.
“Well, break a leg,” Cass says once he figures out I’m not interested in making conversation.
“You too.” I pause and, not under my breath, mutter, “Literally.”
His head sharply turns toward me. “Sorry, I didn’t hear that last part.”
I raise my voice. “I said, literally.”
Those blue eyes darken. “You’re a real bitch, you know that?”
A laugh flies out. “Uh-huh. I’m the bitch.”
Cass scowls at me. “What, you want me to apologize for talking to my advisor? Because I’m not going to. We both know the duet wasn’t working out. I just had the balls to do something about it.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “I should be thanking you. You actually did me a huge favor.” And no, I’m not being sarcastic. I mean every word.
His self-righteous expression wavers. “I did?” Then he clears his throat. “Yes, I did. I did both of us a favor. I’m glad you’re able to recognize that.” His trademark smirk resettles on his lips. “Anyway, I need to find MJ before the performance.”
He saunters off, and I head in the opposite direction in search of Jae. All the sound checks were done this morning, so everything’s pretty much good to go. Since I’m the last junior to perform, I get to wait around with my thumb up my ass until they call my name. Cass, of course, is opening the junior showcase. He must’ve sucked someone’s dick to get that slot, because it’s the best one in the line-up. That’s when the judges are still bushy-eyed and excited, eager to start judging after sitting through the sophomore and freshman performances, which don’t qualify for scholarships. By the time the last junior hits the stage—go me!—everyone is tired, anxious to stretch their legs or grab a smoke before the senior performances begin.
I pop my head into a few dressing rooms looking for Jae, but he’s nowhere to be found. I hope my cellist hasn’t deserted me, but if he did…well…I don’t care.
I miss Garrett. I can’t go five seconds without thinking about him, and the reminder that he’s not in the audience tonight is like a karate chop to the neck. My windpipe closes up, making it impossible to breathe.
“Hannah,” a meek voice calls out.
I stifle a sigh. Shit. I’m so not in the mood to talk to Mary Jane right now.
But the little blonde dashes over to me before I can make my escape, trapping me in the doorway of the dressing room I was about to enter. “Can we talk?” she blurts out.
The sigh escapes. “I don’t have time for that right now. I’m looking for Jae.”
“Oh, he’s in the green room on the east stage. I just saw him.”
“Thanks.” I start to walk off, but she blocks my path. “Hannah, please. I really need to talk to you.”
Annoyance clamps around my throat. “Look, if you’re trying to apologize, don’t bother. Apology not accepted.”
Hurt flashes in her eyes. “Please don’t say that. Because I really am sorry. I’m so, so sorry for what I did. I shouldn’t have let Cass talk me into it.”
“No kidding.”
“I…I just couldn’t say no to him.” A helpless chord wobbles her voice. “I liked him so much, and he was so attentive and encouraging, and he insisted that the song was meant for one performer and that he was the only one who could do it justice.” Mary Jane’s entire face collapses. “I shouldn’t have gone behind your back. I shouldn’t have done that to you. I’m…so sorry.”
It doesn’t escape me that she’s using the past tense in regards to Cass. And although I’m a jerk for doing it, I can’t help but laugh. “He dumped you, didn’t he?”
She avoids my eyes, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. “Right after he got the solo.”
I don’t pity a lot of people. I mean, sympathy? I hand that out freely. Pity is reserved for someone I truly feel sorry for.
I pity Mary Jane.
“Should I bother saying I told you so?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. I know you were right. And I know I was stupid. I wanted to believe that someone like him was actually interested in someone like me. I wanted it to be true so badly that I screwed up my friendship with you.”
“We’re not friends, MJ.” I know I’m being harsh, but I guess my tact filter broke at the same time my heart did because I don’t bother softening my tone or censoring my words. “I would never screw over a friend like that. Especially over a guy.”
“Please…” She gulps. “Can’t we just start over? I’m so sorry.”
“I know you are.” I offer a sad smile. “Look, I’m sure eventually I’ll be able to talk to you without thinking about all this shit, maybe even trust you again, but I’m not there yet.”
“I get it,” she says weakly.
“I really need to find Jae.” I force another smile. “I’m sure Cass will do a great job with your song, MJ. He might be an asshole, but he’s a damn good vocalist.”
I dart off before she can respond.
I track down Jae and we hang out backstage until the show starts. After weeks of non-stop rehearsing, we’ve become friends, though Jae is still as shy as ever and afraid of his own shadow. But he’s only a freshman, so I’m hoping he comes out of his shell once he adapts to college life.
The freshman and sophomores are up first. Jae and I stand in the wings, stage left, watching as performer after performer takes the stage, but I have trouble concentrating on what I’m hearing and seeing.
I’m not in the mood to sing tonight. All I can think about is Garrett, and the agony in his eyes when I broke up with him, the slump of his shoulders when he left my dorm.
I have to remind myself that I did it for him, so that he can stay at Briar and play the game he loves without having to worry about money. If I had told him about his father’s threats, Garrett would have chosen our relationship over his future, but I don’t want him to work full-time, damn it. I don’t want him to drop out, or quit hockey, or stress about making rent or car payments. I want him to go to the pros and show everyone how talented he is. Prove to the world that he’s on the ice because he belongs there, and not because his father got him there.
I want him to be happy.
Even if that means I have to be miserable.
There’s a short intermission after the last sophomore performs, and backstage is hit with pandemonium again. Jae and I are nearly knocked off our feet as a never-ending stream of robe-clad students pour onto the stage. I realize they’re the members of Cass’s choir.
“That could’ve been us.” I grin at Jae as we watch the choir get in position on the dark stage. “Cass’s army of minions.”
His lips twitch. “I think we dodged a bullet.”
“Me too.”
When the show starts up again, this time I’m giving it my full attention, because the prodigy that is Cassidy Donovan has graced the stage. As the pianist plays the opening chords of MJ’s song, I experience a twinge of jealousy. Damn, it’s such a great song. I bite my lip, worried that my simple little ballad falls short compared to Mary Jane’s beautiful composition.
I can’t lie. Cass sings the hell out of the song. Every note, every run, every frickin’ pause, is absolute perfection. He looks great out there, sounds even better, and when the choir joins in and goes all Sister-Act on the place, the performance kicks into a whole new gear.
There’s only one t
hing missing—emotion. When MJ first played the song for me, I felt it. I felt her connection to the lyrics and the pain behind them. Tonight, I feel nothing, though I’m not sure if that’s because of a failure on Cass’s part, or if letting Garrett go robbed me of the ability to feel emotions.
But I sure as hell am feeling something when I settle behind the piano thirty minutes later. As the haunting strains of Jae’s cello fill the stage, it’s like a dam breaks inside me. Garrett is the first person I sang this song to, back when it was rough and choppy and nowhere close to polished. And Garrett is the one who listened to me rehearse it and hone it and perfect it.
When I open my mouth and start to sing, I’m singing it for Garrett. I’m transported to that peaceful place, my happy little bubble where nothing bad ever happens. Where girls don’t get raped and sex isn’t hard and people don’t break up because abusive assholes force them to. My fingers tremble on the ivory keys and my heart squeezes with every breath I take, every word I sing.
When I’m done, silence crashes over the auditorium.
And then I get a standing ovation.
I rise to my feet, and only because Jae walks over and forces me to so we can take a bow. The spotlight blinds me and the cheers deafen me. I know Allie and Stella and Meg are out there somewhere, on their feet and screaming their lungs out, but I can’t see their faces. Contrary to what movies and television shows lead you to believe, it’s impossible to make eye contact with a face in the crowd when a blast of light is hitting you in the eyes.
Jae and I leave the stage and head for the wings, and someone instantly swallows me in a bear hug. It’s Dexter, and his smile takes up his entire face as he congratulates me.