Page 109 of The Lucky One

“Nope.” I opened my eyes and shot him a look, the kind that makes people back off. He sighed, patted my shoulder twice, and left the room without saying another word.

He tried; he really did. But this wasn’t like addiction. It wasn’t something I could work on—or believe me, I would. I’d do anything to be with my Little German again.

I lay there with the weight of unspoken words pressing against my chest. Dad didn’t understand shit about what was going on in there. It wasn’t as simple as picking up the fucking phone and dialing her number.

Closing my eyes, I tried to shut out the world again—but she haunted me. The way her eyes lit up when we wrote together. The sound of her laugh when she made a joke only she thought was funny. The warmth of her touch on my face...

Memories that made me hate myself for not having stayed away from the beginning.

I wrestled with the idea of reaching out. Maybe I should tell her the truth after all—but it would only reopen the wounds. A knot tightened in my stomach.

I got up. The room was stifling; I needed air.

As I stepped out into the hallway, the house seemed unusually quiet. I wandered into the backyard. The sun smiled down at me, pissing me off. I got my phone out of my pants and scrolled through the contacts.

Her name. My thumb so close to making Dad’s advice come true.

I fucking needed her. The familiarity of her voice, the reassurance of her existence.

I pressed the call button.

Every ring held an eternity. Doubt gnawed at me: what if this was a mistake?

The ringing stopped. “Jon...?”

My throat tightened; words caught in my chest.

“Jon, are you okay?” she asked, her voice so soft, so fucking beautiful.

I ended the call.

If I talked to her now, all these weeks would’ve been for nothing.

I leaned back against the wall with a heavy sigh. The weight of my past decisions pressed down on my shoulders. I reached for my squares and twirled one between my fingers.

Why do you call them squares? They aren’t even square.

I smiled. Everything reminded me of her, even these toxic things. She was everywhere. If she meant less to me, I wouldn’t have done what I had to do. I owed it to her to make it easier for her... so she could go back to Germany, figure out her family shit, fall in love with a guy who could give her everything.

I tossed the square away and reached for my little black book tucked in my pants instead, writing with the key chain pen that was nearly dry by now.

Little German...

You stopped me from having a smoke because I wanted to write to you.

I wrote in a rotten old chair until the sun set. The mosquitoes resumed their assault on my legs, which already bore their marks from the previous night.

I had a joint. I lit it.

Everyone would give me crap about it, but nothing mattered anymore anyways.

“What the fuck, man!”

I flinched and the joint slipped from my fingers, landed on my lap and burned a hole through my pants. “Fuck,” I said, blotting out the burn with my fingers.

Paul was striding up to me with thunder in his face. “You can’t be fucking serious, Jon!”

I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for him to push me out of the chair, but then something changed: he stilled and took a few deep breaths.

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