Page 71 of Break You

“There’s more.”

“How can there be? This is enough. No, it’s too much. I can’t take any more.”

“I know it’s a lot, but I have to say this, then you’ll know everything, and you can decide what to do on that basis.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“I lied about Question #8. The most significant moment of my life was when I went shopping with my nanny at the time to pick out a gift for a child in need. I’d picked the blue skates for myself and pink for the mystery kid. All the way home I’d asked her questions about the little girl: Who was she? Where did she live? Why didn’t she have things of her own? On and on… The nanny didn’t know the answers to most of them, but I couldn’t stop thinking and wondering about that girl.

“I put the photo in the box and wrote on the back of it, because one of the few recollections I had of my mom before she left was that she used to sing me an old song called Somebody Loves You, at bedtime each night. Her version of a lullaby, I guess. Years after she’d left, I’d cling to those words when I felt alone. When I was really young, I used to tell myself it meant she’d come back to get me, and when that didn’t seem likely, I just hoped that wherever she was, she still thought about me, still loved me, like I loved her.”

I studied her face before continuing, reaching out to wipe away a tiny tear from her cheek. She kissed into my palm.

“That day changed my life because it changed yours. If it stopped you doing what you were planning on doing and helped our paths cross in this twisted web of crazy coincidences we’re now caught up in, all these years later, then that was the most significant moment. Bar none.”

“Well, while we’re all about confessions, now is probably a good time to mention that there are also things I didn’t tell you, as well.”

“You said you were over riddles, now it’s you talking in them. What are you talking about?

“I knew it was you who gave me the skates.”

What? “How could you?”

“Well, apart from the fact that you still look almost identical to that cute and innocent nine-year-old boy, I’ve studied that photo so much, that every tiny element of it is burned into my mind. Even if I never saw it again, I could recreate it from memory, down to the most minute detail—the sparkling azure of your eyes, the cute rash of freckles decorating your little button nose, the cow’s lick tipping up the front of your hair, and the tiny, wonky, heart-shaped birthmark between your thumb and index finger…”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. There was something achingly familiar about you from the very first moment in the bathroom at Trinity Hall, and every time I looked into your eyes after that, the sense of déjà vu gnawed at me, but I pushed the feeling down. I don’t believe in fate, or kismet, or even coincidence, so to think that the douche who was making my life hell, and the little boy who’d inadvertently saved it, were one and same, wasn’t an idea I was prepared to entertain. Then, that first time at the bar, I looked down at your hand as you plunged it into me, and I saw the birthmark, and the nagging feeling I had about you turned into an eardrum-shattering roar I could no longer ignore. You saved me.”

“That’s not true, Angry Girl. The fact is, you saved yourself. But what I don’t get is why you didn’t tell me.”

“Not that it’s something to be proud of, but the point is, that all three of us have been guilty of lying—some more than others—I’m not blameless. But what was I going to say? That I’ve been in love with you since I was seven years old? That a photo of you was my most-treasured possession—not the skates, though they were a very close second? That I used to look at that healthy, happy, wealthy little boy, and tell myself he’d written that message specifically for me? That I’d spent hours making up stories in my head about what his life was like—where he lived, where he went to school, how he spent his time—and I’d imagined myself in it.”

“Wow. That’s epic.”

“I know, but that’s not all. I told myself the little boy was going to come for me one day, and take me to his mansion, with his maids, and servants, and millions of toys, and soft clean beds, and delicious food, and ponies, and boarding school, and beautiful parents who loved him.”

“Well, that part was definitely pure fantasy.”

She winced.

“Yeah, it’s strange to think about it, knowing what I know now. I’d tell myself we’d fall in love, and get married, and have babies, and live happily ever after. Even after I was well past the age when I knew none of that bullshit was ever going to happen, and I’d stopped wanting it, part of me still clung to the dream in some small form, which is probably part of the reason I’ve kept the photo to this day. Not because I still genuinely thought my savior was coming, but, because it represented the one source of hope and positivity in my life for so long. It was the closest thing I’d ever get to a fairytale. Even though it was based on a fantasy, not reality, I loved you before I ever knew you.”

“Then once you knew me, you hated me. The irony is strong with us.”

“I didn’t hate you.” Her voice was barely audible.

“What?”

“I didn’t hate you. I hated what you represented—and in many ways I still do. I hated that I didn’t hate you. I hated that I fell for the reality of you as quickly as I’d fallen for the idea of you when we were kids. I hated that I could love you. Do love you.” It was her turn to stare at the ground now, as though she’d just dropped her last nickel.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear what you said. Can you repeat it, please?”

“I hated that I love you.” She mumbled again, and though I could hear her, I was enjoying toying with her.

“Still really quiet over there. What was that last part?”

She sighed as though the nickel had just rolled down the drain, but spoke more loudly this time. “I love you.”

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