Page 111 of Hold Me Today

“I’m having a moment.”

Effie slides her gaze down over my outfit. “Understatement of the century, I think.”

“It’s your brother’s fault.”

“My brother made you come here looking like that? He’s not heartless. And you should really burn that sweatshirt. The stain is unfortunate.”

Ignoring her side commentary, I dig through my purse for Nick’s email. Like it’s a Wanted ad and I’m not sure I want to touch it, I pinch the corner between my thumb and forefinger. “Do you see this?”

My best friend looks from me to the paper and back to me again. “Do I need to get my glasses for this?”

“Yes.”

Effie nods, then tilts her head to the side. “Should I bust out the Tito’s too?”

“Might as well.” I plunk down on her sofa, kicking off my mismatched sneakers, and smooth the email over my lap. The words stare back at me, all blurring together. For once, it’s not my dyslexia playing tricks on me. Nope, that would be emotion bubbling its way up to the surface and threatening its presence with a possible tear. Or two. “Do you have tissues?”

“Are you planning to cry?” Effie asks, not sounding at all horrified by the prospect.

“I might, I don’t know.”

It’s probably best that she doesn’t know I’ve been a crying mess all week. Because what thirty-year-old woman canfeelthe most important words of her life inside her heart but can’t find the strength to say them out loud?

As Effie trots off to grab our—my—supplies, I envision Nick as he uttered the words that tilted my world on its axis:and I certainly wouldn’t do it to the woman I love. Since the age of six, I’ve seen my best friend’s older brother impassive, I’ve seen him throw his head back in laughter, I’ve seen him so hot for me that I’m sure I’ll combust at first contact. But I’ve never seen him like he was on our last night in Maine.

Resigned.

Like he’d already expected my response.

Only, words, as they always have, failed me when I needed totellhim—not show, as is my habit—that I care so damn much that I felt crippled when he walked out that door.

Rock bottom, you’re a goddamn bitch.

“Here.”

On cue, the bottle of Tito’s appears before me. I take it from Effie with a pathetic sniff, twisting the top off and tossing it on the glass coffee table. “Please, read this.” I slip the paper from my lap and place it down on the cushion to my right. “And then feel free to tell me how much of an idiot I am.”

The sofa sinks with Effie’s weight. Quietly, she picks up the email her brother sent me. She says nothing as she reads and I do nothing but stare at the label on the vodka bottle, unable to suck down any of the booze.

I don’t want to wash away the pain.

That’s been my lifelong M.O. Anytime the hurt and sadness and frustration has carved another notch in my flesh, I’ve shut it down and focused onAgapeand on the dream. If Nick is my kryptonite, then my hair salon is my crutch.

Put all your love and hopes into the dream and nothing else can disappoint you. Not your parents or your peers who don’t believe in you. Not anyone.

Until I disappointed myself by chasing Nick away.

My socked toes curl in as I lean forward and put the vodka on the table. “Your brother loves me, Ef,” I say to my best friend, my voice hollow.

I hear the paper crinkle in her grasp. “I know.”

“And I’m an asshole.” I don’t dab at my eyes or reach for a tissue, even when tears well up behind my eyes. “I’m that asshole who juststoodthere while he opened up. I wanted to say the words. They were there and they were ready and I-I couldn’t sayanything.”

There have been many times over the years when the words wouldn’t come and I stammered and clammed up. Visions of Greek school flit before me, one embarrassing moment after another of impatient faces and tapping feet. Other memories, too, of hearing my dad berate me for whatever it was that day, and yet me saying nothing at all.

From a young age, words—and, yes, sometime speech—have never been my friends.

But as I darted in front of Nick to beg him to stay, I have never felt so betrayed by my body as I did in that moment. He accused me of wanting to run, and he’s not wrong. Idid, Ido, but only because I’m tired, so damn tired, of feeling like there’s something so intrinsically wrong with me.

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