Page 26 of The Consequence of Loving Me

Aspen and Selma are both gone—thank fuck.

I had gone downstairs to see if Veronica was home or not. My eyes were scanning over a newspaper at the kitchen bar this morning when Tristan made the walk of shame. He opened the door to the basement with a shit eating grin on his face. There was no shame, only pure glee. His hair was all over the place, making it evident that Veronica’s hands had run through it and pulled it every which way. His clothes were wrinkled, probably from being on the ground all night.

When they were whispering to each other last night, I wasn’t expecting them to leave the game halfway through it.

I went with a warm cup of coffee in hand to see if she was downstairs this morning.

My foot was about to step off the last stair when I heard the first sob. It stopped me in my place, my foot midair. I thought my ears were playing tricks on me. I didn’t think Veronica was capable of having an emotion as strong as the despair echoing through the basement. Another sob came. My hand clenched the coffee mug, my stomach doing the same. The heart wrenching sound pulled at something inside me.

Veronica’s bedroom door swung open next and I took a step back at the image I saw.

She was completely naked, not a strip of clothing on her. I barely noticed her body. My eyes were too busy taking in the turmoil on her face. Grief was written in every line. The wetness of her cheeks and neck glistened under the basement lights as she ran to the bathroom. The door slammed and a few seconds later, I heard the sound of the shower turning on.

Even though the basement was no longer silent, filled with the sound of cascading water, I could still hear the sounds of her crying over the noise. My mind told me to move, to run up the stairs and pretend nothing happened, but my body wouldn’t move from that last step.

I was trying to process it all. The tears that ran down her face, covering her neck. The way she was scratching at her body. The way her body shook with grief. I couldn’t unsee it. I couldn’t wipe it from my brain.

The next sob set me on edge, shook me from my thoughts. I ran up the stairs like a bat out of hell, barely registering that my hand was getting burnt by the hot coffee sloshing around. Now, my forehead is resting against the cold wooden door. My heart slams against my chest, my mind racing in every direction.

My hands are on either side of my head, pushing against the door like I’m trying to push the thoughts away. But I can’t shake it.

I wonder if Tristan did this to her. If I find out he had something to do with this kind of sorrow, I will probably lose my shit. I’ve never felt this kind of anger toward anybody before besides Selma’s father.

Whoever broke her down like this has my fists clenching against the door—and I don’t even know why.

I can still hear the sound of the running water beneath me. I wonder if she’s still in there, falling apart. I try not to acknowledge the fact that the sight of endless tears running down her cheeks has unraveled me like this.

Selma’s tears make me feel protective.

Veronica’s tears have just gutted me.

Maybe it’s because I had her pinned so well in my mind. The ice queen. The brat. The girl who wants nothing to do with anyone. Maybe it’s because I’m just now realizing how wrong I was. There is something in there, deep inside of her, that hurts. So loudly, it rumbles the whole house.

I’m still internally losing my shit when the water turns off. I imagine her wiping her tears and drying off with a towel. If I was a betting guy, I’d surmise that Veronica will get dressed and zip that sadness up like she zips up her pink combat boots. That she will come upstairs and keep pretending she has no feelings whatsoever.

Not wanting to miss her when she decides to come up—in case she wants to talk about it—I grab my laptop and set up shop on our living room couch. I’m anxious, my fingers drumming against my knee, my heart thundering in my chest.

Twenty minutes go by before I hear her soft footsteps coming up the stairs.

I start typing on my laptop, pretending to be busy. The words that fill the screen don’t even make sense, but she won’t know that.

“Good morning,” I mumble, keeping my eyes on my computer screen and not on her.

She doesn’t respond, choosing to walk into the kitchen and rifle around instead. I sneak a glance once I feel like she’s busy enough to not notice me looking at her. Her back is to me as she reaches into the cabinet for a bowl. Her long hair is wet and tangled down her back.

When she makes her next motion, I train my eyes back on the laptop in front of me. The sound of cereal being dumped into the ceramic bowl fills my ears. That and the sound of my fingers racing against the keyboard, still forming jumbled words.

“What happened to your hand?” she asks.

My eyes shoot up and find her standing right next to me—so close I can smell her shampoo or body wash. I look down at my hand, following her gaze, and find bright red splotches on my skin.

Burns from the coffee.

The coffee I spilled after you spilled your heart out.

Part of me wants to lie and make up a story about where I got it from. But I can’t. Because seeing her in pain like that makes me feel like I have to ask her if she’s okay. “I spilled coffee on it. Look, I had gone downstairs to check on you and I—”

“I won’t talk about it, Maverick.” Her spoon circles around in her bowl before she picks it up and shovels a bite into her mouth.

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