Page 41 of The Consequence of Loving Me

“So that’s why you were glaring at that note the day we first met?” he asks.

What the fuck?

Did he hear anything I just said?

Did he not see the fucking embarrassing tears escaping out of my eyes? And he’s asking about a flyer?

All I can do is nod, too confused to do anything else.

He thinks over it for a minute, like he’s working everything out in his mind. I try to find what’s running through it right now. His hands are still on me, so he can’t be completely repulsed by my actions.

But I spoke too soon because his hands lift off my hips then. They stay suspended in the air for a moment. I stare at them, already missing the weight of them against me.

And then he does something that turns my world upside down.

Those large hands go to both of my cheeks and cup them, his fingers curling around the back of my head and landing in my hair. He pulls my face against his. We’re forehead to forehead again—our eyes pinned on the other person.

“Veronica, you messed up. You made a mistake—a mistake that had a very large consequence—and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that happened to you. No one should have to go through that. But it isn’t all your fault. We all make decisions that affect others. It’s part of life. You made yours and Connor made his. It sounds like Connor’s decision was to be in that water, to swim deeper, and it cost him his life. And I hate that that happened to the two of you, I do.

“But you need to learn to forgive yourself for what happened. Because if you truly were selfish, you wouldn’t carry all this guilt with you, years later. Forgive yourself for the mistake you made. Forgive yourself because you are here and Connor isn’t, and even though I know you would’ve rather been the person to have drowned, you didn’t. So all you can do is be a person Connor would have been proud to love. Be that person, Veronica.”

At that, I’m a puddle of emotions. My first impulse is to lash out at him, to say something to make him understand that it is all my fault, but I don’t. Instead, I turn his words over in my head. My eyes close, unable to look at him another moment longer. I’m too overcome. There are too many things happening at once. I want to retreat. I need to retreat.

He must see the fear written all over my face because he doesn’t stay and pin me down for my answers.

No, he does something worse.

He brings his lips to my forehead and presses those imperfect lips right between my eyebrows.

And then he leaves.

He leaves because he just read me like an open book.

He leaves, and I think a little piece of my messed up heart leaves with him.

22

Veronica

I paint all night. My heart pours out onto the countless canvases I fill.

Green eyes.

Blue eyes.

Eyebrow scars.

Lip scars.

My mind doesn’t even keep track of the time. The only things I focus on are my paintbrushes and the canvas. Every feeling overtaking me is added to the canvas. The hate, despair, guilt, loathing, pity, love, want, hope, all painted in many different colors.

The shades of my emotions.

After I run out of paint, I finally step back and look around at them. They’re scattered all over my bedroom. It looks like a gallery of my life. Of my obsessions.

Of imperfections.

And for once, mine are included on display. It’s odd. I’ve always been so used to capturing others’ imperfections that it never even occurred to me to paint my own. But after speaking with Maverick, I felt the impulse to capture my own. To put them on display—as my decision, the way I wanted them put out there.

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