Page 68 of The Consequence of Loving Me

“You’re scared, and baby, I get why you’re scared—I do. I’m scared, too. I don’t want to lose you, but I would rather have you for a little while than never at all. I would rather have any moment life will give me with you than play it safe. It’s scary to know there’s no rhyme or reason why infants get cancer, why people abuse animals, why parents leave their children, why people fight wars they want no part in. There’s absolutely none. We can’t make sense of why things happen the way they do, but we also can’t blame ourselves for every hideous thing in this world. Because there’s a lot. And one person can’t handle it all. So, I need you to stop blaming yourself for Connor’s death and realize that people just die because they do.”

Part of me understands what he’s saying. I know I need to leave the pain I associate with Connor in the past and move on, keeping only the happy memories of the two of us. I have to let go of what happened to him and forgive myself, because Maverick is right. Connor’s gone, but I’m still here. And I know, with every part of me, that if there’s something beyond this messed up world we live in that allows Connor to be looking down on me, he’d be disappointed by my actions.

A large part of me understands all of it. That part of me wants to drop this fight with Maverick and run into his arms and tell him even though it was quick and unexpected, I have strong feelings for him, too. I desperately want to tell him he isn’t alone in this.

But I’m terrified.

I’m absolutely petrified that I will ruin Maverick somehow. It’s what I seem to do. So, even though my limbs desperately want to wrap around him, I hold back. I hurt him more—to protect him. “It was just sex for me, Maverick.”

His body jerks like I punched him in the chest. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it while he looks at the ceiling. I’ve hurt him so much he can’t even look me in the eye.

I stand next to the old couch we explored each other on in nothing but his T-shirt. My hands play with the fabric at the bottom, twisting it. With every twist of the shirt, I feel my heart twist inside of me. I try to think of something else to say to him, something we won’t be able to come back from, but he beats me to it.

“Destroy what destroys you.” He recites the words that are tattooed on my body. The words that his fingers—and tongue—have traced many times.

But this time, it doesn’t give me butterflies. Now, all the butterflies inside me are dead. My stomach feels heavy, full with the weight of his words.

His gaze finds mine and I do something right for the first time in my life. I look him in the eyes and allow him to say what he needs to. It’ll kill me later to think of this anguish and regret on his face, but I know whatever he’s about to say is important to him. So, even though it kills me to look into those ocean eyes, I do. For him.

“The first time I read those words on your body, I was confused,” he says. “When you told me love destroyed you, I couldn’t comprehend why you would want to destroy it. The ironic thing here is that you told me from the beginning that you wanted to destroy love, but I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to believe you. And I want to feel shitty about it, but I don’t. Because even after all this, Veronica, it’s you I feel bad for. This will hurt me for a long time, but I’m strong enough to know that love heals. It doesn’t destroy. Your pain, that’s what destroys.

“I thought maybe if you allowed me to love you, I could heal you. But I was wrong. You’re too busy with your illusions. I feel bad for you. It’s easy to let the pain in, to let the pain win. But you know what’s harder? To love. Because loving someone—even if there might be consequences—takes strength. I have that strength, but I can’t say the same for you. Love didn’t destroy you, Veronica. Pain did. Insecurities did. Guilt did. Love is the only thing that can heal you, but you’re too scared to heal. So, go destroy somebody else’s heart.”

He doesn’t say it with malice.

I know he’s done when he walks up to me and presses a lingering kiss to my forehead. A gesture that obliterates every piece of my heart. The pieces of me he put together have just shattered all over again, but this time into even more pieces than before. Maverick keeps his warm lips against my head long enough for me to almost ask him to stay.

But before my words can come out, and before he can see the tears fall from my eyes, he walks up the stairs and leaves me there—silently sobbing, too scared to even watch him walk away.

The slamming of the door opens up the flood gates of my heart.

I fall to the ground, the sobs taking over me.

37

Maverick

Hours later, the knot in my stomach still hasn’t disappeared. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind retracing every step that led me here. The sun is now peeking through my window. It reminds me of yesterday morning—when I woke up with Veronica in my arms. I was happy. She was giggling, fucking giggling. Her guard was down and it was beautiful.

Twenty-four hours later and things have drastically changed.

I don’t know if I’ll ever wake up with her in my arms again, but I don’t regret telling her how I feel. I do, however, regret the way I foolishly ignored her warnings not to fall for her.

I wanted to prove her wrong.

In my heart, I thought we could be different.

I thought I could teach her how to forgive herself, to put herself out there again—that she was worth it. But all I taught her was that she couldn’t even be just friends with a guy, because our friendship turned into more—a more I couldn’t come back from.

I could never look at her again as just a friend.

Once I put the puzzle of her together, I realized I couldn’t settle for pieces anymore. I needed the whole picture or nothing at all.

She chose nothing.

A car door slams. It sends my body into action. My feet hit the soft carpet before I can really think about it. I reach the window, my eyes taking in a sight that sends the final blow to my heart.

Veronica, in front of her car, her back facing my window as she shoves a pink duffle bag into her front seat. She’s got on those boots that caught my attention the day I met her. Who knew those same boots would be the boots she'd run away from me in?

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