Page 73 of The Dirty Saint

I recently read a quote that says, “Grief is the price we pay for love.” How ironic.

I know I have a past and secrets that follow me around and enough baggage to weigh someone else down. It’s just that I’ve always thought that someone out there must have a fucked-up enough heart to want me.

Dr. Safiya tells me that I have a history of falling in love with the people that have hurt me because I’ve never seen myself as someone deserving of happiness. She’s probably right. But the people who have hurt meare also the ones that are the most broken and it’s easy to relate to someone when you, yourself, aren’t put together.

I feel like I keep repeating myself. Saying the same things over and over again, hoping to get a new outcome. I wish my life were a freaking movie where I can create the script and everything on the page can come true. Maybe then my tears wouldn’t smudge the still-wet ink.

I’m trying. I’m trying really hard to heal and to glue whatever pieces I have left back together. But it isn’t working. I am still having nightmares. I can still feel Caleb, Tono, Killian, and Dom inside me as if they never left.

Is this how it’s going to be forever? Am I always going to be one step away from falling apart?

If that’s the case, at one point, do I just accept it and move on?

* * *

“This is really good, Ez. Did you write this?”

I grab Noah’s toys and place them in the bin tucked in the crook of my arm. “What are you doing here, Mom?”

“I came to apologize.”

I sneer. “I’m sure you did. Now, tell me, what’s Dad doing in my driveway?”

My mother looks around and then follows my gaze to the window. I make sure to point out the car lights.

“Unless you suddenly stopped being able to drive, I don’t see why Dad had to come all the way here.”

My mother fiddles with her fingers, uneasy.

“He wanted to see you and Noah.”

I place the toy-filled bin on the floor in the closet and close the doors shut.

“He was with us last night.”

Giselle Maya shrugs.

“I guess he wanted to be with you again.”

I roll my eyes until they’re sore.

My mother really thinks that I don’t know her all these years later. That I don’trecognizeher tried and true habits as if they haven’t been what has driven a wedge between the two of us.

It was either that or my conception.

“Ezra, I want you to know that I’m…sorry.”

My mother walks towards me, but I raise my hands to stop her from coming closer.

“Ezra—”

“Please, don’t,” I say.

“What—”

“I need some space to breathe.” I walk towards the fridge. “And to think.”

My mother sits down on the couch, motioning for me to do the same. When I refuse, concern makes its way onto her face.

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