Page 85 of The Love Losers

No one but myself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ANTHONY

Rosie is leaving, and the ring is back in its box, doomed to slumber there until the next Smith decides to marry.

And maybe that’s how it should be. I said terrible things to her. I punched a wall in front of her. She probably thinks I’m crazy or violent orlike him, but the thought of someone hurting her because of me was—is—unbearable. It’s even worse that the threat came from Nina, who’s already done her best to ruin my life once.

I wanted to feel the sharp burst of pain in my fist, because it was an echo of what was going on inside of me.

I’d thought the pain would be a distraction, and my heart would go back to sleep, or turn to stone again. But it hasn’t. Ithurts.

Rosie woke me up, and now I don’t know how to go back to sleep, and I’m going to be left in this cold, hard world without her.

After I hear her car leave, taking her away from me, I take deep breaths and pack up the rest of the spilled basket. But I can’t bring myself to go inside. So instead I sit on the floor of the rose garden, numb yet hurting, and cradle my hand to my chest, letting the ghosts win.

Thinking of what Rosie looked like when she called herself a fuckup.

Thinking of my own words:“You never think about things do you? You just do them and let other people clean up the mess.”

I lift my hands to my head, probably smearing blood all over my face but not caring. Because what the fuck is the matter with me?

Rosie’s impulsiveness is what I like best about her.

It’s what I’ve lacked my whole life.

Letting it back in over the past couple of weeks has been a revelation.

But my father saw impulsiveness as an infection of weak minds—and he ismyinfection. I haven’t been cured of him yet, it seems. He keeps creeping back into mind when I want him there the least.

I’m ashamed of myself.

Deeply ashamed.

Why didn’t you go after Rosie, you idiot?

Why didn’t you do something?

Why did you stand there like a statue and let her walk away from you?

The top of the apple tree peeks over the side of this garden, and it feels like my father is watching me. He’d laugh, probably. I imagine he’d be pleased as hell to know his influence is still felt here all these years after he blended with the roots of that tree.

The apple tree sickened after we spread his ashes, the branches become gnarled and unhealthy, the fruit spotted. None of us commented on it to each other, but I know we all noticed. We felt him, twining under the ground in the roots, lifting up to the sun in those branches.

We felt him, hiding in the shadows inside of our house, watching us and judging.

I saw him, again and again, falling from that tree.

They say his neck snapped instantly, upon landing, and I know it’s true, because his eyes were open and staring by the time I got to him. They were empty of him.

If it weren’t for my father’s will, I could be with Rosie.

If it weren’t for his will, I’d befree.

I think about the last day he was alive…

I think about Simon and the final talks that are due to happen the week after my “wedding,” which will end with my dream being bulldozed…

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