Page 169 of Splintered Hearts

Go there.

Please.

I love you.

Setting the letter down, I take a breath and look out the window. I want to resist, to throw it away, to forget I even got it. Instead, I turn my car on because Jamie is right—I’m curious and I love games.

Walking into the restaurant this time of day is weird. They’re just opening, and while the place is reservation only, it’s basically dead. “Excuse me,” a man says. “We don’t have reservations until five. We’ve just opened.”

“Noah.” A woman’s voice floats through the space. It’s the hostess from the night Jamie crashed my terrible date. She glares at her coworker before reaching into her apron and pulling out another white envelope. “Just wait here one moment.”

Disappearing toward the double doors, she leaves us in awkward silence. “Do these pants make my butt look good?” That makes his scowl deepen. “I thought so too.”

After a moment she returns with a bag. “Here you go. Enjoy.” I take the bag and thank her, walking out to find a bench to sit on. It’s quiet out here right now. Being raised in the city there was always constant chaos around me. I really do like this small-town life.

I settle in, opening the envelope as a stupid smile spreads on my face.

Hi,

This one is going to be long so I thought you could use some food. I know you’re probably starving after work. It’s not as good as mine, jarred sauce and all, and even though you probably hate me I would appreciate you still not telling my mother about that. I really fucking would. I’m already in the worst pain of my life, missing you. I don’t need that on top of it. Go ahead and eat. I’m not going anywhere.

Setting down the letter, I open the container, seeing stuffed shells. The memories of the night we made them make my chest ache. Taking the plastic fork, I dig in. It’s not ideal, actually kind of awkward on this bench, but I manage to eat a few before setting it down and grabbing the letter.

Jamie’s right. His is better.

I remember being really little the first time my birth mother told me she hated me. I don’t remember why she said it or even if it was the only time, only that she was screaming about something I’d done. I don’t know. I just remember her saying that and it broke me. I was used to beatings. I was used to the screaming and punishments. That, though, I don’t know. That stuck with me. I could believe that the beatings and punishments were her teaching me. That she was just disciplining me because she wanted me to behave. Hearing she hated me confirmed every fear I’d had.

I was eight when I went into foster care, and for the next eight years I bounced from home to home. Until I met Luci and Xavier. Earlier that day my foster mother broke my wrist. I know she didn’t mean to break it and I didn’t tell her it was. It was so weird because she was violent but even that day sheknew she’d gone too far. She grabbed for me and I left the house and ran. I lived a town over so I took the bus here. I ran to the library—it was my safe place. Every day, if I could, I’d escaped and gone there until they closed, and I didn’t know this but Lia had been keeping an eye on me for a while.

On that day, I ran. My wrist was throbbing and I came inside and went straight to the bathroom because, well, I’d peed myself while she was beating me. Didn’t even realize it until I walked into the library. I was also calculating how long it would take to walk home because I was not about to go back on that bus and face that kind of shame. So I stood there, embarrassed as fuck, not knowing what to do. What sixteen-year-old pees their pants? I just wanted to go to my corner and draw until someone kicked me out.

Then the door opened and Xavier walked in with a bag. I was really confused. I’d seen him with his sister, Luci. Oh, I noticed her. It was hard not to. She was beautiful. Curly dark hair that she kept in a messy bun or braids and shimmering brown eyes. She loved art too. She was a way better artist than I am. She loved to paint. Sometimes she would sit at a table across from me and paint. Sometimes she’d catch me staring.

I was in love, or at least ...

I thought I was.

Xavier came into the bathroom and gave me the bag, and I looked inside and found clothes. Lia eventually told me she’d noticed my clothes were dirty whenever I’d come in. She tried to guess my size and kept clothes for me just in case I needed them.

I took them. Back then they had these community showers for anyone to use discreetly. They got rid of them a few years back for safety reasons, but I showered, then changed and walked out. With the adrenaline gone just the pain was left. I walked to my corner, wrist swollen as fuck, and sat down. I tried to draw. Tried harder not to cry.

Finally Lia came over and talked with me.

The rest is history.

I don’t really know why I’m telling you all of that other than to say this. I’ve felt safe and at home with two people in my life.

Lia and you.

You are my safe place. Simple as that. Yet while you’ve been my safe place, I haven’t been yours. That guts me, and I can’t believe I treated you that way. I want to be your safe place too. I don’t want you to feel like you’re walking on eggshells or afraid to tell me things. I need to get better, and since starting online therapy I’ve been putting the work in. I’m not there yet, but I’m going to be. I have to be. For you I will do absolutely anything I have to, to be worthy. I want to give you a soft place to land too.

When you’re done eating shells that are not as good as mine—and even if they are, lie to me because I’m at my breaking point and cannot take any more, and I honestly need this win—when you’re done, go to that heathen you call a best friend.

He has something for you.

I hope.

He could be a dick and not give it to you.

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