Page 43 of Salvation
Somewhere in the back of my head, I know there’s a reason I should stop this—probably a good reason—but I’ve felt unloved since I was nine. And Campbell, he makes me feel so much more than loved. So I chase after that feeling a little more, kissing him harder until that voice of reason is smothered out in the heat.
Chapter 22
Campbell
My phone has been blowing up with texts from my parents and Hayes. I’ve texted them both back exactly once, asking that they give me time and assuring them that I’m fine.
I’m not fine, but that’s no surprise. I haven’t been fine for a long time, but I’m still here, breathing even though each drag of air into my lungs feels like I’m dying.
I ignore their calls and texts as I lie in bed and stare at my ceiling, praying to God, even though it feels like he doesn’t hear me. Eventually, I force myself to get up because I’m terrified of the thoughts running through my head—and that fear far outweighs the exhaustion in my body, at least for now.
Shoving myself up, I plant my feet on the ground and stand, only to realize it’s been two days since I’ve eaten anything. The world spins, and I reach out for the wall, holding onto it as I shake my head to clear away the dizziness.
My stomach growls, but cooking anything feels like too big a task right now. So I settle for a peanut butter sandwich instead.
Opening the utensil drawer, I reach for a butter knife, only to find I’m out. Dishes are piled high in my sink, needing to be done long before now, but I don’t even bother looking that way. Instead, I pull out a steak knife and slam the drawer shut before grabbing the rest of the ingredients and carrying themover to the kitchen counter, where a window looks out over my backyard.
My body is on autopilot as I set the stuff down and stare out the window, trying to convince myself to open the jar and make the sandwich.
I’ll do it in three…two…one…Still, I don’t move.
Tears burn my eyes, but I don’t let a single one drop. Falling apart in my mom’s lap as a grown man was bad enough. Men don’t cry. I heard my father say that plenty of times growing up, but I wonder if what he really meant is that men don’t feel. If that’s the case, I’m failing at that, too, because I feel everything and nothing all at once.
A sharp pain slices through my palm, and I look down to find my hand clenched around the blade of the knife. I hadn’t realized I was still holding on to it.
Slowly, I unfurl my fingers, and the knife clatters to the counter. There’s a jagged wound on my palm that’s starting to bleed, and I watch it with fascination, willing the blood to flow a little faster. It trickles down my hand and wraps around my wrist. I flex my fingers in and out, making it bleed more. I am captivated by how my hand throbs instead of my chest.
Without thinking, I reach for the knife again and bring it to my wrist. The blade sinks in, piercing my skin, and I watch, no longer hurting.
Before the knife can press too far, though, my phone rings, and I jump, coming back to reality.
Anger and shame course through my veins, and I place the knife back on the counter, backing away from it like it’s a bomb when in reality, I’m the bomb—seconds away from detonating at any given time.
I can feel my heart beating in my hand, pushing blood out of each wound, but I don’t look at it again. Running to the bathroom, I flip on the light and turn on the sink, shoving myhand underneath it and watching as red fills the bowl, washing away the evidence of how broken I am. When the blood is no longer flowing, I turn the faucet back off and open my medicine cabinet, grabbing some gauze to wrap my hand.
One that’s taken care of, I pull my phone from the pocket in my sweatpants, expecting it to be another text from my mother or Hayes, but it’s not. Ivy’s name fills the screen, followed by three words.
Ivy:I need you.
Those three words are all it takes for me to sprint out my door and to my truck. I don’t think about what I’m doing or even what I’m wearing. I just drive, breaking every speed limit to get to her. When I get there, I throw my truck in park and take off running across her drive. I don’t bother stopping at the door. I barge in, my heart expecting the worst because that’s what my head always plans for.
“Ivy,” I call. My voice echoes off the walls, carrying through her home, and when it remains quiet, I yell again.
Movement to my right catches my attention, and I turn just in time to see Ivy come into view from down a side hallway. My eyes scan over her, reassuring myself that she’s okay—at least physically. I don’t think either of us has been okay mentally for the past sixteen years. We each bear scars of other people’s decisions, the ones that were taken from us. Those scars may look different on each of us, but underneath, they are there all the same.
I start at her feet, finding pink-painted toes sticking out beneath flared blue jeans, and drag my eyes upward, taking my time with my assessment. When I finally reach her face and there’s no sign of injury, my heart slows down—at least until I meet her eyes. They are full of tears, but I can’t tell if they are happy or sad.
“You—uh—you texted me?” I ask. It’s half statement, half question. Ivy doesn’t answer immediately. She chews on her bottom lip, and I try not to notice. But it’s impossible not to notice Ivy. You can’t ignore the sun. I step forward, needing to be in her orbit in the same way I need air to breathe. Inevitably, without any ability to control it. I stop two inches from her, but I don’t touch her. Not yet. “What is it, sunshine? What’s going on?”
“I didn’t know what to do, Campbell. She showed up, and I—” she stops, and with each slow shake of her head, my stomach drops. “I just didn’t know what to do.”
“Who showed up, Ivy?”
Before she can answer, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and turn my head to look. Then I freeze.
For all the scenarios I came up with on the way over here, being met with a younger version of Ivy staring back at me was not one of them.
Two versions of the same girl, standing side by side. Past and present mesh together. The girl I used to love, and the version I have no right to. It’s a shock to my system. I can’t decide if my chest is caving in or being put back together.
