Page 97 of Exes That Puck
Kara nods like she expected that answer. “I’ve been thinking about us. About why we keep doing this to each other.”
I scratch my head and throw my hands. “And?”
“I think we’re both broken in ways that make each other worse.”
I push off from the door. “So what, you came here to break up with me again? You’re ending it officially now? Breaking up what little we do have left together?”
“No. I came here to tell you something I’ve never told anyone. Not even Payton until today, and she told me that I should tell you, and that maybe you’d understand why I’m like this.”
“Like what?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
She’s quiet for so long I think she’s changed her mind. Then she starts talking, and the words come out in a rush like she’s afraid if she stops, she won’t be able to start again.
She tells me about her mom. Her real mom, who died when she was a baby. About growing up thinking her aunt was her mother, finding out the truth late in high school, learning that her real mom was reckless and self-destructive. About how that knowledge made her question everything about herself.
“I start fights,” she says, tears streaming down her face. “Not because I want to fight, but because I want to see if you’ll leave. If you’ll prove that I’m just like her—too much trouble to love.”
I want to go to her, but something keeps me frozen in place.
“And when you don’t leave, when you fight back and stay, it makes me feel crazy. Like I’m testing you and you keep failing the test by not walking away.”
“That’s fucked up, Kara.”
“I know. I know it’s fucked up. That’s why I’m telling you.” She wipes her face with her sleeve. “I’ve been thinking it was your jealousy, your control issues. And it is, partly. But it’s also me pushing buttons I know will set you off.”
“Yeah.”
“And I figure if you get mad enough, you’ll leave. And then I can tell myself it’s your fault, not mine.”
I sit down on the bed next to her but not touching. “I’m sorry for all of it. It’s not fair.”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry too.”
The pieces start clicking together in my head. All those fights that seemed to come out of nowhere. The way she’d accuse me of lying when I was telling the truth. How she’d get suspicious when I was five minutes late, convinced I was hiding something. The time she went through my phone looking for evidence of cheating that didn’t exist. The way she’d pick at small things until they became massive blowouts.
I always thought she was just being difficult or dramatic. But if she grew up believing love meant being abandoned, if she learned that the people who are supposed to protect you lie to you and put on an act for your entire childhood, then of course she’d approach relationships expecting betrayal.
The night she threw my keys across the room because I didn’t answer my phone during practice. The morning she cried for two hours because I said I was “fine” when she asked how I was, convinced I was shutting her out. The way she’d start argumentsright before important games or big moments, like she was testing whether I’d choose her or hockey.
Even the good times make more sense now. How she’d cling to me after we made up from fights, like she was afraid I’d disappear if she let go. The way she’d ask, “Do you still love me?” multiple times a day, needing constant reassurance that I hadn’t changed my mind.
And my reactions to all of it—getting defensive, getting angry, proving her right that people leave when things get hard. Instead of understanding that she was scared, I made her fear come true by pulling away every time she tested me.
I slide off the bed onto my knees in front of her, looking up at her tear-stained face.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” I say. “I’m sorry no one protected you. I’m sorry you had to grow up not knowing who to trust.”
She looks down at me, surprised.
“At the away game tonight, I was going through hell knowing you might be with Josh. Not because I was jealous, but because I pushed you toward him. I told you to go be with him when what I should have said was that I was scared of losing you.” I take her hands. “The dating thing was working. We were good when we were taking it slow, when we weren’t trying to be everything to each other all at once.”
“Yeah, so what are you saying?”
“I’m saying let’s do that. Take it slow. Go to therapy—together, apart, whatever we need. Work on our shit so we don’t keep hurting each other.”
She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “You really want to try again?”
