I was about to throw up. The bile hit the back of my throat, the sour taste exploding in my mouth. I swallowed it all down. The anger, the shame, the disappointment. Most of all—the humiliation.
So this was what a broken heart felt like. Being stabbed in the soul a thousand times. I was never going to date. Ever.
“He said he doesn’t want to spend his summers here anymore?” I blinked rapidly, narrowly avoiding breaking down in tears. Dad covered his face with his hands, propping his elbows against his desk. He couldn’t see me like this.
“I’m sorry, Arya. I’m sure he cares about you very much. He just doesn’t want things to be . . . complicated. I can respect that. Although I did try and persuade him to stay. Mainly for Ruslana. He is her only son, you see.”
As I digested all of this, I felt my hands shaking in my lap. The sense of betrayal robbed me of my breath. Even though Nicky and I only had the summers, those summers kept me afloat. They filled me with all the good stuff. Made it easier to face the world.
“You’ll forget about him. Right now, it seems like the end of the world, but the truth is, every hello ends in goodbye. You’re so young; you won’t even remember him.”
“I’m going to ask Ruslana for his number,” I heard myself say, ignoring his words. My pride was bruised, but not speaking to Nicky ever again was worse than a tarnished ego. Dad ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper mane, blowing out air.
“She won’t give it to you,” he said sharply. Then, to soften the blow, he explained, “Ruslana is trying to mend the relationship with Nicholai, and right now he wants nothing to do with the Roth family. Rightly so.”
“Because of what you did?” My teeth chattered with rage.
“No. Because he thinks you did this on purpose. He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
This felt like another blow, this time to the place where my soul was tucked. Between the breastbone and the stomach.
“Do you have his father’s address? So I can at least write to him?” I asked, my voice steely, squaring my shoulders. I wasn’t going to give up. Nicky had to know the truth.
“Sure. I’ll write down the address for you. Take it easy when you write to him, okay? Don’t be mad or anything. I feel terrible about how everything unfolded. Hopefully he’ll be able to find his place there.”
No. Hopefully, he’ll crawl back home. To me.
I wanted Nicky to fail.
To admit defeat and come back.
That was the first time I discovered love had another side. Dark and barbed wired. Rusty nailed and full of pus. Poisonous, like me.
“Hey, Dad?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Don’t bother talking to me. As far as I’m concerned—you’re good as dead.”
That night, I wrote Nicky my first letter. It was four pages long and consisted of an apology and an explanation of what had happened that day. I added some pictures of us too. Taken at the pool and in the park. For some reason, I was terrified that he’d forget my face. I handed Ruslana the letter, already stamped, watching carefully for her reaction. My housekeeper’s expression remained stoic as she assured me she would send it in the mail.
Two weeks later, I sent Nicky another letter. This time, I accused him of things. Of ignoring me, of betraying me, of turning his back on our friendship.
The entire time, Dad tried worming his way back into my good graces. Showered me with gifts—a new camera, tickets to Wicked, a handbag most grown women would find too lavish—but I didn’t relent.
The following week, I sent Nicky a third letter, apologizing for letter number two.
The more time went by without a reply, the more my desperation grew. I felt homesick, panicked, swollen with guilt and indignation. If he decided to discard me so easily, maybe he deserved my pestering. My pride—already as fragile as a thorn crown—was torn into ribbons. All I wanted was to speak to Nicky. To hear his voice. To see his lopsided grin once again as he quipped at me with another sarcastic remark.
I spent the first four months of my freshman year writing to him. His answer arrived in the form of an unwelcome present the day before Christmas: all my letters, stamped with my return address, still sealed and unopened.
And so, finally, I broke.
He didn’t want to talk to me. Hear from me. Be reminded of my existence.
Meanwhile, Dad was lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on a chance to reconcile.
“I’m so sorry,” he would say. “I would do anything to make this better.”
The months had passed, but my anger hadn’t. I barely saw my dad that year, making plans every evening and weekend and not including him in them.
One day, when the Nicky-shaped hole in my chest felt particularly hollow, Dad walked past my room on his way to the master bedroom. I was flung over my bed, staring at nothing.
“What’s so interesting about it?” he asked. “The ceiling.”
“No better view in this rotten house.” I sounded like a brat, and I knew it.
“Get up. I’ll show you a view.”
“You’ve already shown me plenty.” We both knew I was referring to Nicky. Dude was still taking over my every thought.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” Dad coaxed, his voice pleading.
“Doubt it.” I huffed. While my anger toward him had not diminished, I’d also come to realize that I didn’t have anyone other than Jillian to lean on. My high school friends were casual, and my relatives lived far away.
“Give me a shot.” He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “You’re either going to give it to me today or next month or next year. But I will make you forgive me. Make no mistake about that.”
“Fine,” I was surprised to hear myself say. “But don’t think we’re going to be cool with each other after or something.”
He took me to the Met Cloisters, to see medieval art and architecture. We strolled shoulder to shoulder, silent the whole time.
“You know,” Dad said when we got to the tomb effigies, “there are more of those in Westminster Abbey. My favorite one is of Queen Elizabeth the First. I could take you to see it, if you’d like.”