Caleb tries to remind me that, for all Lizzie knows, I am only Connected to Jonah, that to everyone I am nothing to Kellan save a friend and his future sister-in-law. But this explanation isn’t enough for me to pick up the phone.
I smash and rebuild a vase my mother gifted me (when I was nine, an age where vases are inappropriate and unwanted as gifts) repeatedly, each time harder than the last. I keep hoping that the smashing will take the misery away, but it doesn’t.
I have never felt so alone in my life.
My parents don’t want me.
Jonah is far away.
And Kellan . . . Kellan has a girlfriend.
I struggle to breathe. I choke and gasp, and Caleb threatens to come to Annar immediately. A full-blown panic attack takes hold and I curl in a ball on the ground, wanting to breathe, wanting to stop crying, wanting to do anything at all but wallow in this misery.
How can anyone want a Connection? How can anyone ever want this? It’s a curse. A fucking curse. What a joke. Fate is a sick, sick bastard.
But I focus long enough to tell Caleb to stay put, because even though he’s in my head, I don’t want anyone seeing me like this. Even him.
He frets silently, sending me thoughts of love. While they’re appreciated, they’re nothing compared to the fact that someone I love, someone I’m Connected to, is with someone other than me.
And it’s ridiculous. I’m aware of this. I chose Jonah, and when that choice was made, it meant I had to let Kellan go. He’s free to do whatever he wants, with whomever, Sophie included. But knowing he’s got the choice and seeing it in action are two different beasts entirely.
When the attack passes and I can breathe a little better, I take a handful of ibuprofen to quell the lingering headache. Then I try to call Jonah. It sounds silly, but just hearing his voice will make me feel better. But there is no answer, even though I call three straight times in a row. I leave a message on the third try: I miss you.
Cora is a no go, too. I’m desperate enough to call Callie, only to get her voicemail. I don’t leave either girl a message. I crawl into some cashmere jammies my mom gave me for this last birthday, ones that shocked me because I actually liked them, and end up on the couch finally bawling as I watch one of the worst movies on TV that I could possibly be watching. It’s about star-crossed lovers, who met as young orphans, who never manage to get together, no matter what. Caleb frets some more, threatens to come out again, but I keep telling him no.
I’m here for you, he promises fiercely. I will never leave you.
And I cry at that, too, because it does make me feel better.
The movie is almost over, and I’ve probably got fifteen tissues on the table from crying so much. The girl is dying, and her love, married now for several years to someone else, risks everything to be by her side in the end.
I throw a crumpled soggy tissue at them. Stupid people! Why do they think star-crossed is a good thing? MORONS.
There’s a knock on the door, and I figure it’s finally Cora, because it’s late and Raul’s out on a mission, too, so she’s most likely bored and curious as to why I’ve called so much tonight. And since she’s a sucker for these sorts of movies, too, I figure I have the perfect excuse for why I look like a wreck.
Only, when I open the door, I see it’s not Cora, it’s Kellan. I’m horrified he’s caught me like this, even though he took front row at another of my meltdowns last year. I can’t deal with him feeling all this in me, so I throw an all-encompassing shield up.
“Are you okay?”
I point behind me. “This movie, it’s . . . sad, because . . . someone’s dying.” He should accept this, because he’s watched enough movies with me to know tears are not uncommon.
I get a look at him now, a good look. Kellan doesn’t look like his normal self, either. His hair is disheveled, and he’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt with shorts and doesn’t look remotely like he is going to a party. Or come from one. Or been anywhere near one.
“Do you want to come in?” I ask, and when he nods, I step aside so he can do so. We go into my living room and I shut off the TV, just as the guy is weeping over his dead lover’s body. I motion to the set and say, “Death, uh . . . you know, sadness and all.”
I’m a rambling idiot and am well aware of it.
I make an attempt to collect the crumpled tissues to throw away while Kellan sits down in the chair opposite the couch. “So,” I ask, trying to sound cheery, “Why are you here?” And then, realizing that’s rude, I clarify, “I thought you were going out tonight. Where’s your girlfriend?”
He closes his eyes and rubs at a spot in-between his eyes. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“But, she said—”
He opens his eyes, surprised. “Said?”
“We uh . . . talked, or rather . . . she talked . . . when you answered your phone.”