On the wall opposite the windows, I see them. At first I’m not sure what I’m looking at, but then I realize what they are—masks. Two of them. From a distance, they seem like the standard comedy and tragedy faces so many actors have in their homes, but a second look causes me to catch my breath. Not comedy and tragedy. Strength and vulnerability. The same masks we used at drama school. The ones we both had trouble with.
“I convinced Erika to give them to me.” I turn to find him a few feet away, a glass of wine in each hand. “I bought her a whole new set in Italy.”
He passes me a glass, and I take a sip. “Why did you want them? I mean, you failed that class. Erika kicked your ass for weeks.”
“Yeah, but only because she expected more from me. It took me a long time to expect more from myself. To see that being vulnerable takes a shitload more strength than being closed off and sullen.” He takes a step closer, and I take another mouthful of wine while trying not to look at him. “Every time I look at those masks, it reminds me. Every time I look at you, it reminds me, too, but you weren’t around for a long time, so the masks were a good placeholder.”
I keep my eyes on the masks, but I can feel him staring at me. As I tip the glass back, I realize my wine is almost gone. I need to slow down, or I’m going to get drunk and do things I may regret.
I feel warm fingers on my wrist, and he’s right behind me, warm breath on my neck as he says, “I want you to have something.”
He takes my hand and guides me over to a large bookcase with doors. His palm is sweaty, and I wonder what has him so anxious.
He puts our glasses on the side table, and when he takes my hands, I swear I feel him tremble.
“Cassie, for so long I kept you guessing as to what I was thinking and feeling. I never want you to have to guess again. So from now on, anything you want to know, I’ll tell you. Anything.”
He pulls open the doors and gestures to the rows of books inside. “You want to know my motivations for all the shit I put you through in drama school? It’s all there. Every fucked-up thought process and bad decision. Every time I broke both our hearts in an effort to avoid pain. Read them if you want. Burn them. Whatever works for you.”
I look closely at the spines of the books. Dates. Years. Rows and rows of journals, starting from when he was in high school. Some years have a single volume, others have several. The year we met has five. No surprise there.
I pick up the last one from that year and open it to a random page.
November 18th
Tonight, she went down on me for the first time. And … Jesus Christ … I’m still shaking. I can’t get the image of her out of my head. So eager to please me. So trusting.
So beautiful.
I can’t handle it.
One day soon, she’s going to realize I’m no good for her and leave. Destroy me.
Every single brain cell is telling me to get out while I can. To run so far and fast she’ll never find me. Forget that someone as fucking perfect as she is even exists.
But some part of me believes I can do this. That I’m capable of ripping open my chest and just handing over my heart like it’s not going to kill me.
That part is obviously deranged.
I look up, shocked by the depth of emotion in his writing. He’s watching me. Gauging my reaction. He doesn’t flinch from my incredulity.
“I take responsibility for everything I did,” he says, “because even though I can’t change it, I do regret it. I thought seeing these may … I don’t know. Help in some way.”
I’m not so sure.
I go back to the journal.
December 4th
2:48 a.m.—She won’t fucking answer. She calls to abuse me in the middle of the night, and then WON’T PICK UP HER FUCKING PHONE?!
3:36 a.m.—I can’t stop thinking about her crying. She sounded so lost. And I did that to her. Me.
What a stellar fucking human being I am.
As much as I’m terrified she’s going to ruin me, I’m afraid I’m going to do far worse to her.
So now I’m faced with the decision—man up and be the boyfriend she deserves, or get the fuck out while there’s still a chance we’ll both survive.
Yeah. Easy choice. It’s like asking someone if they’d rather die by drowning or electrocution.
Whichever way it happens, you’re still dead.
11:18 a.m.—She just left. I can still smell her. Fuck, I love her smell. I want to bathe in it.
She was asleep when I got home from my run. So perfect in my bed.
I had a major freakout for the three seconds I believed she’d read this journal, but I quickly realized if she had, she wouldn’t still be here, let alone sleeping. She would have finally seen the level of fuckery she’s burdened with and run for the hills. And I wouldn’t have blamed her.
But no, she’s proven yet again that she’s not like the others. Made me realize she deserves so much more credit than I give her.
I want to be a better man. A better boyfriend.
Don’t fuck this up, Holt. Seriously. If you do, I’ll never forgive you.
She’ll never forgive you.
Reading his thoughts gives me a strange sense of déjà vu.
I turn the page and read the last entry in the journal. As soon as I see the date, my stomach lurches.
December 23rd
I did it. Cut the cord.
I feel sick.
I feel more broken without her than I ever did when we were together.
I thought this was the right thing to do … for me … for her. But now …