Playing With Her Heart (29 page)

“Can’t have what,
Jill?” I take a tentative step toward her bed, and when she doesn’t
recoil, I take another step, then sit down on the corner of her bed.

“This. You. Us.”
She says each word like she’s biting off something bitter.

“Why?”

“Because I’m
damaged. Because I’m broken. Because nothing good can come from
being with me,” she says, and now her voice is breaking, and tears
well up in her eyes. She thrusts the note at me.

“Do you want me to
read it?” I ask her, carefully.

“Yes.”

I unfold the note,
well-worn over the years with tattered edges, and thinning paper.
It’s a short note, on a sheet of lined notebook paper, written in
blue ink with slanted, choppy handwriting.

Dear Jill,

I guess I always
knew I loved you more. Somehow, I knew I loved you more than you’d
ever love me. But I learned to live with it. I was OK with it just to
be with this girl I was crazy about. And then you broke my fucking
heart when you left me. You just ripped me apart and for no good
reason. I don’t get it. I’ve tried everything to get you back,
and all you do is tell me to leave you alone. You tell me to stop
calling, stop talking to you. Well, you’ll get what you want now.
You’ll get everything you ever wanted, and all I ever wanted was
you. I can’t imagine being without you, but I am, so I’ll stop
imagining.

I’m outta here.

Aaron

In an instant, I
understand everything about her.

Jill

Nothing hurts anymore.
Because I won’t let it. I can’t let it. I can’t stand
feeling
.

But then he lays the
letter on the bed and looks at me with such care in his eyes.

“Jill,” he says,
softly. “It’s not your fault.”

“IT. IS.” I shout
at him. I push my hands into my hair, holding tight and hard to my
scalp. “It is my fault. It’s there. In writing. In black and
white. Letters don’t lie. I got this after the funeral. One day
later in the mail. I had sat there in the cemetery, my brothers next
to me, my parents there. We all knew him. He was my high school
boyfriend, and he killed himself. Because of me.”

“It’s terrible, and
it’s tragic, and I’m so sorry he made that choice, and I’m
sorry for him, and for his family to have to live with that. But you
didn’t cause it.”

“But I did! He said I
did! I broke up with him three months before it happened. Because I
didn’t love him,” I say, and hold my hands out wide, balling my
fists in my frustration. With myself. “That was the problem. If I
had loved him like he loved me, this would never have happened. But I
didn’t feel the same things for him that he felt for me. And I
ended it, but he kept coming round, and he got crazier and needier,
telling me he couldn’t live without me, and he would track me down
after school, and he would find me after cross country. And I kept
pushing him away. I even met him down at the bridge in Prospect Park
to ask him to please stop. But he wouldn’t. He kept showing up. And
he started freaking me out so I went to tell his parents. I told them
what he was doing, and the things he was saying, and how scared I was
for him,” I say, and there are potholes in my voice as I recount
the story, the day I will never forget from the very beginning.

Aaron had left me
another note, and the tone had grown more desperate, ending with the
line
I don’t know what I have to do for you to love me again…

Those words had sent a
ripple of fear through me when I found the slip of paper in my locker
in the morning. My hands shook as I read the note, and my heart beat
wildly out of control with worry, like a deer trying to cross a
congested highway, not knowing which way to go. The bell had rung for
first period, but I stayed frozen in place, my mind racing with what
to do next. As the halls thinned, I turned on my heels and headed
straight for the guidance counselor’s office. Because that’s what
you’re taught to do.
Say something.
But she was out sick
that day, so I tried another option. When he was at swim practice
after school, I walked to his house, knocked with nervous fingers,
took a terrified breath and then stepped inside when his parents
answered the door.

I tried to explain what
was going on. But I didn’t even truly know what was going on. Aaron
had never threatened to take his life. He’d never hinted that he’d
had enough of this world. But his behavior had grown so erratic, so
confusing, that I had to let someone know about the notes, about the
calls, about the desperate ways he kept trying to get my attention.

“I’m worried about
him,” I said in a small voice as I picked at the worn cuticles on
my hand. “I don’t know what’s going on, but he doesn’t seem
like himself.”

His mom gave me a
sympathetic smile, as if I were overreacting.

Now, I look at Davis,
and he’s listening, patiently letting me tell the story. “And you
know what they said when I told them that?”

He shakes his head.
“No, what did they say?”

I take a deep breath,
steeling myself. I’ve never said these words out loud. They’ve
been buried so deep inside me I don’t know that I can exhume them
because I’ve never told anyone what I said to Aaron’s parents.
That I warned them. That I was terrified he was depressed and would
do something to hurt himself. That he needed help. That he needed
someone to talk to. “They said he was just a heartbroken teen.” I
press my lips together trying to stem the tears that threaten to
break. The lump in my throat. The stinging in my eyes. “That’s
what they said. That he was just still wrecked over me. And that he’d
be fine. And then, three days later, he took an overdose of pills.”

“Oh, Jill. I’m so
sorry for your friend,” he says, and he reaches across the bed, but
doesn’t take my hand. Just rests his near mine. All he wants is to
comfort me, but I don’t deserve it. I swipe a hand across my cheek.

“He’s gone. He’s
gone because I didn’t love him enough.”

“No,” Davis says
firmly. “No. That’s not why he’s gone. He’s gone because he
had an illness. He’s gone because he needed help and he didn’t
get it. He’s gone because there were other things at play in his
head, and in his heart. He’s not gone because of you. You did
everything you could.”

“But it wasn’t
enough!” I shout, and slam my fist into the bed. Then in a low
voice, laced with pain. “It wasn’t enough.”

He inches closer. “And
it might not ever have been enough. You might have knocked on their
door every day. You might have warned them every day. And it still
might have happened. But you told them. You did what you were
supposed to do. And I’m not blaming them, no one’s to blame. But
you tried and they didn’t see what was happening, and even if they
did they might not have been able to stop it. That’s the absolute
fucking tragedy of all of this. That far too many people feel things
only inside themselves,” he says, and he taps on his chest to make
his point. “And they don’t tell anyone. They don’t share. He
was going through something awful in his head and his heart and he
didn’t know what to do. And now you are. And you’ve been beating
yourself up for years over this, haven’t you?”

I sigh, a long, low
keening sigh full of years of regret. “Yes,” I whisper.

“But you have to let
it go. You have to move on.” He reaches for my hand, and I hate and
I love that contact from him is what I need. I hate it because I
can’t rely on anyone. And I love it because I want to rely on him.
I let him take my hand and when he does, I don’t feel numb anymore.
I scoot forward and throw my arms around him, bury my head in his
chest, and let all the unshed tears fall, until his shirt is streaked
with my regret.

“You have to forgive
yourself,” he whispers as he holds me tight, rocking me gently.
“Life is tragic. I know that firsthand. But
things
happen.
And this happened. And all you can do is keep on living, because you
did do everything you could. And sometimes everything you can do
still isn’t enough, but that’s life. And that’s death. And
that’s the way it is.”

I squeeze my eyes shut,
as if I can hold in the one thing that’s still gnawing away at my
heart. “But what if I can’t love you like that? What if I can’t
love you enough? What if it happens again?”

He places his fingers
under my chin and makes me look at him. “I’m not going anywhere,”
he says, the slightest trace of a smile on his face. “Jill, when I
said I can’t imagine being without you, it’s a figure of speech.
It’s because I don’t
want
to be without you. It’s not
because I’m going to kill myself if I can’t. I like myself too
much. Trust me, I won’t go quietly from this lifetime. I will be
kicking and screaming. I will be fighting and working and loving
until my last dying day. I want you, and I want you to be mine. But
you have to know I only want you if I can have you, all of you. I
want your body, and I want your heart, and I want your mind, and I
hope you feel the same,” he says, then takes a beat to make sure
I’m still here, still listening.

I meet his gaze head
on, and he keeps going. “But if you don’t, I will survive, and I
will keep on living. You don’t have to put me on a pedestal and
love me from afar like you did with Patrick so you wouldn’t get
hurt, and so you wouldn’t hurt somebody,” he says to me in the
most tender gentle voice. But one that cuts through all my defenses
and walls. One that understands deeply how I’ve lived my life for
six years. I’ve never told a soul why I thought I loved Patrick,
and yet he understands, because he knows me better than anyone ever
has. “Because we
will
hurt each other, and we will fight,
and we will argue. And sometimes it’ll be less than perfect. But
it’ll be real. Every second of it will be completely real.”

Real.

That word echoes in my
mind, and in my body, and all the way through to my heart. To my
frozen, make believe heart that’s been on standstill for six long
years. That’s been protecting me, and saving me from the
possibility of heartbreak, the possibility of pain. But Davis is
right. I did everything I could, and I can’t keep punishing myself
by living a life of make believe. I might do it on stage, but I don’t
want that when the curtain falls. I want a real life, and real love,
and real pain.

I fidget with the
collar on his shirt then play with top button. I am all nerves, but
also determination, as I let go and place my hands on his cheeks,
looking at him. My throat feels dry and raspy, and no amount of
acting, or singing, or running has ever prepared me for what I’m
about to say. I’m winging it, improvising and going completely off
script, as I speak from the heart.

“I think I’m in
love with you too,” I whisper.

He plays with a strand
of my hair as he raises an eyebrow. “You think?”

I nod, and manage a
smile. “Fine,” I say in a faux begrudging voice. “I
know
.”

Then I wrap my arms
around him and everything—Every. Single. Thing.—about this moment
hurts and feels right at the same time.

“Will you spend the
night?” I ask. “But just to sleep. That’s all I can do right
now.”

“Of course.”

I undo my ponytail as
he takes off his shirt and jeans and leaves them on a chair in the
corner of my room. He’s wearing only snug black boxer briefs, and
even though I’ve been so ready to get him undressed, I’m glad he
is right now but for a different reason. So I can feel the closeness
with him, the connection between us with his warm body next to mine,
skin against skin, as he joins me under the covers, holding me near
all through the night.

Jill

“I like your casual
shirt, but you looked pretty good the other night in a tux too,” I
say as Davis buttons his shirt the next morning. “I don’t think
anyone has ever looked so good in a tux before.”

“Because it’s
tailored for me,” he says with a sly smile.

I pretend to smack my
forehead. “Of course,” I say and roll my eyes playfully. “Of
course you own a tux.”

“What? You think I’d
rent one?”

I shake my head and
laugh. “God forbid.” I watch him as he tucks his shirt into his
jeans. “I’m really glad you came here last night.”

He smiles softly. “Me
too.”

“I mean it,” I say
in a firm voice, as if I’m giving a speech. But one that comes
straight from the heart. “I don’t know what I would have done
without you. I was lost. I was totally lost, and I had no idea how
much I needed you until you walked through my door. I’m so glad you
found me.”

“You weren’t that
hard to find. I knew your address,” he says and cups my chin
tenderly.

I shake my head, giving
him a fierce stare, my eyes blazing. “I know, but that’s not what
I mean. What I mean is thank you for not giving up on me.” I grab
his shirt and grip it tightly for emphasis. “Thank you for knowing
me better than I knew myself. Thank you for not letting me slip away.
Because I am so in love with you. I am so completely in love with
you.”

He pulls me close, and
wraps me in his arms. “That’s why I didn’t you let slip away.
Because you’re worth it. You’re worth everything to me.” Then
he bends down to kiss me on the forehead. “But I need to go. I have
a meeting.”

“On a Sunday?”

He nods. “Yes.
Amazingly, I still have to work on Sundays. My lawyer and I are
meeting with some producers about doing
Twelfth Night
in
London soon.”

“Really?”

“They happen to like
their Shakespeare across the pond.”

“Does that mean
you’ll be leaving New York soon?” I ask, and my heart’s beating
faster now. I don’t want him to leave when this is starting.

“I don’t know.
That’s what the meeting is about. But if I go to London, I’ll
return,” he says, and curves his hand around my neck. “I won’t
be able to stay away from you, Jill.”