Kitabı oxu: «The Secret Of Us»

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

November 2005

I burned them all when I got home that day, a thick stack of bridal magazines that were dog-eared and flagged with a rainbow of Post-its that peeked from the edges of the pages. It’s strange, the acrid smell that comes from burning magazine pages – glossy and slick and heavily coated in ink. The pile seemed to burn painfully slowly as I watched, perched on the couch in my darkened living room, staring unblinkingly until the blaze became an indefinable blur of angry oranges and reds.

It was over. He was gone, and I was alone.

It sounded so simple, but it wasn’t. The situation was far from simple, at least for me. For Matt, it seemed the most uncomplicated decision of his life, one even easier to make than his decision to propose. The words slid from his mouth smoothly, almost silkily, as we sat across from each other at the table in the restaurant.

Our restaurant. The one we had eaten at on a weekly basis for the past three years.

Matt looked up from his nearly empty plate of cheese tortellini and said it as though he was telling me he was disappointed by the consistency of the sauce.

I think this engagement is a mistake.

I felt the floor falling out from under me as I sat in my green vinyl-padded cafe chair.

I think this engagement is a mistake. I need some time to figure things out, to know what’s best for me.

The handsome man sitting across the table from me suddenly seemed a stranger, a soulless replica of someone I loved and trusted. The face I knew – every angle, every freckle, every line etched by time – became an unfamiliar arrangement of features dulled by those crushing words.

Words that I didn’t even have the presence of mind to answer. How could I? The man I loved, the man who was supposed to love me, was now sitting across from me and saying words that eradicated every confidence I had in that love. There was a sick desperation growing in the pit of my stomach, a roiling mix of panic and anger that seemed to make speech impossible.

It was incomprehensible, this sudden revelation that the past five months of his life – of both our lives – were a mistake.

A mistake.

The words echoed in my mind like the report of gunfire in a tunnel.

He shook his head and expelled a puff of air, suddenly seeming aware of the effect of his words.

“This isn’t to hurt you, Eira. Please believe that,” he said, almost pleading. He reached out a hand and splayed it, palm down on the tabletop near me. A gesture of supplication, an attempt to bridge the distance between us that now seemed to be thousands of miles instead of the mere inches that it truly was. My gaze dropped from his eyes to his hand as I sat silently, feeling diminished and cold.

A hand that was so capable, so strong, yet so able to communicate tenderness. And so able to destroy things, just as his words had done. His hand continued to rest on the table while I stared at it, my eyes losing focus as tears stung them and threatened to escape. I blinked rapidly to clear them away, thoughts darting through my mind with the sharpness and speed of arrows. And just as painful.

A mistake.

I looked down at my own hands, resting limply in my lap, and saw a glint of platinum from the band of my engagement ring. The room seemed to darken as pinpricks of blackness danced in front of my eyes, threatening to shut out everything else and steal the air.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Eira?” The voice seemed distant, hollow and tinny, as though it was being telegraphed along string between two soup cans.

“Eira?” It sounded more urgent now, but still so distant.

I shook my head and shot up from my chair, barely clearing the table in my haste to rise to my feet. I had to get out of there, had to get some air. I had to be able to breathe.

Breathe.

I had to consciously think about it as I lurched frantically towards the ladies’ room, each rasping gulp of air a struggle.

I stumbled into the bathroom, reaching desperately for the nearest sink and clinging to it for support. I fought against the bile rising in my throat, the suffocating absence of air. How could this be happening?

When had the man who was supposed to love me fallen out of love?

How had I missed the signs?

Come to think of it, where had the signs been?

I gripped the white porcelain sink, my knuckles and fingertips turning ghostly under the pressure. I was never going to be able to go back out there and face him. How could I? I shook my head and clamped my eyes shut against the unbidden tears that burned them.

This wasn’t happening, I thought again. This was not happening.

“Are you okay, honey?” a small voice behind me asked.

“Uh huh,” I managed, sounding unconvincing even to myself. I sniffled and nodded, my eyes still clenched tightly. “I’ll be fine.” It came out like a squeak, resonating harshly off the black and white subway tiles that lined the walls.

“Are you sure? Do you need me to get someone for you?” the voice offered.

I shook my head silently.

No, I wasn’t sure.

And no. No, there wasn’t anyone she could get for me. Not any more.

I opened my eyes and straightened up, venturing to look in the mirror. The reflection wasn’t me – it seemed like a stranger, like a woman I’d never seen before. The woman staring back at me looked drawn, her bloodless face punctuated by eyes dulled with despair.

She looked hollow.

Hollow. That sensation of hollowness seemed the only thing I had in common with this strange woman in the mirror, this woman who was really me.

I felt somehow like something had been stolen. Maybe – in a way – it had.

I shifted my focus to the reflection of the petite woman standing behind me, concern deeply etched on her face. Her eyebrows were knitted so tightly together they formed almost a straight line above her bright blue eyes. Blonde curls had escaped from her ponytail, an odd contrast to her otherwise blunt features. She looked to be about ten years older than me, but I knew from experience that looks can belie actual age. Even though I was twenty-five, most people took one look at me and assumed me to be younger.

I gave her a weak smile in the mirror, then took a deep breath.

“I’m fine. Really.” My voice became a little more determined. “Thank you.”

She nodded, still looking less than convinced. She hesitated a moment, giving me one last look before she wordlessly opened the door and disappeared, leaving a breeze of spicy, floral scented air in her wake.

The bathroom was empty now, and I was alone. The feeling seemed to echo off of every surface of the harshly lit room. I crossed the tiles on unsteady feet to look for some way – any way – out of there besides the door that would lead me back to the dining room and the man who sat at my table, waiting with empty plates and broken promises. It seemed impossible, this change that had happened to my life in five seconds.

I had been expecting a quiet evening with my fiancé, an evening in which we left nothing behind at the restaurant other than the tip. Instead, I was leaving all the dreams I had been dreaming since I was a little girl, discarded with the crumpled napkins beside my empty plate.

There was nothing to do, no other way of escape from the bathroom that now seemed like a cage rather than a refuge. I wanted to go home, to crawl into bed and sleep and wake up to find that this had all been a nightmare. I closed my eyes as the room started to spin, my chest feeling heavy with the pressure of all the unanswered questions.

Deep breaths, I reminded myself.

I was going to have to go back out there. I had no choice in the matter. But I did have a choice in how I handled things from this point on.

Maybe Matt was just feeling nervous as the number of days until our wedding dwindled. Normal cold feet, right? Surely that’s all this was. Once he had a chance to think this through, he would realize that he really didn’t want to call off our wedding. That everything we’d planned for our life together was still what he wanted. Nothing had changed between us, so this was the only logical explanation.

Right?

I took another deep breath and opened my eyes, steeling myself to walk out the door. I had to be calm and rational. I had to be the one to keep a level head right now, since Matt seemed to be temporarily incapable of that. Sure, he was putting up a great front and giving the appearance of complete control, but it had to be just that – a front. Underneath it all, he was probably just feeling the pressure of the countdown.

If we could just talk about this…

I reached for the door handle and pulled it open, the weight suddenly seeming far greater than I remembered. As I made my way back to the table, I tried my best to gather my thoughts into some semblance of order, and to find any measure of composure possible.

And then, I lost it.

When I reached the table, I found it empty. Aside from the detritus of our shared meal, the only thing waiting for me in the dining room was a napkin, its white paper layers interrupted by a hastily scrawled message.

I’m sorry.

Chapter Two

There seemed no explanation – –no reasonable, traceable steps showing how we got from two people so in love to this place.

To the napkin I held in my hand as I sat on the couch, three hours later.

Three very long, very tear-filled hours later.

There was a headache pressing now at the base of my skull, my penance to pay for allowing myself to finally fall apart once I’d come home.

I’d held a very tenuous grip on it all until then, managing to very carefully, very quietly ask the waiter for the bill, unsure of whether Matt might have had the decency to at least pay for our final meal together. To my relief, he had taken care of it, one last gesture of kindness tossed in my direction like another balled up napkin.

I’d continued to hold on, feeling my grip losing strength, as I walked home, four miles that Matt had undoubtedly assumed would be travelled in a cab.

I had walked slowly, barely registering my surroundings as I took each step, trying to make some sort of reasonable sense of what had just taken place.

Not that any of this made any reasonable sense.

My fiancé had ended our relationship without a real explanation, leaving me nothing but a hastily scrawled apology – on a napkin. It sounded almost like the headliner on one of those ridiculous, sensationalist afternoon talk shows. I wasn’t sure whether to start laughing hysterically at the absurdity and outrageousness of the entire thing or to start crying.

My instincts suggested the latter action, but the tears burning my throat seemed to be warring with both shock and anger.

Had this been my fault? Had I pushed him too hard, put too much pressure on him to get married? We’d been together so long, and it had seemed like the next logical move. Logic aside, even – it was something I’d been dreaming of since the early stages of our relationship. I loved Matt so much, and there was nothing I wanted more than to share a life with him. To build a family and a home with him.

And now the whole thing was being torn apart, finalized by words on a napkin.

When had he stopped wanting a life with me?

When had my dream become a nightmare?

I couldn’t stop staring at the napkin.

I’m sorry.

I shifted on the couch, wondering if throwing the napkin in the fire with the nearly destroyed stack of magazines would reverse the words and set everything back to the way it was supposed to be. I looked at the sparkling engagement ring on my left hand and contemplated hurling it into the fireplace along with everything else. It would simply end up charred by the flames, sticky blackness masking the radiant beauty that it had once been.

The flicker of the fire gave the room a warm glow, but I still felt chilled. I pulled my legs up under me and reached for the throw I kept folded in a basket next to the couch. I was so tired and so cold, but I couldn’t bring myself to go to bed.

Not yet. I knew I wasn’t anywhere near sleep, not with everything that was going on in my head right now, despite my extreme fatigue. It wasn’t physical exhaustion – it was emotional. I felt as though someone had died, that same nebulous sense of loss and hopeless helplessness, and it was draining.

I put the square white napkin on the floor beside the couch and looked up at the ceiling as shadows danced over its surface, set in motion by the flicker of the firelight. I felt so alone, but there wasn’t really anything I could do about that. Sure, I could call someone – my mother or my sister, but the idea of having to pick up the phone and explain everything when I didn’t even understand it myself seemed almost too much to handle. I couldn’t string two coherent thoughts together at this point, much less an entire conversation.

I closed my eyes and tried to turn everything off, to feel nothing, to numb every part of my brain and my body and just… float.

Float up to the ceiling and dance through the shadows.

Matt wasn’t answering his phone. I’d called twice, already, and I knew calling any more than that would do more harm than good. I couldn’t let myself become that girl – the needy, desperate girl who called every two minutes in tears. As much as I wanted and needed answers, I couldn’t allow myself to do that.

I had to be stronger than that.

Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow everything would make more sense. To me, and to Matt. And I would be glad that I’d kept silent and not alerted anyone to what was going on right now, at this moment. Because tomorrow, it would all be straightened out, and Matt would realize that we were meant to be together. We’d been so happy – maybe he had just lost sight of that. Maybe it had been eclipsed by a momentary case of nerves.

All very normal. All very fixable.

Yes, that had to be it, I thought determinedly as I closed my eyes. We would talk and work it out, and everything would be back the way it was supposed to be. We would get married, and I would be Mrs Matthew Noble, and we would have our two-point-five children and a dog and a house with a white picket fence in the suburbs.

It would all be okay. It would all be just fine in the morning, in the cleansing light of day.

Matt just needed to remember how we got here, why we got here. Maybe he just needed to be reminded. Sometimes, in the happy glow of ease, pain is too easily forgotten. All the steps and the struggles that have shaped us become softened by time, and complacency blurs reality to make us believe that any new bump in the road is justification for surrender. As though we have been stripped of our fighting spirit. He needed to be reminded that we were too important to throw away on a whim.

On a napkin.

I shook off the fingers of doubt that were creeping back in, threatening to strangle the faith I was so desperately clinging to.

He would remember. Matt would remember.

Remember how we met, how we fell in love. How much we both wanted this life together.

Tomorrow, he would remember.