Page 96 of Trust Again

It felt like my heart would leap out of my chest.

But then Nate’s voice came back, as if through my cell phone speaker, direct into my ear.

I love you. I love you, Dawny.

I stiffened.

Spencer stopped. He pulled his head back and looked me in the eyes.

What had just been between us seconds ago shattered into pieces when he saw the panic in my expression. I saw it in the deep blue of his eyes. Something had broken inside me, too. The pieces lay at our feet.

Spencer let me slip to the floor and turned away from me.

“Go.”

His voice was hollow.

“I didn’t want…”

He grabbed his sculpture off the desk and threw it against the opposite wall. It burst into fragments. I flinched.

Horrified, I stared at him.

His face was twisted in pain and anger. “What was that supposed to be, Dawn? A goodbye quickie?”

I sobbed and held my hands to my heart. His words were like knives. My breath was caught in my chest. Spencer realized what he had just done. His eyes widened and he stepped toward me. But this time it was me who pulled back. One step, then another. Until I had reached the bedroom door. Then I turned on my heel and ran out of the house as fast as I could.

Chapter 33

There are so many kinds of pain, and I felt them all.

It should have been impossible, but they hit me all at once: I couldn’t breathe; it felt like my skin was tight and my body was too small to contain the storm raging inside me. My chest stung and throbbed and my limbs felt numb, like pieces of wood.

It was horrible.

It took every ounce of strength I had to get on the bus to Portland. It was the most difficult trip I’d ever taken. And the walk from the bus stop to Dad’s workshop seemed to take twice as long as it had in the past.

I squeezed between the small tool carts to the narrow staircase that led to the second story. Mixed with the noise of the wood mill was the sound of music coming from an old radio. Dad raised his head and turned ashen when he saw me. He turned off the wood mill and crossed the room. He asked me something, held my face in his hands, and peered intently into my eyes. Then he wrapped me in his arms. I buried my face in his overalls, breathed in the comfortingly familiar scent of glue and wood shavings, and then I gave up.

I just gave up.

Days passed. I felt and acted like a robot. There were no more tears.

There was a jagged hole in my chest and there was nothing I could do about it because nothing could fix what Spencer and I had done to each other.

In the middle of the week, Dad came home early with a huge, family-sized pizza that we shared while watching the Blackhawks game. When Dad offered me a beer, I flinched.

“No, thanks,” I mumbled and looked back at the TV, a slice of pizza drooping in my hand.

“Do you think you’re ready to tell me what happened, honey?”

“Nothing. I just need a break.”

Two full sentences in a row. It was more than I’d said for an entire week.

“What do you need a break from?” Dad probed. My silence had him worried.

I took a deep breath and blew it out, not ready to put words to my feelings just yet.