Page 15

TREY

I raise my fist to knock on Ari’s door. I’m about to make contact when I stop, and my hand drops to my side. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t even know why I’m here. What am I trying to get out of bothering her again?

It’s been two weeks since I got out of the hospital.

It took me that long to realize that staying in LA wasn’t right for me.

Mostly, it’s not right for Arella. The only thing I’m doing by being here is causing her pain and distress, and I don’t want that.

I want what’s best for her. I want her to be safe and happy.

Since she is —just not with me—I decided it’s best to leave.

I made this decision yesterday. Since this would affect my bandmates the most, I told them first. They took it hard.

Liz took it the hardest. She cried for over an hour, and I felt like an asshole for being the cause of her tears, but I have to do this.

Liz was understanding about that, which only made me feel like more of an asshole.

Now I’ve got a brand-new not-totaled motorcycle sitting in the parking lot of Arella’s apartment complex— Ari’s apartment complex. Next to my bike is a backpack full of clothes and toiletries.

I have a few stops to make on my way off to wherever the fuck I’m going. I didn’t plan for one of those stops to be here though. Somehow, on my way out of California, I ended up here. Now I’m standing outside her door like a fucking weirdo, refusing to knock while also refusing to leave.

I should just get this over with. Maybe she’s not home.

I glance back at the parking lot, where her car is sitting.

That doesn’t mean anything though. She could be somewhere with Javina or her—uh, boyfriend.

I don’t sense any emotions coming from her apartment, but that doesn’t mean anything either.

I raise my fist to her door again, then stop. What if she yells at me? I’m not sure if I can take another bad interaction with her. Nor can I take hearing her call me the crazy guy in Arella’s voice.

Again, why am I here? This woman has nothing to offer me that could make things better. To her, I’m a stranger, and it’d do me some good to remember that.

Still, a big part of me just wants to see her one last time. She still looks like Arella, even if she isn’t. Seeing her again could be worth the heartache I’ll feel from hearing her tell me to get lost.

I lift my fist back up to her door, then stop again.

Once she opens this— if she opens this—what will I say?

More importantly, what will she say back?

Will she look at me like I’m a lunatic, the way she has been?

Arella never looked at me like that. She always looked at me like she felt safe with me.

This woman doesn’t feel safe with me. Not one bit.

I don’t blame her either. When I see things from her point of view, I know her actions are justified.

So are the actions of her—uh, boyfriend.

Still, if I leave LA without seeing her one last time, I’ll obsess over it. I’ll regret not knocking. I’ll regret not trying to leave things with her on a good note. I’ll be tormented over what could have happened if I had knocked. If I had been brave...

I bring my fist back up to her door, then pause.

What if she calls the cops on me? She’s threatened to enough.

After waking up in her bed with me in it, I don’t doubt she would hesitate to make that call this time.

Do I really want to deal with the aftermath of that?

What’s worse—living with regret or living behind bars?

I drop my hand back to my side. I shouldn’t be here. If she’s in there and saw me pulling up on my bike, she’s probably already called the cops. They could be here any minute. I should go before they arrive.

With a heavy heart, I stare at the door I used to shove her back up against. I used to pin her arms above her head and kiss her until our lips felt raw.

I wish I would have appreciated those moments more while they were happening.

Since my photograph of us is gone, those memories are all I have left.

A part of me wishes I had never shown Ari that picture. Maybe then I’d still have it.

I’m not sure why the Keepers allowed me to keep that photo.

It was in my wallet when I got arrested, and it was still in there when I got out of z-prison.

They went through my entire house to get rid of anything that belonged to her, so I’m sure they went through my wallet too.

Why would they let me keep a photo? To torture me?

To rub it in? To make sure I’d always remember my greatest loss?

Last night, I spoke to Liz about the possibility of finding a black market Scrubber.

It’s illegal for them to scrub people outside the zovernment’s permission, but I’m sure I could find one I could talk into erasing my memories.

Everyone’s got a price, and I’m willing to pay it.

It’d make things easier. I could move on without this pain.

When I shared this idea with Liz, her response was “If neither of you remember the love you created together, then it’ll be like it never happened. Is that what you want? Is that what Arella would want?”

I already knew I could never go through with getting scrubbed, for that exact reason.

If everything Arella and I went through together only exists in my mind and I get rid of it, then it’ll be like none of it ever mattered.

I don’t want that. I just needed Liz to validate that living with this physically debilitating hole in my chest is better than forgetting about the happiest moments of my life.

I place a palm against Arella’s door and whisper to it as if she can hear me from the deep depths of where she’s being suppressed.

“I’m sorry, angel. This isn’t me giving up on you, but I have to let you go.

I know I promised to always fight for you, but I don’t have any fight left in me.

I think I’m doing the right thing. I just hope you see it that way too. ”

With that, I turn on my heel and force my feet to walk away.