Page 197 of Vows We Never Made

“I don’t know the full story,” Mom says, rubbing circles on my back, “but I do know Ethan’s a troubled young man. There’s been plenty of talk about him fighting his own demons for years. He was always too much for you.”

He was, but he wasn’t.

It’s so confusing.

Ethan broke things off because he couldn’t cope with the fact that he’s not who he thought he was.

Margot filled me in on all the gory details the minute she heard about the breakup—after she fumed for ten minutes straight, cursing her ‘braindead ego-freak of a brother.’

I just listened because it was better than talking over the ice ball lodged in my throat.

She impatiently explained everything she knew, how pissed he is at his parents and Leonidas for keeping it from him.

And now the big identity crisis, just when he was getting his crap together.

I feel for him.

I do, and I’d sympathize more if he hadn’t responded by going scorched earth and exiling me from his existence.

One minute, he says he doesn’t trust me—all because I let my usual doubts take over and asked Margot about his past dating life.

The next, he wants me out of his house so much he’s risking a direct lightning strike.

I hate it.

I hate that I could have helped him, if he’d let me.

But nothing like the way I hate that he wouldn’t give me a chance.

And now I’m back to my acid fantasies, imagining how fast he’d dissolve away with his anger and regrets and allergy tolove.

It shouldn’t matter who he is or what’s in his DNA.

If he loved me, he would have checked his anger.

He would’ve stayed.

Even so, in my twisted little acid daydream, I always try to pull him out before the tips of his shoes melt.

I always take him back, and he gives me that kicked puppy look before he whispers, “Hattie, you were right. I’m sorry and I love you.”

Yep.

I have no self-respect left in my tank.

It doesn’t help that Mom’s wrong.

Before all this stuff came between us, hewasmy perfect man. And he still could have been, even after all this, if he’d justtalkedto me.

If he actually wanted me, that’s what he’d do… right?

It’s an odd pain, the kind that skins me so slowly.

Sharp and dull simultaneously.

The way it pierces swiftly and then gets replaced by the ache of scar tissue.

Over and over again.