Page 56 of Your Fault

PROLOGUE

If Nick and I had broken up more than a year ago, why was I crying as if it had only really happened now? At one point, I had to pull off the road, cut the motor, and hug the wheel so I could sob without worrying about crashing into anyone.

I cried for what we had been; I cried for what we could have been; I cried for his sick mother and his baby sister… I cried for him, for disappointing him, for breaking his heart, for getting him to love me and then showing him love didn’t exist, at least not without pain, and that pain had now scarred him for life.

I cried for Noah, the Noah I had been when I was with him. That Noah full of life, the Noah who, despite her inner demons, had known how to love with all her heart. I had loved him more than anybody, and that was something to grieve for, too. When you meet the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, there’s no going back. Lots of people never learn what that feels like; they think they have, but they’re wrong. I knew that Nick was the love of my life, the man I wanted to be the father of my children, the man I wanted by my side through good and bad, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.

Nick was the one, he was my other half, and now I’d have to learn to live without him.

TEN MONTHS LATER…

The noise at the airport was deafening. People were coming and going frantically, dragging their suitcases, their carts, their children. I looked at the screen overhead, trying to find my destination and the exact time of my departure. I didn’t like traveling on my own—I never cared much for flying at all—but there weren’t many options. I was alone now; it was just me and no one else.

I looked at my watch and back at the screen. I had time to spare. I could drink a coffee in the terminal and read a while. That would probably calm me down. I walked through the metal detectors. I hated that, hated getting patted down, and it always happened, because I always had something that set of the alarm. Maybe it was that heart of iron I’d been told I carried in my chest.

I dropped my backpack on the conveyor belt, took off my watch and bracelets, took off the necklace with the pendant that I always wore––even if I should have taken it off a long time ago—and set it all down next to my cellphone and the spare change I had in my pocket.

“Your shoes, too, Miss,” the young TSA worker said in a weary tone. I got it––the job was the very definition of dull; it probably gave you brain damage, doing and saying the same things over and over, all day, every day. I put my white Chucks on the tray and was glad I’d chosen plain socks instead of little kiddy ones with some embarrassing design. As my things moved forward on the belt, I passed through the scanner and, of course, it started beeping.

“Step to the side, please, hold out your arms and spread your legs,” the person ordered, and I sighed. Did I have something metal on me, a sharp object, some kind of…?

“I don’t have anything on me,” I said, letting the officer pat me down. “This always happens, I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a filling.”

The guy grinned, but that only made me wish he’d take his hands off me sooner.

When he finally let me go, I grabbed my things and went straight to the duty-free shop. Hello? Giant Toblerones? Sign me up. That was the one pleasant thing about going to the airport. I bought two, stored them both in my hand luggage, and went to find my departure gate. LAX was huge, but luckily, I didn’t have to go far. Walking over arrows meant to point me in the right direction, I passed by signs that said Goodbye in dozens of languages before I reached where I was going. The gate was empty, so I grabbed a chair near the window, took out my book, and started in on my Toblerone.

Things went fine until the letter I’d stuffed between the pages fell into my lap, reviving memories I’d sworn were dead and buried. I felt something hollow in the pit of my stomach as a stream of images rose up in my mind, and what had been a relaxing day took a nosedive.