Page 131 of Maybe You

“What does the Holland Foundation do?” I eventually ask.

She eyes me calmly. “Supports children who grow up in violent homes. They pay for therapy, have twenty-four seven helplines, fund projects that are aimed at helping, and give out grants. They have people who go to schools and youth centers to talk to kids because there is so much silence that surrounds domestic violence. Suffocating, malicious silence that covers everything like a weighted blanket and makes you believe that what’s happening to you is somehow normal when it’s anything but. Sutton’s trying to break that silence. Because it’s not just the victims who are silent. The silence is part of the fabric of our society when it comes to domestic violence.”

“He said he inherited his money,” I say.

Amy nods. “Everett’s parents. Sutton went to them once, and they didn’t believe him when he told them what was happening at home. Or maybe they didn’t want to believe him. They tried to contact me after it was all said and done.” She shakes her head. “I couldn’t. I had to cut them out of our lives to have any chance of moving on. When they died, they left everything they had to Sutton. Money. Real estate. Shares in the company.” She looks out the window for a moment before she faces me again. “Guilty conscience, I suppose. Or something else. To this day, I’m not sure.”

Once she’s done speaking, I blow out a long breath before I push myself up.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say.

I’m already in the doorway when her voice stops me.

“Do you love him?” she asks.

I turn to look at her.

“More than anything.”

She nods.

“Good.”

Yeah.

Good.

Only I’m still not sure what to do with this.

TWENTY-EIGHT

I finally get up the nerve to send him a text. It goes unanswered. So do the next ten, twenty, thirty. That doesn’t stop me from obsessively checking my phone every few minutes, or jumping at even the slightest sound that resembles a phone ringing or the chime of a text.

At night, I stare at the ceiling and wait. I don’t even know what for. A few times I almost manage to convince myself the lights of passing cars are stopping in front of our house. I get out of bed to check. It’s always a pointless exercise because there’s nobody there.

I go to Sutton’s apartment with no idea what to say. I knock on the door and wait and wait and wait, but the end result is just more emptiness.

A part of my self-respect has always depended on having pride. I’ve never had my heart broken. Not truly. So I just arrogantly figured I’d handle it if it ever happened, because that potential ‘if’ was a huge one. Truth be told, the likelihood of handing my heart over to another person seemed improbable enough that the possibility of anybody breaking it had been theoretical in a wild, distant future way. Like colonies on Mars—might happen, but who knows if I’ll ever get to see it.

I wasn’t prepared.

Can anything prepare you for heartbreak, though? It’s not like you can practice for it.

I resort to approaching Quinn for information. Scraps. Anything.

He looks surprised when I ask about Sutton.

The ache in my chest gets even worse. It beats there. I think doctors would say it’s my heart, but I know better.

And now here I am. A stupid, lovesick idiot. A veritable disaster.

I could’ve just kept my mouth shut.

I’d still have Sutton. Sure, just for now. But I’d have him.

I get into a moronic habit of staying late at work because of an impossible what if. What if he waits for me there? Like he has so many times before.

I lecture myself to get my head out of my ass the whole time I’m scrubbing the floors, and then I stand in front of the exit with a swirling, desperate hope churning in my stomach that he’ll be there when I open the door.