“Of course. It would have been weird if I—” He pauses when it clicks.
“My mom.” My voice has gone flat. “It had to have been my mom.”
I could tell she was happy when I let her know Youssef was bothering me and that I wanted him to get out of our yard. She’d been trying to stop me from seeing him since we first started hanging out. She called him a distraction, a bad influence, and warned me that he was going to turn out just like all other men did.
When I read that letter, it was the first time I thought my mom was right about something.
“Paige...”
I break away and stumble through the living room until I get to the kitchen island. I grip the edge so hard my knuckles go white as I take a few heaving breaths.
My mom and I never saw eye to eye on anything, but she was still my mom. She may have made my and Isabella’s childhoods into a hellish mess of auditions, endless music lessons, and missing too much school, but the first time my vocal coach got creepy when I was thirteen, she scared him so bad with threats he closed his whole business.
I may not have always agreed with her methods. I remember her sitting me down and telling me that industry men would always try to take advantage of me, that they’d always want a girl who was pretty and quiet. She said the only way to get anywhere in life was to beat them at their own game, to be pretty, quiet, and smart enough to know when to get loud.
I never wanted that. I didn’t want to beat the game; I just wanted out. I never wanted to be anything like her, but still, I thought in her own twisted way, she cared about me.
“Paige, I’m so sorry.” Youssef is at my side again, his hand hovering near my arm like he’s not sure if he should touch me again.
I’m really sobbing now. If it weren’t for my arm, I’d be curled up on the floor. My knees are shaking with the effort of holding me up.
“She just—I can’t believe—” I gulp between gasps for air.
But I can believe. Now that the realization is settling in, I don’t have any trouble believing at all.
My mom always gets what she wants in the end.
“I’m so sorry,” Youssef says again.
“What—” A sob cuts me off, and I take a shuddering breath before getting myself in control enough to speak. “What areyousorry for?”
“I should have asked more questions. I should have figured it out. I shouldn’t have just accepted things. I knew you better than that. I should have trusted you. I...” I almost lose it again when I look up and see his eyes are shining too. “I should have just told you in person to begin with. I should have just walked right up to you and said it.”
I told you I loved you.
I was too busy reeling from the realization to really let the impact of his admission hit, but now it does.
He loved me.
It crashes into me like a roaring wave, and I don’t have time to brace against the force.
He loved me.
“Paige!” Youssef snakes an arm around my waist just before my knees really give out. My whole body is shaking now. “Come on. Come here.”
He guides me to the couch, and I’m too overcome to protest or insist on doing it myself.
So much of my life spiralled out from the moment I read his letter, like a thread sewn through all of my choices. Now it’s like that thread is being reeled back in, tugging me through all the years and ripping them open.
Youssef settles me on the couch, paying careful attention to my damaged arm. All his tenderness these past few days has made me so angry and confused. I kept trying to figure out how it could feel so good coming from someone who hurt me so much.
Now I can take it for what it is, and the quiet kindness of his actions starts me crying all over again.
I cry for everything: for the lost time, for what could have been and for what was. I cry for him. I cry for me. I cry for all the nights I told myself to be strong, to dry the tears and get tough instead. I cry for the nights when I couldn’t do it.
I cry for all the what-ifs. I cry for who we are now, and when I’m done, when my throat feels raw and my cheeks are still wet and I’m sure I look like an absolute mess, I look at him beside me on the couch.
He’s been crying too, not as hard as me, but he’s sat there wiping his own tears while stroking my back as I let out all of mine.
