Page 90 of A Good Book

I shoved him. Then I scribbled more angry words.

I saidyour name!I was with him but wishing it was you! I gave you my virginity. I gave you everything. And I want to be with you but you’re being a bully and a jerk and an ASSHOLE!

Ben eyed the note intently, jaw muscles twitching. “You’re right. I’m an asshole. A deaf asshole. So why the hell would you want to be with me?”

Tears raced down my cheeks, and I made no attempt to wipe them away. “Because,” I whispered and signed, “I love you.”

His eyes reddened while he kept his teeth clenched. I knew he’d rather die than break down in front of me twice in less than twenty-four hours. “Well, don’t waste your time loving me.” He shrugged, gazing over my shoulder like he couldn’t stand to look me in the eye anymore. “And if the day comes that I figure out how not to be such an asshole, maybe we can be friends again.” He forced his attention back to me. “But for now, go. Go back to school. Have sex with Matt. Pursue your dreams. Waiting around for me is an insult to both of us.”

My heart stopped. He stomped all over it, and I wasn’t sure it would beat again.

“You’re better than any dream I’ve ever had. And he was just a dream,” I said.

He narrowed his eyes in confusion.

“And I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out.”

Ben shook his head. “I can’t hear you.”

“And I can’t believe you think our friendship is so conditional and … disposable.” I finally wiped my face and sniffled. “So fuck you, Benjamin Ashford, for making me love you. You’re the world’s worst friend. And I will never forgive you for this.” I turned.

He grabbed my arm. “What did you say?”

I pulled away from him, wiping my face.

“Gabriella,” he said, dropping his gaze to the floor, “I love yousomuch, but I don’t know how to be with you when I feel worthless. And I’d rather you hate me now than later.” He lifted his gaze. “It’s not about Matt. It’s not about you. I’m a terrible person for pointing fingers and making excuses. It’s me, Gabbs. Just … let me go.”

His words were too little and too late. I headed to the front door without saying goodbye to anyone or checking with his mom about the gift for our family. My courage was on its last breath, and I needed to get out of there.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

GEORGE MICHAEL, “ONE MORE TRY”

Gabby

Mattand his parents went back to Asheville the following day, and Sarah and Isaac went home too. I spent the rest of my break acting like everything was fine, putting together puzzles with my mom and playing Scrabble with my dad. Every few days, I took a drive to make my parents think I was visiting my best friend Ben.

I wasn’t a fan of school and homework, but I couldn’t wait to go back to Michigan. When I got there, Olivia was gone, and I had the dorm room to myself. Just me, my thoughts, blank journal pages, and a large supply of tissues.

The first of February, I wrote Ben a letter. In hindsight, I should have left my thoughts as a journal entry, but something inside of me needed to send those specific words to Ben, even if he never read them. He was going through the stages of grief after losing his hearing. I was going through the stages from losing him.

Dear Ben,

How’s your room? Are you making fun Lego creations? I heard a song the other day and thought of you. I’d tell you the name of it, but what does it matter? You can’t hear. That’s your new job, right? Being deaf? Does that pay well? Or do you have a part-time job working for Hallmark? You really should since you have such a way with words. You could write breakup cards.

Did I tell you that Olivia moved out? I have the dorm room all to myself, so when I want to have sex with Matt, no one interrupts us. Speaking of sex, I’ve taken two pregnancy tests and they were negative. I bet that makes you happy.

I hope you’re doing well. Say hi to Tillie and your parents.

Regards,

Gabby

I reread it at least ten times, and all ten times I contemplated wadding up the paper and tossing it into the trash. It was a cruel and hurtful letter that I would undoubtedly regret later. But he was cruel and hurtful. Did he take even two seconds to think before he said mean things to me? No. So I sealed the letter in an envelope, stamped it, and carried it to the nearest mailbox. After all, he wasn’t going to read it.

When the letter dropped into the metal mail bin and there was no taking it back, I blew out a long breath that plumed in the cold air and smiled. It felt good to get that off my chest. Is that how he felt? Did saying mean things to me feel good?

I continued to write him letters with no response from him. And when I talked to my parents on Saturday mornings, they made no mention of the letters, so I assumed he either didn’t read them, or if he did, he didn’t share them with his mom.

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