Page 47 of Reckless Hearts

Sometimes I catch myself laughing at something he said.

Sometimes I catch myself understanding him.

Things are changing and I fucking hate it.

Hate that my walls are cracking.

But I can’t hate who’s breaking them.

I let out a long sigh.

“Sometimes I miss what we were,” I admit. “Wishing things turned out differently.” That he hadn’t chosen a buckle over our friendship. “Back then, I’d have said what we are now was impossible. I trusted him more than a brother.”

Bracing myself, I take a steadying breath.

An ache thrums in my chest, the kind that hates how everything turned out.

If I could go back, would things be different?

No. That’s not the problem.

I know better than to put this blame on myself.

Fuck, a part of me died that day when he held that trophy high.

And that’s the part that fucks with me every time I look at him now.

Because sometimes just sometimes there’s something hidden beneath his lashes that I can’t read.

Would he do it again?

Would he leave me in that hospital to chase his dreams?

Or would he follow me, hold my hand while I lay there terrified?

I couldn’t feel my legs.

The doctors couldn’t tell me if it was permanent or temporary.

And I was all alone.

I really thought he’d be there.

That I was more important.

But I wasn’t.

Callie left.

And Maverick didn’t come.

And ain’t that a bitch.

“There’s no fixing this, Callie,” I say, not sure if I’m reminding her or myself.

It hurts more than I want it to.

The feeling of losing everything good in my life, like an old wound freshly reopened.

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