Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,136

the strength in my arms starts to wane, as my will to fight slowly ebbs, as my vision starts to fade out around the edges and my lungs start to burn…

I curse myself.

I curse every stupid, stubborn, self-preserving bone in my body for ever pushing Chase away. I curse all those horrible, harmful voices in my head that told me it would never work, that a girl like me would never make a man like him happy. I curse the marrow in my bones, the strands of my DNA, that truly believed I wasn’t worthy of a love like his.

With the last of my strength, I tilt my head toward the sky. The faintest beams of sunlight shine down through the windshield — I wish I could feel their warmth, but I can’t feel anything, anymore.

Except cold.

Dark.

Alone.

As I slip away, I pretend he’s here with me — his hands on my arms, his lips warm on mine, the rough calluses of his fingers tracing my skin.

Chase.

The last thing I see, before the darkness takes over and I fade into nothing, is an image of his face — those green eyes, that wolfish grin. And with him burned forever onto the backs of my eyelids, I smile as I let go.

It’s not a bad way to die.

Chapter Thirty-Three

After

Breaking up is never easy, I suppose — which is probably why so many people suck at it. We’re so scared to hurt feelings, to place blame, to be anything but polite, that we retreat to the safety of clichés.

It’s not you, it’s me.

We can still be friends.

I need to focus on myself.

Our friendship means too much to me.

I’ve been on the receiving end of my fair share of these lines. And I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve even used some of them. Because, when it comes down to it, it’s a lot easier to feed someone a line than simply say what you feel.

We’re not it. You’re not the one. I’m sorry if I hurt you.

At some point, we all decided that honesty was no longer the best policy. We chose, collectively, to embrace the cliché. To generalize, to standardize, until all those pesky, personal feelings are sucked right out of the dreaded encounter. Until our breakups more closely resemble a business severance than the ending of a relationship. Hell, it’s practically become a competition — who’s more aloof, who handles the mess with the least perceivable distress, who’s “winning” the break up.

And hey, maybe that would be okay.

Except, those harmless little clichés aren’t really so harmless. Because when you hear those same lines, over and over… when someone can’t be bothered to end things with a good reason, with some emotion and honesty — or, hey even an original line — scary thoughts start to take root. Those little voices in your head say you aren’t even worth the effort it takes someone to dump you with a little personalization. They say you aren’t worth the time, the energy, the emotional drainage.

You aren’t worth anything, at all.

I spent a long time listening to those voices.

Believing them. Hearing them. Fearing them.

And, when I met a man who made me question everything, it took me a long time to shake them off. So long, I almost missed my chance to tell him the only thing that matters.

We’re it. You’re the one. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out.

I almost let those little voices steal my happy ending.

Almost.

Thankfully, I get another shot. And this time… I’m not going to screw it up.

***

My eyes sliver open.

The first things I see are the peonies. They’re everywhere – in vases, on tables, on windowsills. Every shade, every shape, every color imaginable. My favorite kind.

He remembered.

There are tubes in my arm, pumping god only knows what into my bloodstream. A gazillion machines are next to my bed, beeping regularly as they monitor my vitals. I’m wearing a horrid, light blue hospital gown, my mouth is drier than the Sahara, and every muscle in my damn body aches like I’ve been flattened by a steam roller.

But I’m alive.

And there’s a gorgeous blond man in the chair next to my bed, slumped forward so his head and arms rest on the mattress, beside my thighs. I move my right hand — and wince, because ouch, I wasn’t kidding when I said everything hurts — until my fingers stroke through his hair.

I feel him stir, feel him slowly come awake beneath my touch. All at once, he seems