A Missing Heart(38)

“AJ,” she says, placing her hand up, gesturing me to stop. “I understand. Even though we had kind of taken a break, I was still thinking about you every minute of every day. It was one of the reasons why I came up here to see you—it had to be face to face and not over the phone.”

“You came up here to make our breakup official and you were going to leave without saying anything?”

She shrugs. “I didn’t want to ruin your trip. I figured it could wait until you got back.”

“So this is it, then,” I tell her.

“We kind of broke up before I left for D.C., then again three months later. Both times, we said goodbye, but it never felt like a goodbye. I still love you. I think I always will, and it’s making it hard for me to move on, so I’ve stayed still, thinking this could actually work in some alternate world. I know it can’t, though.” Her words sound like every thought I’ve had over the past six months. I’ve had drunken moments where I’ve forced myself to pretend like this girl didn’t leave her imprint on my life, but she’s a part of it forever, no matter what. Though, we aren’t in a place or at a time where we can be together.

“I’ve felt the same way,” I tell her. “This hurts, though, Cam. Does this mean we’re not going to talk anymore?” We shouldn't. It’ll make it worse.

“I—”

“Don’t answer me. I know what the answer should be,” I tell her.

She leaps toward me and squeezes me tightly, like a child holding a teddy bear during a thunderstorm. “I really, really do love you with all of my heart, AJ, but I think this is what we’re supposed to do right now.”

I hold her with the same amount of strength that she’s showing me. “I love you, Cam. I always will. No matter what life brings either of us, you will always be a part of my thoughts—my life, even if you aren’t beside me. Plus, goodbye doesn’t have to mean forever.”

Her back shudders beneath my grip and I know she’s crying. “I’m sorry for everything,” she says.

“I’m sorry for…everything too,” I tell her.

We say this often because we call our daughter… everything.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


IT WAS FOUR hours before we were allowed in to see Tori. As we enter her room, the first thing I see are her glazed eyes and her flushed cheeks. She’s awake but staring into the wall across the room. Afraid of saying the wrong thing, I allow her parents to approach her first. They’ve got more experience with dealing with her like this. They say very little, though, and I’m guessing that’s what she needs at the moment.

“Mr. Cole,” an older doctor addresses me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “A word, please.” I follow the doctor out into the hallway, and Tori’s dad follows us. I may be responsible for her now, but I can’t blame her parents for their concern. Tori and I have only been together for a year and a half and they’ve been dealing with this half of her life, evidently.

The doctor brings us to a small, quiet waiting area a couple of doors down and closes the three of us inside. He takes a seat on one of the chairs, then pauses for a moment, nodding at the other chairs, suggesting we sit down. Tori’s dad takes a seat first and I follow suit. Maybe this is the doctor’s attempt to create the appearance of a calm environment, but in reality, I’m freaking out inside and there isn’t much a quiet room and soft voices are going to do to help this. “I know this is difficult,” he begins. “We had a psychiatrist come in to speak with Tori for a bit to find out the cause for her panic attack and breakdown.”

“Were you able to find anything out?” I ask hastily.

A tight-lipped, somewhat annoyed grimace stretches across the doctor’s mouth as he inhales sharply through his nose. “We were able to peel a single layer away, but as I’m sure you can understand; we have a patient confidentiality agreement preventing us from divulging details.”

Frustration fills me and instantly morphs into a type of anger I’ve been doing my best to keep at bay. Looking at the redness in Tori’s father’s face, I can assume I’m not the only one feeling this way.

“Had Tori threatened to harm herself before this incident?” the doctor asks.

“Just today, she mentioned it. Never before. She’s been mildly depressed since our son was born four months ago, and I’ve been encouraging her to see a doctor or a therapist. She has argued with me about it, and while she is supposedly seeing a therapist, I don’t know whether or not she’s suffering with postpartum depression since she has denied that was the case any time I’ve brought it up. She hasn’t even told me who her therapist is, or what she is seeing him or her for.”

The doctor relaxes into his chair and crosses one leg over the other, radiating calm. He’s good. He can shut it all out, go home and pretend like today didn’t happen. Me, though, my life is in ruins and I feel like my body is being shocked with thousands of tiny electrodes. “I might go out on a limb in agreeing with her on the postpartum depression part of the equation because some of her symptoms point to a much different diagnosis, one that has been present for much longer than four months.” I know the amount of information I’m receiving right now is probably as much as I’m going to hear, but I’m sorting every fact out in my head like a puzzle, staring at the clues and not knowing which piece to start with first.