The Secret Of Us. Liesel Schmidt

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      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

       Endpages

       About the Publisher

       Chapter One

       November 2005

      I burned them all when I got home that day, a thick stack of bridal magazines that were dog-eared and flagged with a rainbow of Post-its that peeked from the edges of the pages. It’s strange, the acrid smell that comes from burning magazine pages – glossy and slick and heavily coated in ink. The pile seemed to burn painfully slowly as I watched, perched on the couch in my darkened living room, staring unblinkingly until the blaze became an indefinable blur of angry oranges and reds.

      It was over. He was gone, and I was alone.

      It sounded so simple, but it wasn’t. The situation was far from simple, at least for me. For Matt, it seemed the most uncomplicated decision of his life, one even easier to make than his decision to propose. The words slid from his mouth smoothly, almost silkily, as we sat across from each other at the table in the restaurant.

      Our restaurant. The one we had eaten at on a weekly basis for the past three years.

      Matt looked up from his nearly empty plate of cheese tortellini and said it as though he was telling me he was disappointed by the consistency of the sauce.

       I think this engagement is a mistake.

      I felt the floor falling out from under me as I sat in my green vinyl-padded cafe chair.

       I think this engagement is a mistake. I need some time to figure things out, to know what’s best for me.

      The handsome man sitting across the table from me suddenly seemed a stranger, a soulless replica of someone I loved and trusted. The face I knew – every angle, every freckle, every line etched by time – became an unfamiliar arrangement of features dulled by those crushing words.

      Words that I didn’t even have the presence of mind to answer. How could I? The man I loved, the man who was supposed to love me, was now sitting across from me and saying words that eradicated every confidence I had in that love. There was a sick desperation growing in the pit of my stomach, a roiling mix of panic and anger that seemed to make speech impossible.

      It was incomprehensible, this sudden revelation that the past five months of his life – of both our lives – were a mistake.

      A mistake.

      The words echoed in my mind like the report of gunfire in a tunnel.

      He shook his head and expelled a puff of air, suddenly seeming aware of the effect of his words.

      “This isn’t to hurt you, Eira. Please believe that,” he said, almost pleading. He reached out a hand and splayed it, palm down on the tabletop near me. A gesture of supplication, an attempt to bridge the distance between us that now seemed to be thousands of miles instead of the mere inches that it truly was. My gaze dropped from his eyes to his hand as I sat silently, feeling diminished and cold.

      A hand that was so capable, so strong, yet so able to communicate tenderness. And so able to destroy things, just as his words had done. His hand continued to rest on the table while I stared at it, my eyes losing focus as tears stung them and threatened to escape. I blinked rapidly to clear them away, thoughts darting through my mind with the sharpness and speed of arrows. And just as painful.

      A mistake.

      I looked down at my own hands, resting limply in my lap, and saw a glint of platinum from the band of my engagement ring. The room seemed to darken as pinpricks of blackness danced in front of my eyes, threatening to shut out everything else and steal the air.

      I couldn’t breathe.

      “Eira?” The voice seemed distant, hollow and tinny, as though it was being telegraphed along string between two soup cans.

      “Eira?” It sounded more urgent now, but still so distant.

      I shook my head and shot up from my chair, barely clearing the table in my haste to rise to my feet. I had to get out of there, had to get some air. I had to be able to breathe.

      Breathe.

      I had to consciously think about it as I lurched frantically towards the ladies’ room, each rasping gulp of air a struggle.

      I stumbled into the bathroom, reaching desperately for the nearest sink and clinging to it for support. I fought against the bile rising in my throat, the suffocating absence of air. How could this be happening?

      When had the man who was supposed to love me fallen out of love?

      How had I missed the signs?

      Come to think of it, where had the signs been?

      I gripped the white porcelain sink, my knuckles and fingertips turning ghostly under the pressure. I was never going to be able to go back out there and face him. How could I? I shook my head and clamped my eyes shut against the unbidden tears that burned them.

      This wasn’t happening, I thought again. This was not happening.

      “Are you okay, honey?” a small voice behind me asked.

      “Uh huh,” I managed, sounding unconvincing even to myself. I sniffled and nodded, my eyes still clenched tightly. “I’ll be fine.” It came out like a squeak, resonating harshly off the black and white subway tiles that lined the walls.

      “Are you sure? Do you need me to get someone for you?” the voice offered.

      I shook my head silently.

      No, I wasn’t sure.

      And no. No, there wasn’t anyone she could get for me. Not any more.

      I opened my eyes and straightened up, venturing to look in the mirror. The reflection wasn’t me – it seemed like a stranger, like a woman I’d never seen before. The woman staring back at me looked drawn, her bloodless face punctuated by eyes dulled with despair.

      She looked hollow.

      Hollow. That sensation of hollowness seemed the only thing I had in common with this strange woman in the mirror, this woman who was really me.

      I felt somehow like something had been stolen. Maybe – in a way – it had.

      I shifted my focus to the reflection of the petite woman standing behind me, concern deeply etched on her face. Her eyebrows were knitted so tightly together they formed almost a straight line above her bright blue eyes. Blonde curls had escaped from her ponytail, an odd contrast to her otherwise blunt features. She looked to be about ten years older than me, СКАЧАТЬ