Me & Mine

54. Coming Home For Christmas

Amory is waiting on the porch for me, half covered in a blanket and two steaming cups of what smells like delicious hot chocolate at his side. He smiles when I approach him, but I am not in the mood for... for... well, him, actually.

I take a deep breath and run a hand through my hair. "Amory," I say, my voice sounding a hell of a lot colder than I intended, "I know you asked Max to break up with me and luckily for you I am too exhausted to scream at you right now."

Amory's eyes widen and he straightens his back. "Fay," he says softly, but I shake my head.

"Oh for fuck's sake Amory, if you're going to start telling me that you did it for me, that you care so, so much, I might just puke."

He opens his mouth to say something, but I can only sigh.

"What you did was messed up. Losing Max broke me, Amory. It broke my heart and my soul and I honestly don't understand how the hell I've been walking around the past weeks. And I know I shouldn't blame you and Kane because eventually it was Max' decision, but I do. I do blame you. Because you betrayed me, Amory. And I hate you for it."

I feel my blood rushing through my veins again, my heart pounding in my chest, and I can't quite grasp how I'm still able to formulate complete sentences. Amory's eyes, almost the same dark eyes that stare back at me in the mirror, those eyes are filled with sadness now. I am sick of fighting with Amory. Fucking exhausted from fighting the same fight over and over again. I don't want to do that anymore, and if I'll stay right now, if I stay and listen to whatever he has to say, we will have that fight again. We'll never get past it, not until we finally build up the courage to say the things we have been wanting to say to each other since the moment our father died. But we can't. Because we are freaking cowards.

I don't hate Amory. I love him. But pretending to hate him is just easier right now.

Amory takes a deep breath and motions at the two cups of hot choco he prepared for us.

"I know you're angry with me and you have every right to be," he says softly, "but can we please talk about it?"

I shake my head. "Okay," he nods slowly and reaches for something behind him. He pulls out a battered paperback and holds it up to me. "Will you at least read with me?" He asks instead, his eyes focused on my face. He reached the novel out to me, Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

My gaze travels slowly from the book to his face. Those hopeful dark eyes...

But I shake my head and tear myself away from him. I close the front door behind me and try to breath. Needless to say, I don't succeed much. One step forward, three steps back.

***

I can't sleep that night. Hell, I can't even think. My body is restless and my mind is trailing, flashing pictures of things I almost remember. I sigh and flick on my bedside lamp. It's three in the morning. I chuckle softly to myself. Three a.m. is such a beautiful time. The time of rebels and shakers, of lonely artists and drunken writers. I eye the notebook resting on my vanity table and take a deep breath. Why not take a shot at it? It's the right time of night, after all. Max said I had a way with words, mrs. Fowler told me I showed promise. As quickly as I can, before the cold floor will turn my toes to ice, I reach for the notebook and a pen and sink back under the covers, my back pressed against the headboard. I stick the pen to the paper and write.

Bare branches of battered trees and

Prancing lights over pale pavement.

Wintry winds of shattered peace and

Pyrrhic fights, ruins arching, rocking, caving;
I know I can. I know I can. But I don't want to learn to breathe again.

As Icarus flies and pride's