The Anatomy of a Broken Heart //Completed//

58. Santana

I screamed into my pillow until my throat was raw. Fucking Jasper. Fucking Stella. Of course she was there with him. Rats always jumped at the first whiff of food.

The mascara tears I cried stung my eyes. They weren't real tears, not the kind one cries when tragedy strikes. Not the kind I cried when mom left. These tears were out of absolute, red hot rage. These tears were caused by the pain in my palms as my nails dug into them so hard, they bled. These tears were not for him, they were for me.

I wipe my sleeve under my eyes, the skin already raw from the fabric chafing against it so many times. Caleb's gift sits on my bed, still unopened. It's wrapped in bright yellow and white chevron wrapping paper. For a minute, I wonder if he wrapped it himself. It's so neatly folded and the tape isn't even visible, that I doubt it. But Caleb never ceases to surprise me.

Not wanting to ruin the beautiful paper, I carefully unwrap the present. It's as much to salvage the paper, as to focus my mind on something other than what happened tonight. Underneath the sunshine exterior, was something totally unexpected. I wasn't sure what exactly I expected, but a journal was not it. It was deep black, even the pages were black, with the lines running across them in white. The cover was soft to the touch, like smooth leather—not the grainy kind, and on the front was a letter "S" embossed into the material. I ran my finger over the letter, letting my finger curve over the indentation, before opening it up to the front page. Inside, Caleb had written a short dedication in silver ink.

Santana,

For all the thoughts you cannot voice.

I pray 18 treats you better than 17. You deserve everything good. Happy birthday.

ݺ aleb

He'd written the "C" in "Caleb" with a sharp edge like he'd meant to write something else at first, and I smiled a little at the slip-up. Even if it was just that. Attached to the journal was the same pen he'd used for the inscription, tucked into a pocket on the spine of the book. I got the sudden urge to chuck the journal across the room, to throw it out the window, or burn it. That, or hold it to my chest and never let it be spoiled with anything I could ever have to write in it.

This journal was just a random gift. Something he picked up, or had his maid pick up, while out shopping. It was a spur of the moment, afterthought gift. It had to be. I couldn't let myself picture Caleb going out of his way to look for something that reminded him of me, something specifically made for me. Something that proved he cared, like he'd told me twice already. I'd never given him the impression that I was a writer on any level, but when I went back and read the inscription I knew that, of course, he'd given this gift thought. He'd remembered what I'd said and he'd cared enough. He'd cared, and I hated that. Any sort of investment in someone like me was only going to result in a failed enterprise and disappointment. He had to know that. I'd have to give the gift back.

A knock on my door made my head whip up.

I shot off the bed and looked in the mirror. My mascara hadn't run down my cheeks like I'd feared, and I didn't look like I'd been crying, just tired.

"Come in," I said. Maria poked her head into my room and smiled. Her eyes fell on the journal still in my hand and her smile grew wider.

"Is that Caleb's gift? Can I see it?" Before I could say no, she took it from me and read the inscription. "Ugh, he's even more romantic than I pictured!"

Uh, gag. "Romantic? Where do you get "romantic" from that?" I took the book back from her, but she had already swooned her way onto my bed. It was too late, I'd lost her.