Beautifully Ruined (21 page)

He sent me a few texts last night that I ignored. I wasn’t in the mood to hear how he could justify that fight. So I pretended as if I never received them. I thought that was working.

Guess not.

Me:
What gave you that idea?

Milo:
Seriously?

Me:
I’m talking to you right now.

Milo:
Technically we’re texting.

Me:
Shut up, smartass. Talk to you tomorrow.

That should keep him calm for a while. But it isn’t long before my phone beeps from another message.

Zephyr:
I’m sorry.

Me:
Contrary to popular belief, the girlfriend doesn’t always want to hear an apology
.

Zephyr:
What do you want?

Me:
If you have to ask, you don’t know me at all.

Zephyr:
You can’t always get what you want.

Me:
Remember that.

I turn off my phone—not in the mood to hear or read any more apologies. Milo and Zephyr don’t get it. Or if they do, they just don’t care. I don’t want to be the thing they fight over. I don’t want to be a game for them to play. Last time I checked, I wasn’t a pawn.

Believe it or not—I have better things to do with my time. But I can’t do any of it because I’m too busy worrying about them.

And it’s exhausting.





The weekend passes and I don’t turn on my phone until Monday morning. I browse the internet, read two books, and play a lot of music on my violin. We have a competition in Oregon coming up and Solo/Ensemble. I’ve finalized my solos for both and I’m feeling pretty confident.

Tossing my violin into the instrument storage room, I step into the hall, passing students on their way to morning band or choir.

After turning on my phone this morning, I saw missed messages and calls from Zephyr and Milo, a few from Kennie and Harley, and even one from Alexia. I clicked
ignore
on all right before I left my house. I didn’t need to read any of them, not when I’m seeing everyone in a few hours.

Ducking into the classroom, I unload everything I need onto my desk. A few minutes and half a page of reading later, Milo walks in, his eyes searching the room. “There you are,” he blurts. Before I can respond, he ducks back into the hall. I hear him shout, “She’s in here,” before he dodges back into the room, bolting to his seat next to mine.

Zephyr is right behind him, dragging his hand through his hair.

They don’t look too pretty. The weekend didn’t help to heal their injuries from the fight on Friday. Milo’s got a black eye and a purple bruise on his cheek. Zephyr’s got a black eye, a bruise on his neck, and a long cut along his cheek. My heart hurts for them but I can’t show any remorse, I’m still angry with them.

“Oh, look who hasn’t killed each other,” I mutter, sarcastically before faking a smile, then going back to my work.

“Joey,” Zephyr starts.

“If you even start to mention how y’all worked out a schedule for time with me,” I begin, lifting my gaze from my page. “I think I might leap across the table myself and strangle the both of you.”

Milo chuckles. “We promise it’s nothing like that.”

“Then what do you want?”

“We’ve thought about what you said,” Zephyr tells me, grabbing a chair and sitting across from me. He pulls the book from in front of me.

“I was reading that.”

“We’ve thought and talked about it, and we realized that we were being stupid,” Zephyr explains.

“Well, one of use was being stupid, the other was completely within their right,” Milo adds.

Zephyr shoots him a glare.

Whatever they’re talking about is going to take some work it appears.

“What are y’all talking about?” I ask, tired of the back-and-forth.

“I was jealous,” Zephyr admits. “Of Milo. And how much time he spent with you. I now know that nothing would’ve happened between you two.”

“Like I hadn’t been telling you that since we got back together,” I snap.

“Just give me a minute, Jo.” Zephyr takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. To you, to Milo, I’m truly sorry. I never noticed what this did to you, I was only concerned with what I wanted, and it was you. I just wanted you all to myself.”

I look up at him and his eager brown eyes as they stare back at me. “And?”

“
And
… I realize I should have listened to you.”

I smile, reaching for his hand. This makes me a happy Joey.

I turn to Milo. “Now it’s your turn.”

“I’m sorry?” he says slowly.

“For?” I beckon.

“For the fight?”

“You suck at this,” I tell him.

“Zephyr’s the man for speeches; I’m just here to look pretty.” He chuckles, his familiar grin covering his swollen features.

“I’d say Zeph’s got you beat, there.” Even with the bruises.

Zephyr tugs my hand up, kissing the knuckles. I notice the cuts on his, rubbing my thumb over them. I know that won’t help but it makes him smile.

“Wait,” he says, disrupting our moment. “How’d you know he’d kick my ass, anyway?” he asks, nodding his head in Milo’s direction.

I smile. “You wanted it too much.”

“You okay?” Zephyr asks me as I sit on my bed. I'm zoning out, staring at a blank space on my wall. I've tugged the bin from my closet but I can't bring myself to open it. After a brief surge in confidence, I’ve decided now is the time to read these letters. This bin has been haunting me for months. It’s time. “I can stay, you know, to be here when you open it.”

Hilary already left for her shift so it's just me and Zephyr alone in the house. Just him, a thousand letters, and me. A thousand letters I'm not ready to read. But after last night, I need to. I need to do this.

“I don't need you here,” I mumble, half dazed, still staring at the wall.

Last night, I had another nightmare. It wasn’t anything from the past; it was in the present. I walked into my room to find my father sitting on my bed, waiting for me. That’s all I remember before I woke up in a cold sweat.

I can't believe that I'm about to do this. I can't believe that I'm about to open these letters. Do I really want to know what any of them say? What he has to say? There is nothing more terrifying than reading his words, hearing his explanations as to why I've grown up the way I have.

No. I don't want to.

But I have to.

I have to know what he wants me to know.

It doesn't mean I have to believe him.

In a rush, I flip the lid from the bin, launching it halfway across the room—I’m skaing from nervousness. It lands in front of my dresser, propping itself against the chair. The hollow sound of plastic fills my ears.

And there they are. There are all the letters, long and white, some beginning to yellow. The front of each, that I can see, is the
same. My birth name and my grandparent's address is scribbled in the center, my father's name and some number is scrawled in the upper corner, then there's an address. The usual mail markings cover the front, along with a forwarding address.

It’s all so plain and normal. Now what I was expecting. They all look so harmless. To someone else, these are the letters from a father to his daughter. To me, these are dangerous bombs ready to explode. These are from a murderer to one of his victim.

“You sure you want to do this, Jo?”

And I’m about to rip them open.

No, I'm not sure. Actually, I'm sure I don't want to do this, but it must be done and I'm the only one to do it.

I start by dumping the letters in the center of the room. The letter mountain is taller than I originally guessed and now I'm wondering how they all fit into the bin.

“Uh,” I start, since Zephyr hasn't left. I'm guessing he's here for the long haul. That helps. “I guess we sort them in order.” I might as well read them from first to last, right?

We spread them out as best we can. Zephyr takes roughly one-half, I take another, and we start sorting. I'm done with my side before he is, and then we combine them. When we're finished, I stare at the large mass on the floor in front of me.

“Where are you going to start?” he asks quietly. His hand glides over the letters, tapping a few as he makes his way toward the end.

I can't see his eyes. His hair is blocking my view, but I want him to look at me. There’s so much honesty and love in his eyes, I just want him to look at me.

He lifts his head, slowly raising his eyes. His mouth breaks into a smile and instantly, I'm warm inside. I know I can do this, I know I can do anything when he looks at me.

I just don't
want
to do this.

Reaching out, I grasp the first letter. It's yellowed and thick. I hold it in my lap, debating whether to open it, debating if I really want to know.

Curiosity wins out and I rip open the top.

Zephyr sits close to me, not intruding, just letting me know he's here for me.

I tug out the letter, feeling the weight of the thin paper against my hands. It appears my father had a lot to say, the words taking up the entire page, his sloppy script growing larger and wider the more he has to say.

My beautiful baby girl:

I miss you. You must know that. I miss you being near to me. Do you miss me as much as I miss you? Do you miss your Daddy? I bet you do.

There are so many things happening and I doubt you will ever understand. Don’t let me even begin trying to explain, just know it’s all a lie. Everything, every single word, is a lie. I would never hurt you. I love you too much to hurt you. I hope you know that. I hope you believe what I say is true, because it is.

I would never lie to you, baby.

Your mother, she was a bad woman. An evil woman. She didn’t want me around you because she knew that you loved me more than her, you wanted me more than her. She was a bitter, jealous woman. Your mother, she could never begin to understand the feelings you, your brother, and sister held for me. I was important to you three. You especially.

And she took you all from me.

She expected me to function, to live, without all of my children in my life. How can I do that? How could I do that?

I couldn’t, Josie. Not without my baby girl, not without you.

I just wanted my family back. Was that too much to ask? I just wanted us, all of us, to be a family again. But she wouldn’t agree with that. She didn’t want me anymore. She wanted all of you to herself. She was greedy.

They say greed is a sin. It
is
a sin. It’s one of the seven deadly sins. And she died for her greed, baby girl. Because she was selfish, your mother is dead.

And I couldn’t let her keep you, all of you. I couldn’t let her do that. I couldn’t let her take all of you from me.

The rest of the letter goes on and on about how much he loves me, how much he misses me, and how he believes I will never be able to survive without him here to guide me through life. It’s disturbing how delusional he seems, how crazy his ramblings are. It’s even crazier to know he believes them so much.

I crack open another letter, then another and another, followed by more, one more disturbing than the next, until all that lies around me are the empty envelopes like carcasses crumpled on the floor—twenty letters, thirty letters, fifty letters. I read through two-thirds of the bin before Zephyr grabs my hand to drag me forcefully from the room, away from the disease of the bin.

“
What are you doing?
” I protest as he takes me down the stairs, dragging me until my steps match his pace.

“Have you not been listening to me?” He asks.

I shake my head.

“We’ve been sitting in that room for over three hours.” He pushes me into the closest seat at the dining room table. “You’re eyes have been glued to every sick word that psycho has written to you. You need something else to do for a while. Something sane that won’t leave you traumatized.” Zephyr fills a glass of water and places it in front of me. “Maybe we could go BASE jumping.”

“Zeph.” I stand up, ignoring the glass placed before me, protesting loudly when he pushes against me to sit back down. “Hey,” I object, falling into the wooden seat, hearing it crack and settle against my weight.

“Now, I’m going to attempt to make you something to eat. You need food.” He stands away from the table, walking into the kitchen. He looks so foreign when he grabs the pots and pans from the cupboards. He looks confused when he opens the refrigerator, his eyes searching the contents.

I sigh. “How about we order a pizza?” I ask, pulling my phone from my pocket. I pull up the number for Pizza Hut, not waiting for his answer, and dial.

After we have a few slices of pepperoni and pineapple pizza—Zephyr devouring half the pizza while I poke at one slice for forty-five minutes—we take a seat on the couch, snuggling beneath a blanket as we watch a movie. Well, he watches the movie, I think about the bin of envelopes, wondering what other crazy things are hidden within those gray plastic walls.

As my mind wanders through all the words, watching them swirl within my mind, sleep pulls me under.

I’m standing in the center of a field filled with colorful flowers. They’re so pretty, I can’t help but reaching out and trying to snag one, but the stem just glides through my hand as if I’m not real.

Not this again
.

I’m back.

“It’s pretty, huh?”

I turn, not knowing what to expect. I spot a familiar face.

Ivy.

“Sorry, you can’t really take one.” She reaches out, floating her hand through the flowers by the hem of her sundress—a pale pink one this time. “I can’t even touch them.”

I shake my head. “This isn’t real,” I tell her.
It’s not real
. I knew this the last time despite how much I wished the opposite. As much as I’d love to talk to my sister, I know this is only a dream.

“It’s not,” she tells me. “Not really. It’s real
to you
.” She takes a step forward, gliding through the flowers, her dark skin pokes from the hem of her dress as she moves. She was always darker than me. Noah, too. I remember that now. In this world, memories come back to me, fueling the fire in my head. “It’s just… think of it as an easier way for you to process.”

My eyebrows rise. “Process what?” I ask, folding my arms protectively across my chest.

“What you read earlier.” Her dark eyes lift up, startling me with their clarity. There’s a way she said that, as if
she
always knew what I’d read. But that means that
I
always knew. That’s a bigger mind trick than anything else I’m seeing. “You should have guessed, Joey. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.”

I startle, stumbling back. It shocks me, her replying to my thoughts.

“I’m in your head, you know?” She shrugs a bare shoulder.

“So I should just voice what I’m thinking?” I ask, sarcastically.

“I think you get that from me.” Ivy walks around me, eyeing me suspiciously. “Well, what little you know about me.” I follow her, spinning slowly as she walks around me in a wide circle. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?” she asks quietly, following with a sigh.

I quirk a brow. “What?” I ask, confused.

Ivy sighs loudly. “Would this be easier if I looked different?” I stare at her, wondering what the hell she’s asking. “Maybe if I look a bit like this?” She stops, her eyes closing. Her head tips back. Ivy slowly starts to shrink, her hair pulls into her head, it seems, becoming shorter and slightly lighter. There’s more curl and frizz in her hair as it starts to fan around her head. Her skin lightens; her face changes, the features becoming smaller and kinder, innocent even.

And I’m staring at myself.

I’m staring at
myself
?

Okay, now
this
is a mindfuck.

“Hi.”

I remember that voice. I remember the tiny, squeaky voice I had, and I remember it so clearly, it’s terrifying. She steps closer to me, nothing but innocence in her pale, hazel eyes.

When did I lose that?

“H-h-hi,” I stutter. I can’t believe I’m speaking to her—to
me
—I can’t believe I’m speaking to myself. In real life, this is a ticket straight to the loony bin. “You’re…?”

“I’m JoJo.”

She seems so happy. It brings tears to my eyes how
happy
and
cheerful
she looks—how happy and cheerful I looked back then, how happy and cheerful I look. I’m not sure the tense for this so the phrasing is going to be awkward,
oy
, I can tell.

I kneel down, my knees feeling nothing, touching nothing, as I watch them glide and sink into the flowers. “I’m Joey,” I tell her when I’m eye level.

“Hi,” she says again. She cocks her head to the side, narrowing her eyes before she says, “You look really familiar.”

Like I haven’t heard that before
.

I giggle, tucking my hair behind my ears. “You do, too.” I force a smile. “I guess I have some questions for you.”

“What do you want to know?” JoJo plops down, nearly disappearing into the flowers. She reaches out, snatching one, and starts to pluck off the petals, throwing them on the skirt of her dress.

“About you.” My voice catches, cracking, and I try to keep myself from crying. “About your family.”

Her eyes brighten, glee filling her face.

What happened to this little girl?

“I love my family!” she says, bouncing where she sits. “My sister is awesome. She plays with me a lot. And my brother lets me play with his toys. My mom teaches me how to play the piano and I get to watch her dance.”

I smile tenderly, wishing I could see these memories, feel them with her, feel the joy of what she says, but I only feel empty. A deep pit falls within me, hollowing me out and making me jealous of my past-self.

But I can’t be jealous of her—of
me
.

“What about your father?” I ask, practically probing her, prying her for information.

Her smile drops as she lowers her gaze, staring at the skeletal remains of the flower in her hand. “What about him?” she asks so quietly, I’m not even sure if I heard it or imagined it.