Since You Happened by Holly Hall
Chapter 20
I walk out of my bedroom in green-and-red-striped pajama pants and do a little twirl on my toes, putting them on full display for Landon. He lets out a low whistle of appreciation.
“Who says elf-inspired pajamas aren’t sexy?” he asks teasingly, lifting me so I can wrap my legs around him.
“Nobody I know,” I say against his mouth.
He takes full advantage of our position to grope my backside. “Tempt me anymore and you’re going to end up on Santa’s naughty list. I hear he doesn’t like a tease.”
“Tempt you?” I ask with a giggle.
“Something about candy cane stripes just gets to me,” he murmurs, deadpan. I clutch his whiskery face between my hands and give him a loud kiss before he sets me down.
“I was hoping you would say that.” I turn to run back into my bedroom, and he swats me on the rear just as I take off.
I fetch the second, larger pair from my bed, returning back to the living room with them behind my back. When I whip them out with a flourish, he immediately begins to shake his head, just as I predicted.
“I’m not wearing those.”
“Yes, you are,” I say, thrusting them into his hands.
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“Is this getting me laid tonight?” He asks, holding the stripy bottoms up with only his thumb and forefinger.
“Do you always have to be so vulgar? It’s a tradition. Anytime we decorated the tree growing up, we would wear Christmas pajamas. No pajamas, no tree.”
He eyes the pants, then looks back at me. “Fine. I’ll wear them when we decorate the tree. But first, you’ll have to get me drunk. And before that, we need to eat.”
He walks back over to the bar where he’s set the bag of takeout Thai. I decide not to push the subject, only because my stomach has just growled loud enough for my crazy neighbor to hear. Landon pulls out the containers and divvies up our orders onto two plates. We settle onto the floor in the living room with our plates on the coffee table, our attention focused solely on stir-fry for several minutes.
“Have you thought anymore about introducing me to your family?” he asks, pausing to wipe the corner of his mouth. I lean over and dab away the sauce he’s trying unsuccessfully to find.
“No. Have you?” Truthfully, it’s crossed my mind a few times since that original conversation. I just wasn’t sure how determined Landon was to meet my family, and I didn’t want to daunt him by pushing the issue. There’s no way he understands the scope of what he’s agreeing to.
“I meant it when I said you needed to meet my mom. So how should we do this? My family is hosting Christmas at my grandparents’ place in Loveland. They have a big dinner the day of. What about yours?”
“The same, but everyone usually comes over on Christmas Eve. It’s not a bad drive from Silverthorne, though, so we could stay the night and leave for Loveland on Christmas morning, if you’re okay with that.”
Landon nods, taking another bite, then pauses in his chewing. “Is it weird how casually we just planned Christmas together?”
“Well, we haven’t been together very long,” I say, offering him a way out. “Having second thoughts?”
His gaze is unfocused for a few seconds, but he just shakes his head and looks back at me. “No. I have a good feeling about this.”
I smile, feeling the warmth that has nothing to do with central heating flow all the way to my toes. “Me too.”
Once I’ve cleaned up after dinner, I take out the carton of egg nog that I stashed in the fridge earlier. “Hope you like egg nog. I personally don’t care much for it, but it’s a tradition.” I pour us a couple of glasses, but Landon doesn’t drink the one I offer him. He only sniffs it suspiciously.
“I’ve only ever had it with whiskey,” he says, taking a small sip and pretending to gag.
“You’re such a snob,” I scold playfully, tucking the carton back into the fridge.
“Do you want me to decorate the tree with you, looking like an oversized toddler, or not?”
“Oh, you’re wearing the pajamas. But I don’t have whiskey.”
Landon turns and grabs his coat from the barstool. “Let’s go. Where’s the closest liquor store?”
“A couple miles away. You’re driving.” I go to change out of my pajamas, then, thinking better of it, I just put a coat on over top.
“Jesus Christ. We’re going to have to fight off hordes of children thinking you’re one of Santa’s helpers.”
“You’re hilarious,” I say, grabbing my purse and opening the door.
“Hang on, I think I set my keys down in your room or something.” Landon turns, and I see him disappear down the hallway just before the door closes.
When I turn around to rest my back against the wall, a large figure looms in my peripheral vision, and I look up, startled, into the eyes of a man I recognize, though he’s probably the last person I expected to see just now.
“Paul!” I say, my hand flying to my chest in surprise.
“Blake, hi.” He gives me a bashful smile, like he didn’t expect to be caught outside of my apartment.
“What are you doing here?” I look around, thinking someone he knows is going to come walking out of one of the neighboring apartments, but he just shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs.
“I, uh . . . I wanted to talk to you. I’m sorry for showing up unannounced like this, but I asked Arielle for your address to send you some flowers and then just decided to drop by instead.” He smiles after saying this, as though he’s now confident in his decision.
Before I can announce that I was just about to leave—with another man—he dives into his explanation. “Ever since our date, I haven’t been able to keep you off my mind.” He gives me a helpless shrug, then his eyes flick downward, as if he’s just now noticing I’m wearing Christmas-themed pajama pants that might better suit a seven-year-old. “You look like you’re busy, so I can make this quick. Please. Just give me five minutes, and if you decide you never want to see me again, that’s fine.”
I look between him and the closed door. This has the potential to be very awkward if I can’t get rid of him before Landon comes out. But I don’t want to hurt Paul’s feelings. “I’m sorry, Paul. Right now is not the best time.”
Just as I finish that statement, my door swings inward and Landon steps out. I almost burst out laughing when my eyes fall to the striped pajamas I got him, which he’s now wearing. He must have changed into them at the last second as a joke. I’m sure we look ridiculous as a pair, which might actually stave off any of the awkwardness of this moment.
Remembering Paul, I turn back toward him, watching as something like realization overtakes him. “Wait a second—is this the guy? The reason you won’t give me a chance?” he asks, his voice gathering suspicion.
I look back and forth between them; Landon and his confusion, Paul and his disbelief. I’m filled with the urge to deny everything while also wondering how he could possibly know that Landon is the majority of the reason why I can’t be with him, as I didn’t openly admit that to him. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve admitted that to myself before now.
“No, Paul. I meant it when I said I’m just not ready.” I give him a small smile. Landon and I might be in a kind of relationship now, but it isn’t what Paul was desiring. Guys like Paul want promises of the future they’ve always envisioned. Landon has never expected that from me.
“He purses his lips and shakes his head in disbelief again. Then he extends a hand toward Landon, and I can only look on helplessly as I await whatever is going to happen next.
“It’s only polite to make an introduction. I’m Paul. You must be her convict ex-boyfriend. I guess I should congratulate you for keeping her hung up on you for four years while you were doing time.” A sense of dread swells within me before the rest of my body has time to react. In seconds, my stomach drops to my feet and I feel the simultaneous urge to vomit. No no no no no. This cannot be happening.
“Paul, he’s not my ex, and this is the wrong time to be doing this,” I manage, trying to herd him away. If I can get him to leave, there’s a possibility that I might be able to salvage this. I’ll come clean about everything to Landon and pray that he will somehow forgive me for my omission. But Landon sets a hand on my shoulder, freezing me in my tracks, while furrowing his brows at Paul.
“Wait, what the hell are you talking about?” he asks in a stern, protective tone. I have a feeling it won’t stay that way for long if Paul continues. All I want is for a hole to open up in the floor and swallow me, but I can only watch in horror.
Paul gauges my dumbstruck expression, then Landon’s. “You’re not her ex?”
Landon shakes his head slowly. “No. And you better get the hell out of here unless you want to explain yourself.” No, do not explain yourself, I urge Paul silently.
“Wait . . .” Paul lets out a bitter laugh. “. . . you mean she didn’t tell you?” He’s so incredulous that Landon’s gaze is on me now, confusion written plainly all over his face.
“Tell me what, Blake?” Landon’s voice is now cautious and unsure, but the second I tell him, he’ll be looking at me with an expression far worse than confusion. My blood seems to freeze in my veins.
“Why don’t you leave, Paul, and I’ll explain everything.”
Paul folds his arms across his chest and bears his perfect teeth in a cruel grin, showing he’s in no hurry to leave. “Allow me. After all, it is guy code to warn a fellow brother against situations like this.” I try to step around Paul, but he jabs a finger toward me and I flinch. “I’m not sure if she told you anything about me, but I took her out one night, not too long ago, and we really hit it off. I could tell she was into me, and I honestly got the impression that she was one of the most genuine women I’ve met in a long time. She seemed like an awesome girl—a unicorn, as they say these days. Then she told me this sob story about her ex, and how she couldn’t stand to string along a great guy like me because she ‘has too much to deal with personally right now.’ ” He makes air quotes to mock me, and the shame I feel makes my cheeks grow hot.
“Did you know that he killed a girl? Yeah, got hammered and drove some girl off the road near Boulder. She was with him.” He nods his head toward me, and the shame compresses my lungs, making it difficult to take a breath. “You probably heard of him; it was all over the news. Sam Davis or—” His sentence is cut short, because Landon punches him right in the jaw before I can even register what’s happening. Paul crumples against the opposite wall, looking more bewildered than ever. Our expressions are probably the same at this point.
“What the hell, man?” he asks, clutching the side of his face.
Landon shakes out his hand, the solemnity in his gaze more worrisome than anything. “You should get the fuck out of here before I decide to hit you again.”
Paul straightens, still holding his jaw with one hand while he lifts the other in surrender. “No problem, bro. This is more trouble than it’s worth. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He gives Landon a disbelieving shake of his head before he sets off toward the elevator.
Meanwhile, my legs have given out and I’ve sunk to the ground in front of my door. Landon watches Paul’s retreat before finally turning to me, and I immediately feel the pain in his expression. But what sends the knife further into my heart is the betrayal I see in his eyes.
“Landon—” I start, but he holds out his hand to stop me.
“I’m guessing, by the look on your face, that you knew.”
“Please let me explain,” I whisper.
“When did you figure out that it was your boyfriend who killed my fiancé?” His withdrawn words crash over me like a bucket of ice water.
“It’s not that simple.”
“When?” he roars, and a lump of emotion forms in my throat.
“When you told me she was killed by a drunk driver, after the situation with Zach. It wasn’t difficult to figure out.”
His head drops forward and his body slumps a little, like an impossibly heavy burden has been placed on his shoulders.
“I was going to tell you—” I try to continue, but he holds up another hand to silence me again.
“You pushed me for months, and I finally told you everything. I told you things I’ve never told any other living person. And you gave me nothing.” I struggle to breathe as the truth of his words hits me, but I don’t have a worthy response. Anything I say would just sound like an excuse, and there are no words to make this okay. He’s backing slowly away from me down the hall, as though he’s giving me a chance to save the ties that are fraying between us. But right now, the past is a knife sawing at those ties, and as much as I’d like to, I can’t erase the past.
My eyes dart up when I hear his movements cease. His face creases in agony, and he shakes his head. “You were there,” he says, his voice quaking. Then he turns, and he is gone in seconds.
The words linger in the empty hallway long after he disappears around the corner in a flash of red and green. How could this night have taken such a downturn? The conversation in which we were discussing spending the holiday with each other’s families feels like it took place years ago. And all of it is ruined because of the one thing I can’t take away. A mistake that was not mine to make.
On November 14th, four years ago, Haley convinced me that I deserved a night away from the monotony of nursing school. It was my first semester, and it had been difficult to adjust to a more grueling course load. To top it off, Sam and I had been on the rocks for weeks. We had dated for a little over a year at that point, and he was unhappy that I had to spend so much more time on my schoolwork while placing our relationship on the backburner. After a heated argument the night before a tough exam, I was ready to get away from Colorado Springs for a weekend in Boulder, where my friends could redirect my thoughts away from schoolwork and clinicals and insecure boyfriends.
We had taken a cab, so I didn’t have to worry about my alcohol intake for the night. I was just grateful to let my stress get lost somewhere amid the sweaty, dancing bodies and pulsating music. At one point, I made the mistake of checking my phone, surprised to see several missed calls and a string of apologetic text messages from Sam. In my drunken state, I returned his call, and he told me he was waiting outside to take me back to a relative’s cabin, not too far from there, where we could talk. I attempted to tell him I had no intention of leaving with him, that there was plenty of time for us to make up once the weekend was over, but he automatically grew suspicious. He thought there was a guy waiting for me back in the bar, and that the only reason I was there was for a night of freedom with someone else.
The night was cold, the chill in the air hinting at impending snow, so in an effort to avoid further argument and keep from freezing, I got into his car. I didn’t stop to think that the sudden change in his mood, from groveling to jealous in about two seconds, was because he was drunk. Maybe if I hadn’t had all those vodka tonics, I would’ve been able to tell. Maybe if I hadn’t been so intent of forgetting about my responsibilities back at school, I would’ve thought the situation through more clearly.
I began to catch on when he would stare accusingly at me for far too long while we were driving down that winding road. He started to string his words together, like he couldn’t properly separate one from the other, and when he would blink, his eyelids were slow to open again. I remember urging him to pull over so we could talk everything over, hoping I could distract him for long enough to think of another solution. As if to prove that he was okay, he pressed his foot down harder on the gas, even as the snow fell.
I didn’t register what was happening when I saw the lights of another vehicle. I only remember the look on Sam’s face when he realized the car we were in wasn’t responding as he’d asked it to. His eyes were wide in horror, hands scrabbling on the wheel to try and guide us back into our lane. I don’t remember much after that. Just that cry of anguish, the blood on my head, and the feeling of snowflakes landing on my face.
I remember coming to in the hospital and being told I had a fairly serious concussion and would be kept overnight for observation. It wasn’t until my mother arrived at the hospital early that morning that I learned someone had died. I don’t know how my mother was able to break that news in the same breath she’d used to ask me how I was feeling. I don’t know how she was able to caress my hand and look at me with the worry a mother shows her daughter while, somewhere, that other girl’s parents were being told that their own daughter was dead. She told me that the passenger in the other car had lived, but I had barely heard her over the sound of my own sobs.
The next few months were a blur. I was surprised when no charges were brought against me for my negligence—allowing Sam to drive—but worrying about my future was never at the forefront of my mind. I was haunted by flashbacks where I couldn’t distinguish between true memories and the false ones my brain created to fill in the gaps. It was impossible to finish school that semester. I couldn’t keep up in the aftermath of the accident, so I dropped out of the program.
All around me, my life seemed to fall apart, but that wasn’t even the worst of it. The hardest part was when a certain amount of time had passed and, according to public opinion, I was supposed to be in the process of moving on. Forced smiles and awkward social encounters became routine, but on the inside, my emotions raged as strong as ever. It felt like my exterior, which I’d allowed to become plain and uninteresting, was a flesh-colored cage that kept my true feelings and emotions wrapped up tight so they wouldn’t come spilling out at inopportune moments. But no matter what kind of face I put on that day, they were always there, brewing beneath the surface.
Meanwhile, Sam was in his own prison; real, tangible prison. He had pled guilty to the charge of vehicular homicide and was sentenced to eight years. I heard from him twice in that first year. He called me near the beginning, when his regrets weighed heavy and he placed some of the blame on me. That was perhaps the worst part—having my fears that it was somehow my fault voiced aloud by the one person I experienced that horrible night with. I stopped accepting his calls, and he eventually quit trying.
I later received a letter from him on my birthday that spring, in which he assured me that he was in a better place and no longer blamed me for the accident, but he wouldn’t hold it against me if I didn’t wait for him until he got out. I tore that letter to shreds. A woman had lost her life, and he was concerned with the romantic relationship he’d have once he was released? I know he probably spent almost every other waking minute thinking of the life he’d taken, but I was still furious that he was self-righteous enough to assume I needed him to tell me the accident hadn’t been my fault, even if it did provide some closure. I haven’t heard from Sam Davis since that letter. Someone told my mother that he is supposed to be getting out in the next couple of years, on account of good behavior, but I don’t doubt that I’ll never see him again.
I reflexively want to blame Sam for putting me in this situation, until I remember that these repercussions are a result of the choice I made to be dishonest to Landon. Somewhere in the midst of this sudden resurgence of emotions, I register that I’m still sitting in the hall wearing red and green pajama pants. Pathetic.
I’m not sure how I make it into my apartment, but I somehow end up curled into a ball on my couch. I feel crushed beneath an ocean of sadness and regret and pain. The pain is physical, as if Landon has actually reached inside my chest and is squeezing my heart to a pulpy mess in the same fist he used to punch Paul with. I’m incapable of forming new thoughts, so a replay of the moments that just took place outside of my apartment door streams through my mind on repeat.
Did you know he killed a girl?
Yeah, she was with him.
I see Landon’s face again when Paul said the name Sam Davis. Of course he knows the name of the man who ended his fiancé’s life and destroyed his. The man I once thought I loved.
You gave me nothing.
And finally, the worst moment of all: You were there.
As if it weren’t difficult enough to handle the death of his fiancé, he now has to cope with knowing that the girl he’s now dating was in the car that killed her. I can’t experience the full scope of his feelings, but my imagination fills in the gaps. He’s probably reliving that entire night right now—or what he remembers of it—over and over again. And I’m probably the last person who can help him handle it.
Emotion finally overtakes the numbness, and I’m wracked with sobs that come so hard and suddenly, they are noiseless. They squeeze my lungs until I’m gasping for breath between them, and they take hold of my ribs to the point that I think they might break. But that doesn’t come close to the pain in my heart knowing I’ve lost Landon forever.
At some point I cry myself to sleep, because the next time I wake up, my living room is black. Everything is black. The world around me, me, my soul. It feels like I’ve been scared of finding out what I’m worth, and now that I finally know, I wish I didn’t. It was because of me that Landon dismantled the wall around his heart and left himself unguarded and vulnerable for me to see. He thought I was worth all that, and I repaid him by hurting him in the worst way possible.
I feel like the worst sort of person, because I have now become the cause of his suffering. I’ve accepted that the accident wasn’t my fault, but it is my fault that Landon has to relive it in this way. All of this could’ve been avoided if only I had fessed up the second I realized our worlds had collided on that night so long ago.
I moan in pain, turning over and burying my face in a pillow to muffle my sobs.
The first thing I process in the morning is the sound of birds singing just outside my window. Why are they singing when my whole world has just imploded? How can life go on when I feel like my heart has just punched a hole through my chest wall and left me?
I don’t check my phone. I don’t look in the mirror. I just walk into the bathroom, strip in the dark, and climb into the shower with the lights still off and the water as hot as I can stand.