It Ends With Us by Colleen Hoover

  "Owning your own business isn't downgrading," he says.

  I raise an eyebrow. "Unless it flops."

  He nods in agreement. "Unless it flops," he says. "So what's your middle name, Lily Bloom?"

  I groan, which makes him perk up.

  "You mean it gets worse?"

  I drop my head in my hands and nod.

  "Rose?"

  I shake my head. "Worse."

  "Violet?"

  "I wish." I cringe and then mutter, "Blossom."

  There's a moment of silence. "Goddamn," he says softly.

  "Yeah. Blossom is my mother's maiden name and my parents thought it was fate that their last names were synonyms. So of course when they had me, a flower was their first choice."

  "Your parents must be real assholes."

  One of them is. Was. "My father died this week."

  He glances at me. "Nice try. I'm not falling for that."

  "I'm serious. That's why I came up here tonight. I think I just needed a good cry."

  He stares at me suspiciously for a moment to make sure I'm not pulling his leg. He doesn't apologize for the blunder. Instead, his eyes grow a little more curious, like his intrigue is actually authentic. "Were you close?"

  That's a hard question. I rest my chin on my arms and look down at the street again. "I don't know," I say with a shrug. "As his daughter, I loved him. But as a human, I hated him."

  I can feel him watching me for a moment, and then he says, "I like that. Your honesty."

  He likes my honesty. I think I might be blushing.

  We're both quiet again for a while, and then he says, "Do you ever wish people were more transparent?"

  "How so?"

  He picks at a piece of chipped stucco with his thumb until it breaks loose. He flicks it over the ledge. "I feel like everyone fakes who they really are, when deep down we're all equal amounts of screwed up. Some of us are just better at hiding it than others."

  Either his high is setting in, or he's just very introspective. Either way, I'm okay with it. My favorite conversations are the ones with no real answers.

  "I don't think being a little guarded is a negative thing," I say. "Naked truths aren't always pretty."

  He stares at me for a moment. "Naked truths," he repeats. "I like that." He turns around and walks to the middle of the rooftop. He adjusts the back on one of the patio loungers behind me and lowers himself onto it. It's the kind you lie on, so he pulls his hands behind his head and looks up at the sky. I claim the one next to him and adjust it until I'm in the same position as him.

  "Tell me a naked truth, Lily."

  "Pertaining to what?"

  He shrugs. "I don't know. Something you aren't proud of. Something that will make me feel a little less screwed up on the inside."

  He's staring up at the sky, waiting on me to answer. My eyes follow the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheeks, the outline of his lips. His eyebrows are drawn together in contemplation. I don't understand why, but he seems to need conversation right now. I think about his question and try to find an honest answer. When I come up with one, I look away from him and back up to the sky.

  "My father was abusive. Not to me--to my mother. He would get so angry when they fought that sometimes he would hit her. When that happened, he would spend the next week or two making up for it. He would do things like buy her flowers or take us out to a nice dinner. Sometimes he would buy me stuff because he knew I hated it when they fought. When I was a kid, I found myself looking forward to the nights they would fight. Because I knew if he hit her, the two weeks that followed would be great." I pause. I'm not sure I've ever admitted that to myself. "Of course if I could, I would have made it to where he never touched her. But the abuse was inevitable with their marriage, and it became our norm. When I got older, I realized that not doing something about it made me just as guilty. I spent most of my life hating him for being such a bad person, but I'm not so sure I'm much better. Maybe we're both bad people."

  Ryle looks over at me with a thoughtful expression. "Lily," he says pointedly. "There is no such thing as bad people. We're all just people who sometimes do bad things."

  I open my mouth to respond, but his words strike me silent. We're all just people who sometimes do bad things. I guess that's true in a way. No one is exclusively bad, nor is anyone exclusively good. Some are just forced to work harder at suppressing the bad.

  "Your turn," I tell him.

  Based on his reaction, I think he might not want to play his own game. He sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. He opens his mouth to speak, but then clamps it shut again. He thinks for a bit, and then finally speaks. "I watched a little boy die tonight." His voice is despondent. "He was only five years old. He and his little brother found a gun in his parents' bedroom. The younger brother was holding it and it went off by accident."

  My stomach flips. I think this may be a little too much truth for me.

  "There was nothing that could be done by the time he made it to the operating table. Everyone around--nurses, other doctors--they all felt so sorry for the family. 'Those poor parents,' they said. But when I had to walk into the waiting room and tell those parents that their child didn't make it, I didn't feel an ounce of sorrow for them. I wanted them to suffer. I wanted them to feel the weight of their ignorance for keeping a loaded gun within access of two innocent children. I wanted them to know that not only did they just lose a child, they just ruined the entire life of the one who accidentally pulled the trigger."

  Jesus Christ. I wasn't prepared for something so heavy.

  I can't even conceive how a family moves past that. "That poor boy's brother," I say. "I can't imagine what that's going to do to him--seeing something like that."

  Ryle flicks something off the knee of his jeans. "It'll destroy him for life, that's what it'll do."

  I turn on my side to face him, lifting my head up onto my hand. "Is it hard? Seeing things like that every day?"

  He gives his head a slight shake. "It should be a lot harder, but the more I'm around death, the more it just becomes a part of life. I'm not sure how I feel about that." He makes eye contact with me again. "Give me another one," he says. "I feel like mine was a little more twisted than yours."

  I disagree, but I tell him about the twisted thing I did a mere twelve hours ago.

  "My mother asked me two days ago if I would deliver the eulogy at my father's funeral today. I told her I didn't feel comfortable--that I might be crying too hard to speak in front of a crowd--but that was a lie. I just didn't want to do it because I feel like eulogies should be delivered by those who respected the deceased. And I didn't much respect my father."

  "Did you do it?"

  I nod. "Yeah. This morning." I sit up and pull my legs beneath me as I face him. "You want to hear it?"

  He smiles. "Absolutely."

  I fold my hands in my lap and inhale a breath. "I had no idea what to say. About an hour before the funeral, I told my mother I didn't want to do it. She said it was simple and that my father would have wanted me to do it. She said all I had to do was walk up to the podium and say five great things about my father. So . . . that's exactly what I did."

  Ryle lifts up onto his elbow, appearing even more interested. He can tell by the look on my face that it gets worse. "Oh, no, Lily. What did you do?"

  "Here. Let me just reenact it for you." I stand up and walk around to the other side of my chair. I stand tall and act like I'm looking out over the same crowded room I was met with this morning. I clear my throat.

  "Hello. My name is Lily Bloom, daughter of the late Andrew Bloom. Thank you all for joining us today as we mourn his loss. I wanted to take a moment to honor his life by sharing with you five great things about my father. The first thing . . ."

  I look down at Ryle and shrug. "That's it."

  He sits up. "What do you mean?"

  I take a seat on my lounge chair and lie back down. "I stood up there for two solid minutes without saying anoth
er word. There wasn't one great thing I could say about that man--so I just stared silently at the crowd until my mother realized what I was doing and had my uncle remove me from the podium."

  Ryle tilts his head. "Are you kidding me? You gave the anti-eulogy at your own father's funeral?"

  I nod. "I'm not proud of it. I don't think. I mean, if I had my way, he would have been a much better person and I would have stood up there and talked for an hour."

  Ryle lies back down. "Wow," he says, shaking his head. "You're kind of my hero. You just roasted a dead guy."

  "That's tacky."

  "Yeah, well. Naked truth hurts."

  I laugh. "Your turn."

  "I can't top that," he says.

  "I'm sure you can come close."

  "I'm not sure I can."

  I roll my eyes. "Yes you can. Don't make me feel like the worst person out of the two of us. Tell me the most recent thought you've had that most people wouldn't say out loud."

  He pulls his hands up behind his head and looks me straight in the eye. "I want to fuck you."

  My mouth falls open. Then I clamp it shut again.

  I think I might be speechless.

  He shoots me a look of innocence. "You asked for the most recent thought, so I gave it to you. You're beautiful. I'm a guy. If you were into one-night stands, I would take you downstairs to my bedroom and I would fuck you."

  I can't even look at him. His statement makes me feel a multitude of things all at once.

  "Well, I'm not into one-night stands."

  "I figured as much," he says. "Your turn."

  He's so nonchalant; he acts as if he didn't just stun me into silence.

  "I need a minute to regroup after that one," I say with a laugh. I try to think of something with a little shock value, but I can't get over the fact that he just said that. Out loud. Maybe because he's a neurosurgeon and I never pictured someone so educated throwing around the word fuck so casually.

  I gather myself . . . somewhat . . . and then say, "Okay. Since we're on the subject . . . the first guy I ever had sex with was homeless."

  He perks up and faces me. "Oh, I'm gonna need more of this story."

  I stretch my arm out and rest my head on it. "I grew up in Maine. We lived in a fairly decent neighborhood, but the street behind our house wasn't in the best condition. Our backyard butted up to a condemned house adjacent to two abandoned lots. I became friends with a guy named Atlas who stayed in the condemned house. No one knew he was living there other than me. I used to take him food and clothes and stuff. Until my father found out."

  "What'd he do?"

  My jaw tightens. I don't know why I brought this up when I still force myself not to think about it on a daily basis. "He beat him up." That's as naked as I want to get about that subject. "Your turn."

  He regards me silently for a moment, as if he knows there's more to that story. But then he breaks eye contact. "The thought of marriage repulses me," he says. "I'm almost thirty years old and I have no desire for a wife. I especially don't want children. The only thing I want out of life is success. Lots of it. But if I admit that out loud to anyone, it makes me sound arrogant."

  "Professional success? Or social status?"

  He says, "Both. Anyone can have children. Anyone can get married. But not everyone can be a neurosurgeon. I get a lot of pride out of that. And I don't just want to be a great neurosurgeon. I want to be the best in my field."

  "You're right. It does make you sound arrogant."

  He smiles. "My mother fears I'm wasting my life away because all I do is work."

  "You're a neurosurgeon and your mother is disappointed in you?" I laugh. "Good lord, that's insane. Are parents ever really happy with their children? Will they ever be good enough?"

  He shakes his head. "My children wouldn't be. Not many people have the drive I do, so I'd only be setting them up for failure. That's why I'll never have any."

  "I actually think that's respectable, Ryle. A lot of people refuse to admit they might be too selfish to have children."

  He shakes his head. "Oh, I'm way too selfish to have children. And I'm definitely way too selfish to be in a relationship."

  "So how do you avoid it? You just don't date?"

  He cuts his eyes to me, and there's a slight grin affixed to his face. "When I have time, there are girls who satisfy those needs. I don't lack for anything in that department, if that's what you're asking. But love has never appealed to me. It's always been more of a burden than anything."

  I wish I looked at love like that. It would make my life a hell of a lot easier. "I envy you. I have this idea that there's a perfect man out there for me. I tend to become jaded easily, because no one ever meets my standards. I feel like I'm on an infinite search for the Holy Grail."

  "You should try my method," he says.

  "Which is?"

  "One-night stands." He raises an eyebrow, like it's an invitation.

  I'm glad it's dark, because my face is on fire. "I could never sleep with someone if I didn't see it going anywhere." I say this out loud, but my words lack conviction when I say it to him.

  He drags in a long, slow breath, and then rolls onto his back. "Not that kind of girl, huh?" He says this with a trace of disappointment in his voice.

  I match his disappointment. I'm not sure I'd even want to turn him down if he made a move, but I might have just thwarted that possibility.

  "If you wouldn't sleep with someone you just met . . ." His eyes meet mine again. "Exactly how far would you go?"

  I don't have an answer for that. I roll onto my back because the way he's looking at me makes me want to rethink one-night stands. I'm not necessarily against them, I suppose. I've just never been propositioned for one by someone I would consider it with.

  Until now. I think. Is he even propositioning me? I've always been terrible at flirting.

  He reaches out and grabs the edge of my lounge chair. In one swift movement and with very minimal effort, he drags my chair closer to him until it bumps his.

  My whole body stiffens. He's so close now, I can feel the warmth of his breath cutting through the cold air. If I were to look at him, his face would be mere inches from mine. I refuse to look at him, because he'd probably kiss me and I know absolutely nothing about this guy, other than a couple of naked truths. But that doesn't weigh on my conscience at all when he rests a heavy hand on my stomach.

  "How far would you go, Lily?" His voice is decadent. Smooth. It travels straight to my toes.

  "I don't know," I whisper.

  His fingers begin to crawl toward the hem of my shirt. He begins to slowly inch it upward until a slither of my stomach is showing. "Oh, Jesus," I whisper, feeling the warmth from his hand as he slides it up my stomach.

  Against my better judgment, I face him again and the look in his eyes completely captivates me. He looks hopeful and hungry and completely confident. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as his hand begins to tease its way up my shirt. I know he can feel my heart thrashing around in my chest. Hell, he can probably hear it.

  "Is this too far?" he asks.

  I don't know where this side of me is coming from, but I shake my head and say, "Not even close."

  With a grin, his fingers brush the underneath of my bra, lightly trickling over my skin that is now covered in chills.

  As soon as my eyelids fall shut, the piercing of a ring rips through the air. His hand stiffens when we both realize it's a phone. His phone.

  He drops his forehead to my shoulder. "Dammit."

  I frown when his hand slips out from beneath my shirt. He fumbles in his pocket for his phone, standing up and walking several feet away from me to take the call.

  "Dr. Kincaid," he says. He listens intently, his hand gripping the back of his neck. "What about Roberts? I'm not even supposed to be on call right now." More silence is followed with, "Yeah, give me ten minutes. On my way."

  He ends the call and slides his phone back in his pocket. When he turns t
o face me, he looks a little disappointed. He points to the door that leads to the stairwell. "I have to . . ."

  I nod. "It's fine."

  He considers me for a moment, and then holds up a finger. "Don't move," he says, reaching for his phone again. He walks closer and holds it up as if he's about to snap a picture of me. I almost object, but I don't even know why. I'm fully clothed. It just doesn't feel that way for some reason.

  He snaps a picture of me lying in the lounge chair, my arms relaxed above my head. I have no idea what he plans to do with that picture, but I like that he took it. I like that he had the urge to remember what I look like, even though he knows he'll never see me again.

  He stares at the photo on his screen for a few seconds and smiles. I'm half-tempted to take a picture of him in return, but I'm not sure I want a reminder of someone I'll never see again. The thought of that is a little depressing.

  "It was nice meeting you, Lily Bloom. I hope you defy the odds of most dreams and actually accomplish yours."

  I smile, equally saddened and confused by this guy. I'm not sure that I've ever spent time with someone like him before--someone of a completely different lifestyle and tax bracket. I probably never will again. But I'm pleasantly surprised to see that we aren't all that different.

  Misconception confirmed.

  He looks down at his feet for a moment as he stands in somewhat of an unsure pose. It's as if he's suspended between the desire to say something else to me and the need to leave. He glances at me one last time--this time without so much of a poker face. I can see the disappointment in the set of his mouth before he turns and walks in the other direction. He opens the door and I can hear his footsteps fade as he rushes down the stairwell. I'm alone on the rooftop once again, but to my surprise, I'm a little saddened by that now.

  Chapter Two

  Lucy--the roommate who loves to hear herself sing--is rushing around the living room, gathering keys, shoes, a pair of sunglasses. I'm seated on the couch, opening up shoeboxes stuffed with some of my old things from when I lived at home. I grabbed them when I was home for my father's funeral this week.

  "You work today?" Lucy asks.