Stained Glass Shards

38.

Falling out of love—losing the person who was your entire purpose for living—is profoundly more difficult than falling in love. Your heart only beat with thoughts of his passion. Breathing remained regular only in his presence. Blood rushed hotly within veins and capillaries at his touch. Cells regenerated after reaching the pinnacle of pleasure with him. But it all changes at the end of love. It's like death. Cells die along with losing the joyful will to live life to the fullest. Blood slogs slowly through the body as if starving for oxygen. Breaths are shallow due to lungs feeling weak from wracked sobs. The heart has shattered into billions of jagged pieces, which scatter throughout the body, unable to cauterize them together until a new lover finds the debris and slowly joins them to completeness.

--Iliana Gardner, Stained Glass Shards

GRIFFIN

My mind swirled with the events of this morning and how Ely had protected Ritter. She had clearly made her choice. There was no longer a doubt in my mind. Seeing her attend to his needs as I was escorted out by a rent-a-cop was the answer I needed. She'd had to hit me over the head with it—and Ritter was the mallet that did the job.

It was he who'd ignited the bomb that slowly destroyed my career. Licking my wounds in my father's home in Belmont, I watched as my little sister swam in the pool. I sat on a lounge chair with an ice pack on my cheek soothed and burned my flesh.

"Griff, what happened to your face?" she asked.

"I got beat up, but you should see the other guy."

"Was it for a movie?"

"No."

"TV show?" she asked, wading in the water.

"No."

"Over a girl?"

"Why would you think that?"

"The only time a man would get beat up is if it's for a girl. That's what I see in shows."

"Or you owe someone money," I said. But she looked at me blankly.

"Did you win?"

"Nope. The other guy did."

"Are you sad?"

"Really, really sad."

"Are you going to try to beat him up again?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Because she loves him, not me, and I need to leave her alone."

"She's lucky."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because she has boys who beat each other up for her."

"You think that's lucky?"

"Sure. She must be perfect."

"I'd like to think so."

"Daddy won't ever beat up a guy for Mama."

"You don't know that."

"Oh, I do. He says that he can't even give her away."

I laughed at an eight-year-old's amazing quip.

My father stood beside me and handed me a fresh ice pack. He had been surprised to see me. It wasn't often that I came home to visit. His new family made me feel excluded. Being older than my three half-siblings, I held no priority status.

"I heard you explain to Delilah what happened. Is it that girl? The one who wrote that book?" He sat down beside me.

I nodded. I felt more comfortable talking to a kid than with him.