It Ends With Us By Coollen Hoover |Ch No 1

Chapter One

As I sit here with one foot on either side of the ledge, looking down

from twelve stories above the streets of Boston, I can’t help but think

about suicide.

Not my own. I like my life enough to want to see it through.

I’m more focused on other people, and how they ultimately come

to the decision to just end their own lives. Do they ever regret it? In the

moment after letting go and the second before they make impact,

there has to be a little bit of remorse in that brief free fall. Do they

look at the ground as it rushes toward them and think, “Well, crap.

This was a bad idea.”

Somehow, I think not.

I think about death a lot. Particularly today, considering I just—

twelve hours earlier—gave one of the most epic eulogies the people

of Plethora, Maine, have ever witnessed. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the

most epic. It very well could be considered the most disastrous. I guess

that would depend on whether you were asking my mother or me. My

mother, who probably won’t speak to me for a solid year after today.

Don’t get me wrong; the eulogy I delivered wasn’t profound

enough to make history, like the one Brooke Shields delivered at

Michael Jackson’s funeral. Or the one delivered by Steve Jobs’s sister.

Or Pat Tillman’s brother. But it was epic in its own way.

I was nervous at first. It was the funeral of the prodigious Andrew

Bloom, after all. Adored mayor of my hometown of Plethora, Maine.

Owner of the most successful real-estate agency within city limits.

Husband of the highly adored Jenny Bloom, the most revered

teaching assistant in all of Plethora. And father of Lily Bloom—that

strange girl with the erratic red hair who once fell in love with a

homeless guy and brought great shame upon her entire family.

That would be me. I’m Lily Bloom, and Andrew was my father.

As soon as I finished delivering his eulogy today, I caught a flight

straight back to Boston and hijacked the first roof I could find. Again,

not because I’m suicidal. I have no plans to scale off this roof. I just

really needed fresh air and silence, and dammit if I can’t get that

from my third floor apartment with absolutely no rooftop access and

a roommate who likes to hear herself sing.

I didn’t account for how cold it would be up here, though. It’s not

unbearable, but it’s not comfortable, either. At least I can see the

stars. Dead fathers and exasperating roommates and questionable

eulogies don’t feel so awful when the night sky is clear enough to

literally feel the grandeur of the universe.

I love it when the sky makes me feel insignificant.

I like tonight.

Well . . . let me rephrase this so that it more appropriately reflects

my feelings in past tense.

I liked tonight.

But unfortunately for me, the door was just shoved open so hard, I

expect the stairwell to spit a human out onto the rooftop. The door

slams shut again and footsteps move swiftly across the deck. I don’t

even bother looking up. Whoever it is more than likely won’t even

notice me back here straddling the ledge to the left of the door. They

came out here in such a hurry, it isn’t my fault if they assume they’re

alone.

I sigh quietly, close my eyes and lean my head against the stucco

wall behind me, cursing the universe for ripping this peaceful,

introspective moment out from under me. The least the universe

could do for me today is ensure that it’s a woman and not a man. If

I’m going to have company, I’d rather it be a female. I’m tough for

my size and can probably hold my own in most cases, but I’m too

comfortable right now to be on a rooftop alone with a strange man in

the middle of the night. I might fear for my safety and feel the need

to leave, and I really don’t want to leave. As I said before . . . I’m

comfortable.

I finally allow my eyes to make the journey to the silhouette leaning

over the ledge. As luck would have it, he’s definitely male. Even

leaning over the rail, I can tell he’s tall. Broad shoulders create a

strong contrast to the fragile way he’s holding his head in his hands. I

can barely make out the heavy rise and fall of his back as he drags in

deep breaths and forces them back out when he’s done with them.

He appears to be on the verge of a breakdown. I contemplate

speaking up to let him know he has company, or clearing my throat,

but between thinking it and actually doing it, he spins around and

kicks one of the patio chairs behind him.

I flinch as it screeches across the deck, but being as though he isn’t

even aware he has an audience, the guy doesn’t stop with just one

kick. He kicks the chair repeatedly, over and over. Rather than give

way beneath the blunt force of his foot, all the chair does is scoot

farther and farther away from him.

He lets out a rush of air, as if seeing me on the ledge actually had

him holding his breath. I pass him to head for the side of the roof

with the better view, and as I do, I can’t help but notice how

unfortunately cute he is.

No. Cute is an insult.

This guy is beautiful. Well-manicured, smells like money, looks to be

several years older than me. His eyes crinkle in the corners as they

follow me, and his lips seem to frown, even when they aren’t. When I

reach the side of the building that overlooks the street, I lean forward

and stare down at the cars below, trying not to appear impressed by

him. I can tell by his haircut alone that he’s the kind of man people

are easily impressed by, and I refuse to feed into his ego. Not that he’s

done anything to make me think he even has one. But he is wearing a

casual Burberry shirt, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been on the radar of

someone who could casually afford one.

I hear footsteps approaching from behind, and then he leans

against the railing next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as

he takes another hit of his joint. When he’s finished, he offers it to

me, but I wave it off. The last thing I need is to be under the

influence around this guy. His voice is a drug in itself. I kind of want

to hear it again, so I throw a question in his direction.

“So what did that chair do to make you so angry?”

He looks at me. Like really looks at me. His eyes meet mine and he

just stares, hard, like all my secrets are right there on my face. I’ve

never seen eyes as dark as his. Maybe I have, but they seem darker

when they’re attached to such an intimidating presence. He doesn’t

answer my question, but my curiosity isn’t easily put to rest. If he’s

going to force me down from a very peaceful, comfortable ledge, then

I expect him to entertain me with answers to my nosy questions.

“Was it a woman?” I inquire. “Did she break your heart?”

He laughs a little with that question. “If only my issues were as

trivial as matters of the heart.” He leans into the wall so that he can

face me. “What floor do you live on?” He licks his fingers and pinches

the end of his joint, then puts it back in his pocket. “I’ve never

noticed you before.”

“That’s because I don’t live here.” I point in the direction of my

apartment. “See that insurance building?”

He squints as he looks in the direction I’m pointing. “Yeah.”

“I live in the building next to it. It’s too short to see from here. It’s

only three stories tall.”

He’s facing me again, resting his elbow on the ledge. “If you live

over there, why are you here? Your boyfriend live here or something?”

His comment somehow makes me feel cheap. It was too easy—an

amateurish pickup line. From the looks of this guy, I know he has

better skills than that. It makes me think he saves the more difficult

pickup lines for the women he deems worthy.

“You have a nice roof,” I tell him.

He lifts an eyebrow, waiting for more of an explanation.

“I wanted fresh air. Somewhere to think. I pulled up Google Earth

and found the closest apartment complex with a decent rooftop

patio.”

He regards me with a smile. “At least you’re economical,” he says.

“That’s a good quality to have.”

At least?

I nod, because I am economical. And it is a good quality to have.

“Why did you need fresh air?” he asks.

Because I buried my father today and gave an epically disastrous eulogy

and now I feel like I can’t breathe.

I face forward again and slowly exhale. “Can we just not talk for a

little while?”

He seems a bit relieved that I asked for silence. He leans over the

ledge and lets an arm dangle as he stares down at the street. He stays

like this for a while, and I stare at him the entire time. He probably

knows I’m staring, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“A guy fell off this roof last month,” he says.

I would be annoyed at his lack of respect for my request for silence,

but I’m kind of intrigued.

“Was it an accident?”

He shrugs. “No one knows. It happened late in the evening. His

wife said she was cooking dinner and he told her he was coming up

here to take some pictures of the sunset. He was a photographer.

They think he was leaning over the ledge to get a shot of the skyline,

and he slipped.”

I look over the ledge, wondering how someone could possibly put

themselves in a situation where they could fall by accident. But then I

remember I was just straddling the ledge on the other side of the roof

a few minutes ago.

“When my sister told me what happened, the only thing I could

think about was whether or not he got the shot. I was hoping his

camera didn’t fall with him, because that would have been a real

waste, you know? To die because of your love of photography, but you

didn’t even get the final shot that cost you your life?”

His thought makes me laugh. Although I’m not sure I should have

laughed at that. “Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind?”

He shrugs. “Not to most people.”

This makes me smile. I like that he doesn’t even know me, but for

whatever reason, I’m not considered most people to him.

He rests his back against the ledge and folds his arms over his

chest. “Were you born here?”

I shake my head. “No. Moved here from Maine after I graduated

college.”

He scrunches up his nose, and it’s kind of hot. Watching this guy—

dressed in his Burberry shirt with his two-hundred-dollar haircut—

making silly faces.

“So you’re in Boston purgatory, huh? That’s gotta suck.”

“What do you mean?” I ask him.

The corner of his mouth curls up. “The tourists treat you like a

local; the locals treat you like a tourist.”

I laugh. “Wow. That’s a very accurate description.”

“I’ve been here two months. I’m not even in purgatory yet, so

you’re doing better than I am.”

“What brought you to Boston?”

“My residency. And my sister lives here.” He taps his foot and says,

“Right beneath us, actually. Married a tech-savvy Bostonian and they

bought the entire top floor.”

I look down. “The entire top floor?”

He nods. “Lucky bastard works from home. Doesn’t even have to

change out of his pajamas and makes seven figures a year.”

Lucky bastard, indeed.

“What kind of residency? Are you a doctor?”

He nods. “Neurosurgeon. Less than a year left of my residency and

then it’s official.”

Stylish, well spoken, and smart. And smokes pot. If this were an SAT

question, I would ask which one didn’t belong. “Should doctors be

smoking weed?”

He smirks. “Probably not. But if we didn’t indulge on occasion,

there would be a lot more of us taking the leap over these ledges, I

can promise you that.” He’s facing forward again with his chin resting

on his arms. His eyes are closed now, like he’s enjoying the wind

against his face. He doesn’t look as intimidating like this.

“You want to know something that only the locals know?”

“Of course,” he says, bringing his attention back to me.

I point to the east. “See that building? The one with the green

roof?”

He nods.

That chair must be made from marine-grade polymer.

I once observed my father back over an open air porch table made of

marine-grade polymer, and it essentially chuckled at him. Scratched his

bumper, but didn’t indeed put a scratch on the table.

This fellow must realize he’s no coordinate for such a high-quality

material, since he at last stops kicking the chair. He’s presently standing

over it, his hands clenched in clench hands at his sides. To be genuine, I’m a

little jealous. Here this fellow is, taking his animosity out on patio

furniture like a champ. He’s clearly had a shitty day, as have I, but

whereas I keep my hostility confined up until it shows in the shape of

passive-aggressiveness, this fellow really has an outlet.

My outlet utilized to be cultivating. Any time I was focused, I’d fair go

out to the terrace and drag each single weed I seem discover. But since

the day I moved to Boston two a long time back, I haven’t had a patio. Or

a yard. I don’t indeed have weeds.

Maybe I require to contribute in a marine-grade polymer yard chair.

I gaze at the fellow a minute longer, pondering if he’s ever going to

move. He’s fair standing there, gazing down at the chair. His hands

aren’t in clench hands any longer. They’re resting on his hips, and I take note for

the to begin with time how his shirt doesn’t fit him exceptionally well around his biceps.

It fits him all over else, but his arms are colossal. He starts fishing

around in his pockets until he finds what he’s looking for and—in

what I’m beyond any doubt is likely an exertion to discharge indeed more of his

aggression—he lights up a joint.

I’m twenty-three, I’ve been through college and have done this

very same recreational sedate a time or two. I’m not going to judge this

guy for feeling the require to toke up in private. But that’s the thing—

he’s not in private. He fair doesn’t know that yet.

He takes in a long drag of his joint and begins to turn back toward

the edge. He takes note me on the breathe out. He stops strolling the second

our eyes meet. His expression holds no stun, nor does it hold

amusement when he sees me. He’s around ten feet absent, but there’s

enough light from the stars that I can see his eyes as they gradually drag

over my body without uncovering a single thought. This fellow holds his

cards well. His look is contract and his mouth is drawn tight, like a

male form of the Mona Lisa.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

I feel his voice in my stomach. That’s not great. Voices ought to stop

at the ears, but sometimes—not exceptionally frequently at all, actually—a voice will

penetrate past my ears and resound straight down through my

body. He has one of those voices. Profound, sure, and a small bit like

butter.

When I don’t reply him, he brings the joint back to his mouth

and takes another hit.

“Lily,” I at last say. I despise my voice. It sounds as well powerless to indeed reach

his ears from here, much less resonate interior his body.

He lifts his chin a small and pushes his head toward me. “Will you

please get down from there, Lily?”

It isn’t until he says this that I take note his pose. He’s standing

straight up presently, inflexible indeed. Nearly as if he’s apprehensive I’m going to fall.

I’m not. This edge is at slightest a foot wide, and I’m for the most part on the roof

side. I might effortlessly capture myself some time recently I fell, not to specify I’ve got

the wind in my favor.

I look down at my legs and at that point back up at him. “No, much obliged. I’m

quite comfortable where I am.”

He turns a small, like he can’t see straight at me. “Please get

down.” It’s more of a request presently, in spite of his utilize of the word please.

“There are seven purge chairs up here.”

“Almost six,” I redress, reminding him that he fair attempted to murder

one of them. He doesn’t discover the humor in my reaction. When I fail

to take after his orders, he takes a couple of steps closer.

“You are a unimportant three inches from falling to your passing. I’ve been

around sufficient of that for one day.” He movements for me to get down

again. “You’re making me anxious. Not to specify destroying my high.”

I roll my eyes and swing my legs over. “Heaven preclude a joint go to

waste.” I jump down and wipe my hands over my pants. “Better?” I say

as I walk toward him.

“There’s a building behind it on Melcher. There’s a house on top

of the building. Like a legit house, built right on the housetop. You

can’t see it from the road, and the building is so tall that not many

people indeed know approximately it.”

He looks inspired. “Really?”

I gesture. “I saw it when I was looking Google Soil, so I looked it

up. Clearly a allow was allowed for the development in 1982.

How cool would that be? To live in a house on best of a building?”

“You’d get the entirety roof to yourself,” he says.

I hadn’t thought of that. If I claimed it I may plant gardens up

there. I’d have an outlet.

“Who lives there?” he asks.

“No one truly knows. It’s one of the incredible secrets of Boston.”

He giggles and at that point looks at me curiously. “What’s another great

mystery of Boston?”

“Your name.” As before long as I say it, I slap my hand against my

forehead. It sounded so much like a tacky pickup line; the only

thing I can do is chuckle at myself.

He grins. “It’s Ryle,” he says. “Ryle Kincaid.”

I murmur, sinking into myself. “That’s a truly incredible name.”

“Why do you sound pitiful approximately it?”

“Because, I’d grant anything for a incredible name.”

“You don’t like the title Lily?”

I tilt my head and cock an eyebrow. “My final title . . . is Bloom.”

He’s calm. I can feel him attempting to hold back his pity.

“I know. It’s terrible. It’s the title of a two-year-old small young lady, not a

twenty-three-year-old woman.”

“A two-year-old young lady will have the same title no matter how ancient she

gets. Names aren’t something we inevitably develop out of, Lily Bloom.”

“Unfortunately for me,” I say. “But what makes it indeed more regrettable is that

I completely cherish planting. I adore blooms. Plants. Developing things. It’s

my energy. It’s continuously been my dream to open a flower vendor shop, but I’m

afraid if I did, individuals wouldn’t think my crave was bona fide. They

would think I was attempting to capitalize off my title and that being a

florist isn’t truly my dream job.”

“Maybe so,” he says. “But what’s that matter?”

“It doesn’t, I suppose.” I capture myself whispering, “Lily Bloom’s”

quietly. I can see him grinning a small bit. “It truly is a extraordinary title for a

florist. But I have a master’s degree in trade. I’d be downgrading,

don’t you think? I work for the greatest showcasing firm in Boston.”

“Owning your possess commerce isn’t downgrading,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Unless it flops.”

He gestures in assention. “Unless it flops,” he says. “So what’s your

middle title, Lily Bloom?”

I moan, which makes him liven up.

“You cruel it gets worse?”

I drop my head in my hands and nod.

“Rose?”

I shake my head. “Worse.”

“Violet?”