soul and daring me to rip it out, daring me to let it bloom and see what awesome beauty it can bring.
If I only let it.
“I do love her. I love her, and she’s dead,” I shout. The words come easier this time, but they still grit on my vocal cords like shards of glass, bleeding me. Every bit of fury I feel at her loss rises up, fresh and hot, as if she died this moment, not over a year ago.
My volume has drawn attention, people looking at me in shock, confusion, even pity as the outburst registers. Even though some of them probably cannot understand English . . . some things don’t need translation. Like pain, and anger, and heartbreak.
But I don’t give a rat’s ass about their looking. I care that Carly is. She’s not looking at me. She’s looking into me.
And like the pussy I am, I bolt.
Shoving my way through the small tables like a bull in a china shop, I stomp for the door, escaping into the night.
Escaping into my loneliness, my sadness, my guilt.
Carly
It’s his fault, really. He opened the door with his admission that he found the bread, that he knew what that meant. I’d heard him on the other side of the door.
And I’m not a subtle, baby step kind of girl, so instead of tiptoeing, I kicked in the door and got to the heart of the matter, sending his own words back to him.
“You loved her.”
I’m not trying to put any acid in the comment. In fact, I find it honest and I’m just trying to get insight into this intriguing, magnetic man.
But for him, it’s like I just set off a firework under his ass.
He skitters like a frightened rabbit, standing in a rush like there’s too much energy coiled in his muscles. His face shows pure, unadulterated fury as he rages at me, at her, at the world.
“I do love her. I love her, and she’s dead.”
The anger is hot, burning in its intensity, but he’s not mad at me, not really, though it likely looks like he’s yelling at me to the folks now looking our way.
His anger is at himself. I can see it plain as day.
He thinks he should’ve done something, should’ve stopped it, should’ve saved her from whatever led to her death. I don’t know the story, and he may never share how she died with me, but I know that unless he pulled the damn trigger, literally or figuratively, it’s not his fault.
It never is, though the survivors often feel that they should’ve, could’ve done something, anything.
And because of that anger, his guilt and pain are palpable. Not in the air around him, not something anyone in this room probably notices.
But I see deeper.
I see the way he jerks away from my touch, not like he doesn’t want it but because he does. It’s in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he squints to lessen the impact of my presence, my words.
It’s in the tightness of his jaw where he’s clenching it, his teeth grinding audibly. I wonder what words he’s biting back because they clearly want out. He’s only holding them back by sheer force of will and guilt.
He doesn’t want the pain to lessen, wants to wallow in it and revel in its sharp edges because he thinks that’s what he deserves. He’s pushing me away so that he can stay there, alone in his hole.
But I was telling the truth before.
I may not have been through what he’s going through, but I’ve been through enough shit to recognize when someone needs help they don’t want.
No, that’s not it.
He wants my help. He just doesn’t think he deserves it.
And that’s an entirely different thing.
But I’m strong enough to be the one to tie that rope around his waist and haul him out of the pit, kicking and screaming the whole way.
I won’t jump down in the hole with him. He doesn’t need that. He needs tough love, even if he fights it, fights me.
Luckily for him, my black belts aren’t just from doing dance around, no-contact training. I’m tough. I know how to fight. Even if I’m fighting his own mental trauma to save him.
As I make the commitment to myself—and to him, though no words are spoken—he makes a run for it.
I knew he would.
It’s a dance.
Two steps forward, one step back.
But if I can twirl him around a bit, get him dizzy, maybe he’ll forget