Breaking it off with Collin was inevitable. But to re-live these memories, and purposefully?
It’s already too painful, and I only got here an hour ago.
Exhausted already from a day of confrontation, I head to the wet bar next to the kitchen, shooting up a silent prayer, and it’s answered when I find it well stocked.
I uncap one of the bottles and pull down a rocks glass. Tossing back the whiskey, I savor the taste remembering the first time I drank it at Eddie’s with Sean. That now seems like a lifetime ago.
But it wasn’t, it was here, in this place. And some part of me knows they are too. They probably never left. Another lie they told, to keep me at bay.
At some point, I’ll have to make my presence known if it isn’t already.
But not today.
I glance around the kitchen and past the set of windows that give a clear view of the pool and loungers.
Memories again threaten just as the liquor begins lacing my veins. The house may be freezing, but my blood is warming. For the first time in years, I need to allow myself to indulge in my recollections instead of fighting them. I have to let my mind continue to drift during my waking hours if I want to see this through. With another sip of whiskey, I climb the stairs to my old bedroom stopping short where Dominic’s body lay the last time I saw him.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ve been in love.”
The sight of the new carpet devastates me as much as the sight of Dominic’s grave. He deserved so much more than a silent burial. Needing air, I walk across the room and open the French doors leading onto the balcony, remembering all too well that it was my escape route the morning I fled. Closing my eyes, I can picture Sean’s grief-stricken face as he lowered me to Tyler while shots rang out around us.
If I hadn’t been here, I would never believe any of it happened.
What the fuck were you thinking coming back, Cecelia?
The only conclusion I can draw is the same I did last night. I can’t out-live these memories. Moving on hasn’t happened in the six summers that have passed.
There’s no help for this, no psychiatrist who can shrink this away without the full truth. There’s no pill to prescribe to help me forget.
There’s no priest I believe in enough to confess our collective sins to. There’s only a God I have taken issue with, who I’m not sure has ever heard me, and might not consider me worth listening to.
It’s always been up to me to sink or swim. And I’ve been in the deep end for years without an inch of cement to grab onto while the kick slowly drained from me.
I chug more of the bottle as the grey sky greets me and I take in the view in the distance, the cell tower blinking at me as if to say, ‘welcome home.’
Hours later, I wake with a slight hangover, my head thumping as I realize the rumble of my cell phone on my nightstand is what woke me. The silver lining is that I can’t remember a single dream I had in the last few hours. It’s when I see the name flashing on the screen that my celebration is cut short.
“Hey.”
“You were sleeping? You promised you would call when you got there.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You should be.” Guilt nags at me when I hear the plea in his voice, “Cecelia, please come home.”
“Collin, I can’t. I’m sorry. But I can’t.” I lift from my bed, disoriented, and decide I’m far too sober for this conversation.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t. I won’t deceive either of us anymore.” Grabbing the bottle and my tumbler, I take the stairs two at a time, opting for a little hair of the dog over ice. I have no issue with rock bottom. I’m comfortable here. On the rocks might be the safest place for me for the moment, much safer than walking around lying recklessly to those I love.
But the reality I’ve thrust myself into is hell on Earth. It was so much easier to lie.
“Tell me why this is happening,” he urges me gently. “Just come home so I can try to understand. You just left.”
“I gave you an explanation.” I press my tumbler into the fridge door, adding some ice and pour a generous helping of whiskey. “Collin, I won’t ever come home.”