“Oh, you’re gonna get it now.”
He chuckled darkly. “And I’ll happily take it. This is better than a Girls Gone Wild video.”
I snatched the hose out of his hands and aimed for the jewels, but he turned in time to save “future generations of Blackstones.” His exact words. I was also labeled a “genocidal maniac,” for my actions. Which was a bit extreme, if you ask me.
After we’d rinsed the mud off, he wrapped his warmth around me, chased away the chill, and kissed me as he backed me up to the side of the house. His restless hands moving over me possessively, with the authority and conviction of a man who knew all my secrets and still wanted me.
Reaching between us, I guided him inside of me, my legs instinctively circling his waist. He wasn’t rough, he wasn’t fast. He pressed his face into the curve of my neck and made love to me. Two people moving as one, seeking absolution for the sins of the past and gaining acceptance for having repented. And once we were both wrung out and satisfied, legs trembling, holding each other tightly, he said, “I never want to be divorced, Syd…not even once.”
“Who keeps calling?” asked my lover, the same man I happened to be married to. I was lying in bed, enjoying the view when yet another call from my grandmother’s lawyer came in. The husband had neglected to put on a shirt as he packed his duffel bag, and he wasn’t going to hear any complaints from me.
“My grandmother’s lawyer. He’s been badgering me for months…I told him I don’t want anything.”
Stepping out of the walk-in closet, he searched my face, his brows bunched with concern. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I replied and meant it.
He was heading to Houston for two days on cattle business, and I was scheduled to return to New York. I was dreading it––no exaggeration. I was falling hard and fast in love for the first time in my adult life, and I wanted the feeling to last as long as possible.
I wasn’t sure what awaited me back in Manhattan. All I knew was that it wasn’t going to be pleasant. Not with Frank’s condition hanging over my head. More than a few times it was on my lips to tell Scott, but I couldn’t get the words out. Couldn’t betray the other man I loved.
Scott threw on a white dress shirt, and I got up to button it for him. “I’m gonna miss you,” he murmured while he brushed his fingers through my hair and looked at me the same way I was looking at him.
“Me too,” I returned.
Twenty minutes later, he was on his way to the airport.
Two hours later, I was on a flight to Philly.
“Your best room please.”
The pimple-faced young woman with long brown hair manning the desk at the motor inn stared at me dubiously, jaw hanging loose showcasing crooked teeth and a desperate need for braces.
“We only got one type ’a room.”
The Four Seasons this was not, but there was also no getting around it. I needed to take care of business and be gone as quickly as possible and driving an hour to stay in Philly would only slow me down.
“Then your cleanest room, please.”
More blank staring. “They’re all clean, Mrs.”
“Whatever,” I snapped, exhaustion getting the best of me. “Just…can I have a room, please?”
After making arrangements for Drake to stay with the dogs, I caught the first flight out of Jackson Hole. Six hours and two stops later, I landed in Philly at midnight, rented a car, and drove another forty-five minutes to reach the only hotel (or whatever you want to call it) anywhere near my old hometown.
Rural is the only way to describe where I grew up. And although it had some benefits––we never locked our doors at night, and the biggest issues were hunting accidents in the fall and drunken teenagers tearing up the public golf course in the summer––there was a lot of downside too. It was rural and remote.
Not to mention, the boogeymen were already living with me.
My heart was in my throat as I drove over the town limits. I could feel the stitches in those old wounds unraveling and what would spill out was anybody’s guess.
I’m a thriver not a survivor. I’m a thriver not a survivor. I’m a thriver not a survivor. The mantra played on a loop.
In the past, it had helped me climb out of a panic attack whenever I was alone in a dark room and it was a little depressing to see it resurfacing now, after all the years of therapy I’d been through. Then again, I hadn’t had to face my demons until now.
Seventeen years ago, I drove out of here and never came back. The day I graduated high school I packed up the used Jetta I’d bought with the money I’d made working summer jobs and headed to Connecticut. It felt like my story was coming full circle. High time to cut the last cord binding me to this place––long past time for closure. My only regret was that Josh wouldn’t be a part of it.
With each red brick row house I drove past, an avalanche of memories came tumbling back. Most of them snapshots. Most of them unpleasant with the exception of the ones that included the boy I once loved. The library where I worked the summer before my senior year looked smaller than I remembered, weathered by years of neglect. The hardware store where Josh worked was long gone, replaced by a Subway.
I’d gotten so good at compartmentalizing my life it was almost as if I’d been a third-party observer instead of a participant. Everyone has their own method of coping. Some people turn to drugs and alcohol. My crutch was to go emotionally offline and bury myself under my work––as my therapist has repeatedly pointed out. And it had worked. Maybe a little too well.
I didn’t call or text Scott to tell him that I needed to leave. He’d find out soon enough from Jan when he returned from Houston. I knew I should’ve called. This thing we’d been building slowly, block by block––call it trust or whatever, maybe more––was still fragile, and I didn’t want to bring it all down. But something stopped me. I couldn’t get my fingers to work, to push the send button.
It just felt too personal. Maybe I was afraid to be let down. That this would be where he drew the line and deemed me more trouble than I was worth. I’d told myself a lot of crap like that over the years. It was easier to be alone. Nobody to keep score. Nobody to answer to. At least it had been before I married Scott.
As much as I’d already shared with him, I hadn’t gone into detail. Nor would I. He didn’t know the depth of it, and I was still too guarded to let anyone see the shame attached. That’s the thing seldom talked about––the shame most victims of violence and abuse suffer. It’s tattooed into your psyche. It might fade over time, but the damage is done. That thin voice whispering that maybe, just maybe, you deserved it, that you invited it, that it’s your fault, long after the scars heal…it stays.
Motel girl’s big brown eyes widened when I handed over my Platinum Amex. In turn, the girl handed me an actual key with a big green plastic fob attached. My eyes widened.
I mean…an actual key? I was pretty sure I’d never seen one. Not even in Europe. If that wasn’t a sign, I didn’t know what was. I needed to get the fuck out of this town as quickly as possible.
The first of Scott’s texts came in a little after four the next morning and kept coming, and coming, and coming every half hour until I replied. Didn’t matter. I hadn’t slept a wink all night anyway. The bed lumpy, the smell of mold, the sheets scratchy. Too many ghosts hanging around.