“You should get some sleep,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and leaning down to kiss my forehead. He kept his lips there, and I felt him reaching for me, but I was just an inch too far away.
A part of me wanted to ask him to stay, but I couldn’t—not tonight. I needed to be alone. I had too much to think about and I knew I wouldn’t let any of it in if he was in my bed.
He was the sweetest distraction, the best kind of numb because I wasn’t numb at all when I was in his arms. I was on fire.
“Goodnight,” I finally whispered, my hands twisting in his t-shirt before they let him go. I didn’t look back, didn’t stop to take my clothes off, and as soon as my body fell to the bed, I closed my eyes and gave in to the exhaustion I’d been fighting all day.
That night, I dreamed of Anderson.
He was standing on the bank of the river, right behind his cabin, and I was balancing on a rock in the middle of the stream. He was yelling something, but I couldn’t make it out, not over the rush of the water.
I couldn’t get to him, the current was too strong, I knew it was dangerous to even try. But the longer he called to me, the more desperate we both became.
He was waving his arms and I was looking around, trying to find a path, a safe step—anything. It was too much to bear, I had to hold him, I had to hear him, and so I stepped off the rock.
As soon as my foot hit the water, I heard what he’d been saying.
Stay.
And then the river took me under.
BESMIRCH
bih-SMERCH
Verb
To cause harm or damage to : sully, soil
I woke the next morning feeling restless.
My dreams had kept me tossing and turning for most of the night, and though I’d been awake for hours and was desperate to get out of bed, I hadn’t found the energy yet. It was almost noon, but nothing sounded worth getting out of bed for—not even coffee, mostly because it was too hot. I didn’t want to sketch, didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to clean or go for a hike or anything.
Kicking the covers off in frustration, I finally rolled myself up and off the bed, running a hand over Rev’s head as I passed. He’d been lazy all morning with me, and though I was up, he seemed to have no intention of following.
I stopped at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser, my hair piled in a messy ponytail on top of my head, eyes underlined with dark skin, a thin sheen of sweat on my chest and neck. It was hot enough now to wish I had air conditioning, and when I moved to the sliding glass doors leading out to the bedroom balcony, I realized I did—in a way.
“What do you think, Rev,” I asked, stepping out on the balcony to let the soft breeze cool me, even if it was just marginally. “Want to ride on a tube with me and float down the river?”
I peered back over my shoulder and Rev hadn’t even lifted his head. He was perfectly content snoozing, and I just chuckled before making my way over to the bedside table to grab my phone.
The screen lit up with missed notifications—comments on a photo I’d posted from the pig roast yesterday, a missed call from Adrian, two texts from Yvette and one from Anderson that just said good morning, beautiful.
Swallowing, I placed it back on the table gently and walked almost numbly to the dresser, pulling out my swimsuit and tossing it on. I knew if I really wanted company on the river, all I had to do was make a phone call or send a text. Still, my mind was racing from the weekend. Friday had been too much with my mom, with my night of purging, and though yesterday had been fun, it had ended with even more doubt and uncertainty being crammed into my gut.
Maybe I needed a day alone to process, to think.
I didn’t even bother throwing on a cover up, just slid into a pair of sandals and covered myself with sunscreen before finishing the look with an oversized beach hat and sunglasses.
Rev sauntered outside before I shut the door and locked it behind us. He meowed his farewell just as I grabbed the tube I’d used the first time on the river and tossed it in the back of my SUV. I’d have to ride my bike down to get my car when I got back, or I could grab a ride from someone. Either way, my keys were the only thing I took with me other than the tube.
The drive up to the river entrance we’d parked at last time was short, but it passed even faster than normal as my brain ticked through the list of things driving it crazy. I thought of my mom, of Sarah, of Keith and Anderson and as always, the last one on the list was me.
I wondered why that was, why I always thought of how everyone around me felt and how my actions affected them more than myself.
That thought bothered me as I parked my SUV and tucked the tube under my arm, wobbling a bit as I made my way down the rocky path to the river. The water was freezing, so I jumped in to get it over with, catching my breath with a shiver as I came up for air again.
I definitely wasn’t hot anymore.
I hopped inside the tube and adjusted my hat and sunglasses again, settling in for the float.
It was nice—peaceful, serene, quiet. For a while I just looked around, eyes wandering the edges of the trees and the mountains, watching the birds circle lazily in the sky, listening to the water rushing over the rocks and under my tube. I took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh air, and then I leaned my head back and let myself think again.
How do you feel? What do you want? What makes you happy?
It was so strange to ask myself those questions, ones I’d never considered asking myself prior. Sure, I knew that designing made me happy, fashion made me happy, the boutique and Adrian and the team—they all made me happy.
And for a long time—so did Keith.
Still, I hadn’t asked myself how I felt about my decisions lately. How did I feel about ending my marriage, about why I did it, how I did it, and what would come next?
They weren’t easy questions to answer, but I made my first attempt.
The first thing I realized was that I felt sad. I truly did, and for many reasons.
I missed Keith, not just what we’d had and what I thought my future would have been, but the actual person, too. Though our marriage was anything but loving toward the end, he was still my best friend. He had filled the biggest role in my life for ten years, and now he was just gone.
The worst part was that there was nothing I could do to change that.
I couldn’t reach out and tell him I’d been thinking of him or that I loved him or missed him or hoped he was doing well. It would only lead to one of two things: one, he’d say he feels the same and beg me to come home or two, he’d be consumed with anger and scream at me asking how I could ever think he could be just my friend or that I have a right to say those things to him.
And he was right.
He didn’t owe me friendship, or understanding, or—though I wanted it more than anything—forgiveness.
The only person who could free myself was me. And yet I couldn’t remove the chains.
As sad as I felt, I also knew in my heart of hearts that I’d made the right decision. I already felt lighter, happier, more at peace with who I was and who I would become. I may have been stumbling, trying to find balance, but at least I didn’t feel judgment from someone who claimed they loved me. I only felt encouragement from myself, almost like a baby bird learning to fly, with no rush to leave the nest. It would come in time, and every day was a lesson until then.