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Again the optimism does nothing but faceplant on the table.
“When you were away … he didn’t do things he should have. Not like I needed him to.”
My throat dries and once again, I’m left with an anxiousness that comes with those memories.
“Enough of that,” he says matter-of-factly. “To a new normal,” Kam offers in cheers, his tone a little more upbeat. It only takes me a moment to force a smile and my glass of water, since the tea is empty, meets his.
“To a new normal.”
And so that’s how time passes, checking off a list daily, letting Zander fuck me into contentedness and pretending this new normal feels right and not like I’m counting the days until something inevitably goes wrong, very, very wrong and entirely out of my control.
Zander
It feels like several lifetimes have passed since I let Quincy walk away from me into the night. Time seemed to drag on forever after she was murdered. Guilt is a heavy, relentless emotion. It makes the body move slower and time crawl, except during the moments when you think it might be lifting. It always comes back, though. The guilt is never resolved. No amount of therapy has been able to free me from it. I’ll live with that guilt until I die.
If I had stopped her and done what I wanted to do, done what I know she needed, she’d be here. She’d be alive and happy. Probably with someone else, but she’d breathing.
I know all the things to think, and all the things to say. I know how to organize my thoughts from the physical world around me to the emotional world inside my mind. I’ve practiced holding these things at arm’s length and observing them without sinking into them. But no matter how many times I logic my way around Quincy’s death, I still end up at the same conclusion.
I bear some responsibility. It’s not all my fault, of course, though it felt like it at the time. The man who murdered Quincy bears more of that burden. He’s the one who mugged her and then killed her. He took her life.
I can’t describe the hate I have for him to senselessly take her life.
I’m still not ready for the hearing.
It takes a disgusting amount of time for these cases to work their way through the courts. She’s been gone two years and we’re just now reaching the point where the case is before the judge.
Ella and I move gingerly around each other in her house before it’s time to leave. The guilt feels so heavy on days like this. No reasoning my way out of it this time. I have to sit with it, and sit in the knowledge that something new will happen today with Quincy’s case, regardless of whether justice is served or not.
“Are you nervous?” Ella asks me in the car on the way over. I don’t miss how her black heels slip against one another nervously. I haven’t told her much. Only that Quincy was a good friend turned lover and a former submissive, and that she was murdered. Her only comment was whispered, so you’re mourning too, which I didn’t respond to.
“About the outcome of the case?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
She watches me with those beautiful dark eyes, her expression open. “Do you think it’s already decided, then?” She’s gentle with her questioning, which is different for her. It’s a careful tone, like she’s afraid that it’ll hurt me.
It warms something inside of me, knowing she cares. She is good. All things good in this world. My hand lays on top of hers, my fingers slipping between hers to hold her hand loosely.
“There’s more than enough evidence. The DA told someone I know that he’s hoping for a lesser sentence if it looks like he’ll get off. He wants to plea it down.” I keep my eyes on the road and my breathing steady. “No amount of prison time will bring her back. But this is how she gets her day. Other people will be—” I cut myself off with a deep breath and I pull my hand away to pull onto the highway. “Other people will hear about her today, what happened to her, and that seems right. That her death will be acknowledged.” My throat’s tighter than I’d like and the car is warmer than it should be. “It’s a two-hour drive,” I tell her, “so get comfortable, little bird.”
I turn down the heat and we drive mostly in silence.
She holds my hand, though. Every chance she gets. Hers is small in mine, but her grip tells me she’s not going to let go unless I want her to.
When we get to the front of the courthouse and I let go to take her tweed coat, her cheeks are still flushed from the chill of the short walk in here.
