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“Come with me,” he murmurs.
Staring at the chessboard from the foyer, I can clearly see the two of us and the way the rest of the night played out. A night I’ve replayed over and over in my head. Just after his confession, he’d stood and taken my hand and I silently followed him up the stairs and into my bedroom. That night, he’d taken me so fiercely, with so much intensity, I practically convulsed in ecstasy, my jaw shaking as I called out his name. It was the best sex of my life.
But it was both an apology and a preemptive strike. At least that’s the way I see it now. And the fact that I see one of the most beautiful nights of my life as one of manipulation only fuels my contempt for him. But it was one of the many apology attempts he made before the bomb dropped, and he destroyed three relationships.
When I left, or was forced to leave—after the initial shock wore off—I began to experience the blinding pain of losing him and all I thought we had. Even so, I told myself I was leaving him, and I was. He deserved it. What he did was unforgivable. But somewhere deep down, I had hoped he would come for me. My twenty-year-old heart probably would have forgiven him. And the kicker is…if he had come back to me, I would have fought him, more furiously than I ever had.
It’s funny in retrospect just how you figure things out. Especially when you fell for a criminally deceptive man.
And where would that twenty-year-old heart be now if he had come back, if it had forgiven him?
But it’s my twenty-six-year-old heart who never got an explanation, nor an apology and will never forgive him.
But like all things that happened, it didn’t play out the way I wanted it to or expected. He never came after me because he had again banished me.
My eyes drift to the dining room where I shared uncomfortable dinners with Roman. Tobias wasn’t the only man to break my heart in this house.
Why did you come back, Cecelia?
The more memories that surface, the more I’m beginning to realize just how asinine it was to forsake a life that was, for the most part, working for me.
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.
