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“God, you’re ridiculous. You must hate the fact that I’ve grown up, and I won’t be manipulated by you ever again.”
“I got what I wanted. So, your point is moot.”
“Not entirely,” I taunt. “I’m holding you up to your end until you give me the answers I deserve. I’ve lived in the dark long enough.”
We face off just feet apart, and I know he sees the resignation in my face. “Just go home, Cecelia.” He ducks into his car, slamming his door before he speeds off.
I lift from the duvet covered in sweat, my limbs aching as an agonized cry leaves my lips. I’d chased Sean through the trees all night, begging him to stop, but he just kept running, and he refused to look back.
“Damnit!” I hurl my water bottle across my room, and it smacks the wall before landing on the carpet just in front of my moonlit French door, the remaining water steadily leaking out.
It’s my subconscious I’m constantly battling. Waking hours are far easier, but every night or every other, in some way, I grieve one or all of them.
And it’s pathetic because they’re almost always dreams of rejection.
I beg, I plead with them not to leave me, to love me back, to forgive me. Just for once in these dreams, I want to be angry, to tell then that they’re liars, that they never deserved me, or my loyalty, my devotion, my ever-faithful heart. Still, it’s always them I’m chasing after, begging their forgiveness, begging for absolution, begging for my feelings to be returned.
Even with the strength I display on the outside during my waking hours bringing grown men to their knees in my business dealings, in my dreams, I’m forever weak. And my mind won’t relent in making me remember that, it won’t reason its way back into the truth of today, not yesterday. Unable to keep the effects from trickling in, I dial the number and pray she picks up.
“Talk to me,” Christy says in a sleepy voice.
“I’m only getting worse. This place is only making it worse.”
“I’m here.”
“I’m sorry,” I sigh, eyeing the clock. “I know it’s late.”
“I have a baby sucking on my boob, and I’m watching Insta Videos, trust me, I’m not mad.”
“Kiss him for me.”
“I will.”
We sit silently for a few seconds. She’s waiting.
“I’m such an idiot. Everyone has moved on.”
“I’m your best friend, and I’m telling you that you went robotic the minute you got back from that godforsaken place. You haven’t been the same since that year. And I’m not saying I don’t love you and all your malfunctions, but I see your face when you think no one is watching. You had three boyfriends who screwed with your head and your heart, one of which died in a car accident, and you never got to grieve him properly.”
Guilt gnaws at me, but the secrets I have to keep.
“Can I ask you something, Cee?”
“Stupid question. Of course.”
“Did you get pregnant?”
“What? No. Not at all. Nothing like that.” I’m weak. I can’t talk to her this weak. I’ve been holding my secrets with me safely for too long. “It was just another bad dream. I’ll be fine.”
“Look. Eventually, I’m going to run out of kids to steal my sleep and suck my tits into something scary, which means murder for you someday when you wake me in the middle of the night. I want you to be happy. If that doesn’t include a future with Collin, fine, if it’s going back to the scene of the shitshow to make peace, fine, but make sure it’s for you, Cecelia. You’ve suffered enough at those bastards’ hands.”
“I will.”
“Good. Remember why you left.”
“Trust me. I can’t forget it.”
“And don’t forget who the fuck you are. CEO and all-around badass. You make grown men cry every day.”
