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I despised it. But the only way for me to make everyone stop treating me so gently was to treat them harshly. And I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t hurt my well-meaning, loving, supportive friends. Though the impulse was overwhelming sometimes. Just so I could be treated as something other than the broken, delicate woman who lost her baby.
I took a large gulp of my drink. Stella’s eyes followed this movement, chewing on her lip in concern. I really fucking hope I didn’t have another intervention in my future.
Yes, I was drinking more than normal. And my normal drinking habits were on the excessive side, but who gave a fuck? I was a millennial, we had been through all sorts of crap in our lives from terrorist attacks, environmental disasters, climate change, wars and the constant threat of the end of the world. Taking into account that my life included caring but self-absorbed parents, multiple boyfriends, near death experiences and trips to most corners of the world where I’d seen some fucked-up shit—enjoying a good cocktail was the least harmful thing I could do to deal with that, in my opinion.
And with everything I’d been going through, I deserved to dull the edges as much and as often as I could.
“I wish I could,” I said in a low tone. “I wish I could either hate him or blame him. That would make this all so much easier.” I stared at my now empty glass, longing to refill it, but I did not have the energy to weather Stella’s not so subtle stare or well-meaning concern. So I settled for thinking about the bottle of vodka waiting for me at home, the place where I could engage in all of my newly acquired toxic behaviors without anyone to witness. One of which was staring at the sonogram picture I’d buried in a drawer. It was wrinkled, ruined. I clutched it in my fist when I sat on the floor of my linen closet in the afternoons.
“But I don’t,” I sighed. “I don’t hate him. I love him with all that I am, and I’ll always love him.”
I waited. Waited for her to ask the obvious and inevitable question. If I loved him, why was I pushing him away? I’d always been so angry when I watched the movies and shows where the couple was obviously made for each other, obviously perfect for each other, obviously soulmates. There were always little miscommunications, things pushing them apart, noble reasons why they couldn’t be together. Traumas kept secret on one side or another. And fuck, it used to piss me off. I thought the writers were just lazy, looking for the easy drama to keep audiences watching. I thought love conquered absolutely everything.
How fucking naïve I was.
“Do you hate me?” the small voice tore through my thoughts. I focused on my friend and her shimmering gaze, her rigid posture, the fear and grief in her tone.
“I mean, if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have met Karson,” she shrugged. “Or maybe you would’ve. Because you were meant to be. You would’ve found each other, no matter what. But if it wasn’t for me, if you weren’t with me that day, you would have a child right now.” She looked out to where her husband was cradling her daughter, watching the waves peacefully. Her eyes were filled with tears as she looked back to me. “You would have Karson.”
She was speaking a version of the speech I’d given to Zoe months ago. Though I had not healed since then, my perception had changed a little.
“Stella, I need you to listen to me, and listen good,” I ordered. “There is not a piece of me, not even a cell in my body that is capable of hating you. Not even one that could be mad at you. Even for looking better in couture that was made for me.”
She smiled weakly.
“Karson and I were a disaster waiting to happen,” I said, more serious now. “If it wasn’t what happened, it would’ve been something. I don’t regret meeting him, knowing him. Not one bit. My life wouldn’t know this pain, but I also wouldn’t know him. And I cannot fathom a world where I don’t know Karson.”
Every word I spoke was true.
I didn’t know where exactly I’d come to the conclusion, how such a thing had come out of my toxic thoughts, but it happened.
Stella had not mentioned that day or the wedding that never happened. Not once. Which I really appreciated. She was also the only one I’d told about the premonition I’d had in Romania. She didn’t speak of that either.
“Do you think there’s a chance?” she asked hopefully. “For you and him to find your way back to one another?”
I didn’t hesitate. “No, sweetie. There’s not a chance. We had ours, and we lost it. There is no hope for us.”
I had a therapy appointment the next day. Probably a good thing too. I’d come ready to talk this time. Ready to try to do something about this person I’d turned into.
I had the luxury of being born rich, so I could really stretch this mental breakdown on for as long as I wanted. My bills would always be paid, no matter what. Even if I did give in to the urge to crawl into bed and not get out for six months.
Although I was weak and had made some questionable decisions lately, I couldn’t abandon myself completely. I had to try, fucking try to get back to who I was. I had a little niece now. She was going to grow up and see me as a badass, slightly kooky aunt. Not the current train wreck I was.
So I was sitting in the chair, breathing in the scent of an expensive candle, staring at the ocean.
“They had a funeral,” I said. It was the first I’d spoken since I sat down fifteen minutes ago. Tina wasn’t much for coaxing me to talk. Didn’t pretend to be my friend in order to get my guard down, get me talking to her.
No, her superpower was silence. She could sit in that chair of hers, poised, watching, waiting. She’d do it for a full hour. She had done that during my first few sessions. It impressed me. I’d commented that some defense organizations could’ve used her for their interrogations. No torture needed. No, the sound of your own breathing, of your own heartbeat, not being able to escape the screaming inside of your head… That was all the torture a damaged person needed.
She was good. Which was why I paid her the big bucks.
“For the baby.” The words were dry in my mouth.
The baby.
Our baby.
“I didn’t go,” I continued, my voice scratchy. “They tried to speak to me in soft tones, all of them. All in their own way. Stella, gentle, with tears in her eyes. Yasmin, also gentle, no tears, though. More logical. Zoe played the tough love card. Or tried to. It didn’t work as well when the pity for me leaked from her pores,” I scoffed.
