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CLARA
Ileft Tatum.
I had to.
With what was left of my shredded heart, I booked the first flight out of this godforsaken place back to Los Angeles, the city of light. My city.
The plan was to go home, regroup, and figure out my next step.
Bile rose in my throat. I barely made it to the nearest public bathroom in the airport in time to barf into the porcelain toilet. I watched the vomit whirl around and around in the toilet bowl, like the leftovers of my broken heart, until it finally gurgled down the drain. Like me. I was that vomit, going through the pipes and joining the cesspool, sewer, whatever, beneath the ugly airport.
I slumped against the paint-chipped door of the bathroom, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and let the tears flow. I’d always considered myself strong, but it took Tatum to show me just how weak I was. I sobbed angry, bitter tears as women and girls passed my stall, likely wondering who the crazy woman was, crying hysterically and alone in a bathroom stall.
I put myself together, splashed water on my face, and made my way to the gate. I squeezed myself between two people loaded with as much carry-on luggage as they could get away with. It served me right for thinking I could have it all. My mother had shown me it wasn’t possible. My father had drilled the same lesson into me. But no, I was the arrogant idiot who had to try and fly to the sky, touch the sun. Like stupid Icarus, I came crashing down on broken wings.
Sweat rolled down the length of my spine as I waited stiffly for the airline personnel to call the flight. Tatum had lied through his teeth, and as harsh and painful as his words had been, I didn’t believe them.
“Subbie,” I muttered to myself as my row was called to board.
Of course, I’d reacted to such a bald-faced lie. He wasn’t a recovering manwhore, a bad boy who’d hooked up with innumerable women. No, the man had refrained from fucking on principle, except for the occasional release. He made it sound like he was dumping me so he could go out to sex clubs every night and rack up subbies like notches on a bedpost. That was the furthest thing from who Tatum was.
His family secret had gotten out, and he felt the need to protect me. Normally, I was all for that, but what hurt was his lack of trust in me. To think I once thought we’d rule together. His behavior showed how shallow our bond had been. The first time something went wrong, he shut me out.
And if he shut me out to protect me, well, that just didn’t work for me. I’d concede mafie relationships were more traditional, with the man making most of the decisions, but he didn’t know me if he thought I’d tolerate a relationship like that.
The plane ride to LA felt like one of the longest in my life. I was alone, abandoned, suspended above the world, drifting among the clouds like a lost bird separated from its flock. Whatever his reasons, his actions were what mattered, and they spoke volumes. The bottom line was that he didn’t trust me, he couldn’t give me the kind of relationship I needed, and that ultimately, he didn’t want to be with me.
There wasno fighting that trio of fuckery. Still, it tore me apart inside. I loved him, wanted to build a life with him. I’d thought it was too good to be true, but he’d proven wrong with his love—until it came crashing down around me, just as I’d feared. It only proved I was meant to dedicate myself to my family. It had taken me leaving them and falling flat on my face to learn my father had been right. Really, the man was a genius.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we touched down at LAX. The first face I saw as I stepped out of the arrivals terminal was my father, Adrian by his side. My heart was shattered, but I braced myself and turned up the largest, brightest smile I could muster.
Whatever my father saw on my face had him wrapping me in his strong, burly arms and swaying me from side to side. I was never able to hide my feelings from him, but with the effort I was making, he knew better than to pry.
I brought my arms around his waist, and we hugged for a long time, people streaming past us.
When I felt strong enough to break our hug without spilling tears, I stepped away and faced Adrian with a soft touch of his sleeve.
“Glad to have you home, Clara,” he said.
My eyes watered, but I managed to rasp, “Same here. How was your concert?”
He beamed. “It went well. I wish you’d been there to see me, Clara. Tata taped it for you. We will watch it at home together.”
“Yes, we’ll do that.” My throat was so tight it hurt to speak. “I’ll never miss one of your concerts again,” I swore to him. It was an oath I intended to keep.
“It’s okay,” he replied, nonplussed. “Tata explained you had to stay in New York to work.”
I swallowed down the pain crawling up my throat. “Yes, but that’s over with. I will never leave you again.” My gaze darted to my father. “I learned the lesson I needed to learn. I’m good now.”
“Glad to have you back, Daughter,” my father intoned.
He meant that in more ways than one, I knew.
* * *
I layon my bed with the French doors open, the delicate, floor-length voile curtains billowing in the breeze. The metal finial at the end of the cord hit against the glass pane with an incessant, soft click-clack, but I didn’t have the energy to get up and wrap it around the curtain knob attached to the wall and make it stop. The sun cascaded across the classic geometrical motifs of the Fine Serapi rug.
My muscles felt so heavy like I was pulling dead weight, although I hadn’t moved an inch in hours. My cousins and friends had stopped by to catch up, but I turned them away, claiming to be sick. While technically a lie, I certainly felt as if I were on death’s doorstep.
