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There’s something about these pajamas.
They remind me of Sam. She always wore pajamas, even to school. Blue and flannel with a tank top underneath, the pants folded over at the waist. A small smile graces my lips as I grab the bottle of Cabernet from the fridge.
That’s how I want to remember her.
It’s been five years, and only recently have I started to remember her like that. Back when she was the Sam I knew and loved. Back when we were best friends for life.
She wore pajamas like this when she was happy.
Not me, though. My heart sinks as I glance at my phone, sitting on the countertop of the small kitchen.
I think that was the final straw. Dean will never want me again.
That should make me happy, considering what my only goal is. The one thing I’ve wanted for so long. This arrangement is the best scenario. Available. Vulnerable. And the reputation of a slut.Easy.It would be all too easy.
As I pour the mostly empty bottle into the glass, I wonder if I’m crazy. The plan was crazy from the beginning, certainly not something a sane person would do. I knew that.
Then again, not many people would remain sane after seeing what I saw and knowing what I know.
Tragedies happen, but usually there’s justice. A villain you can blame and prosecute.
When the villain gets off scot-free and destroys your life forever, that does something to a person. When he walks away unscathed and blends into a crowd that looks back at you like you’re the one who’s in the wrong.
It’s even worse when you played a part in the wreckage and the small pieces that were shattered turn to ashes in your hands. You’ll make all sorts of promises then. Promises to make wrongs right. At any cost.
“Whatever it takes,” I whisper and lift the wine to my lips, drinking it in large gulps.
I barely taste it although the sweetness turns bitter quickly as it sits on my tongue.
It’s a good thing I pushed Dean away, I think.He deserves so much better.
The bottle clinks and the sound resonates in the kitchen as I set it down. There wasn’t even enough left to fill the glass.
One hand holds the wine, while the other picks up my phone.
I will him to text me, but nothing happens.
Slipping onto the stool, I lay my cheek down on the cold granite and stare at my phone. I scroll through our messages; I even laugh once or twice, even though it’s a sad sound. These texts are proof that at one point I was happy.
I’m sorry.I text him, unable to keep myself from doing it. I’m sorrier than he’ll ever know.
I glance around this place and hate that I’m even here. The sickness that’s been in the bottom of my gut for so long begins to creep up.
I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to do this.
It all hurts too much.But I’m so close to the edge.If only I can just hold on.
I’m so close to keeping a promise I never thought I could.
I drown my self-pity in the wine, throwing it back and trying to block out the images that keep coming back to me, but I have to stop when I hear a loud knock at the door. My eyes fly to the screen of my phone, the message marked as read.
Dean.
My feet trip over one another and I nearly fall in my desperation to get to the door. I’ll tell him. I’ll confess and he’ll save me. God help me please, because I don’t know what to do anymore.
With a racing heart and nearly breathless, I whip open the front door, not bothering to check to see who it is.
It’s not Dean and my heart slows, as does time.
