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I feel like a plague, bringing ruin and damnation to all that I meet.
My ring has suddenly become a talisman. Not a symbol of our love, but a reminder of what once was, and that which I am unworthy of having.
I skip the glass this time and simply bring the bottle to my lips. It catches the attention of the bartender, who shakes his head and makes his way in my direction.
Heavy on my feet, my heart weighing a ton tonight, I slip from the stool and push my way through the crowd, listening to and then ignoring the bartender yelling behind me.
“You’re going to get arrested if you take that outside!” someone hollers, and I pull to a stop at the feel of a hand on my elbow. She’s tiny, with long blonde hair, and I have to blink in rapid succession before the image of Julia bleeds away. It takes me too long to realize this woman is in her thirties, with blonde hair and brown roots, and could never be mistaken for my Jules.
“Hi,” she says softly, and I don’t notice I’m crying until she blurs like a mist before me. Without asking permission, this stranger offers me comfort that I haven’t earned and reaches up on her toes to wipe my tears away. It only makes me cry harder, and I swallow back a sob. She tries to pull me closer to the bar again, but my feet are rooted to the spot.
She really is petite. She steps away, then comes back with a napkin, pressing it into my hand. I finally notice the logo of the car on her shirt. I’m sobbing in the middle of a bar. It’s no more than I deserve. “It’s illegal to carry an open bottle of alcohol in New York,” she tells me gently, moving to pry my fingers from the death grip they have on the bottle. “Why don’t I call you a cab.”
I hand her the bottle instead, then bend my knees to place a kiss on her forehead, wet and tearstained as it is. Without another word, I slip from her soft hold and push my way out the door, the chill of the air now abrasive against my bones.
I don’t know how long I walk without a coat and a place to call home. I only know I’m in the hallway of another building. Old and run down, but still serviceable and clean for all that. I ring the bell and hear it echo. The building doesn’t have a doorman, and tomorrow or the next day, when I’m sober and it doesn’t hurt so bad, I’ll do my best to get her to move. A raise, or a bonus, maybe just give her my apartment so she’s sleeping somewhere safe at night.
“Thank fuck!” Deb hisses when she opens the door, but whatever else she was going to say falls away when I release the final chip of my shattered and broken heart and sob into her arms.
THREE
JUSTIN
November…
It’s been a week. A week since we’ve seen him. A week since we’ve heard his voice. A week since I’ve slept more than an hour at a time, instead of tossing and turning with the storm that rages inside my stomach.
It’s still dark outside, the sun still an hour from cresting over the horizon. It’s chilly too. Cold, really. It’s in the thirties, at least according to my phone. But I couldn’t sleep and felt suffocated inside the apartment, so I came onto the patio and turned on the smaller of the outside heaters. I’m wearing sweats, because even I’m smart enough to realize hypothermia doesn’t care if your soul is too numb to feel the cold; it’ll happen either way. It’s just enough warmth to keep me from shivering.
I’m not sure if anything can truly warm me this morning anyway. It feels like ice is coursing through my veins instead of blood.
I hit the call button on my phone, then put it on speaker, unsurprised at the expected result.
Remi’s phone is disconnected.
I called him last night before I went to bed and left a message, like I always do. I’ve taken to talking to myself via his answering machine. His voice mail is set up for business so you can leave a longer message than the standard recording. I tell him what we went over in class that day, what Jules and I had for dinner. I tell him how much we miss him, but that I understand he has to get himself in order before he’s ready to come home.
I tell him that we’ll be here when he’s ready, no matter how long that takes.
It’s only been a week, after all. That’s nothing in the grand scheme of things. But without even a hint of how he’s doing, the week feels like it’s lasted a year.
Then, when I called this morning, pulled from my bed by depression-induced insomnia, I got the disconnected notice. Again. And again. So, sometime between midnight and six a.m., Remi had his phone number changed.
Deb stopped answering her phone two days ago. If I call her, will her number be disconnected as well?
Somehow that feels more permanent than his key that still sits on the table in the entryway, untouched since it left his hand.
The patio door slides open, and I brace myself for what Julia is about to say. Even though I already know, it won’t be any more manageable through the filter of Jules’s tight and panicked voice.
“His phone is disconnected!” she says, tumbling through the open door. My eyes immediately drop to her feet to make sure she has socks on. I may be numb, but she’s not. She’s all burning embers and smoldering fire, and I don’t want the heat and cold to turn her to glass, able to shatter at a simple touch.
“I know,” I say quietly, unfolding myself from the knot I’m twisted up in to offer her my lap. She doesn’t take it. Instead, she paces back and forth on the patio, pulling at her fingers. I force my body to relax, mentally preparing for another panic attack.
She scared me the night he left. My heart was in my throat with terror at the wild, distraught look in her eyes. She’s had panic attacks before, used to be prone to them. But nothing like that. Nothing that peels the skin from my bones with worry.
I was a moment from calling an ambulance, afraid that she’d suffocate in her own pain.
I love Remington. I know he loves us. But I hate him for what he did to her that night.
