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I look down at my hands in my lap.
“Isla.” Megan’s voice floats through my ears but I don’t look up. “I’m not here to diagnose Bordeaux or dig into his backstory, but there is a lot of it online. He didn’t have the best home life and I’m going to guess he’s never dealt with that. You can tell me if I’m wrong, if maybe he’s told you differently, but I feel like he probably doesn’t have the best coping mechanisms and he may feel like he needs to be alone because he’s never had anyone help him through any of the bullshit life has thrown at him.”
She isn’t wrong. My mind spins.
“Don’t start blaming yourself. Because this was both of you pushing each other’s limits and instead of working with each other, you decided to work against each other. Anger and fear can really wreak havoc on the way we communicate. And from what you told me, anger is what you were feeling, and fear is what Bordeaux was feeling. You two just didn’t know how to come together in those moments and not many people do. You aren’t alone, but that being said, I think you owe each other a conversation.”
I was afraid she would tell me that. Because if I were doing my normal thing, I’d shut him out, like I’ve been doing, and not talk to him again until I was numb enough to feel little to no pain.
“Take his phone call, Isla. Even if you don’t want to do it for him, do it for you.”
Forty-Five
Isla
Oneirataxia (n.) the inability to distinguish
between fantasy and reality.
___________
The day after therapy, I wake up determined to take Bordeaux’s call. I will answer, I will hear him out and I will say my peace, and then we can both begin to properly move on. Even if I fucking love the man.
I’ve tossed and turned all night thinking about the possibilities of the conversation. If he would apologize, if I would, if we would come back together like in a fairy-fucking-tale romance.
But I can’t.
I can’t live the life Bordeaux lives. I didn’t see it then, but I see it now. I can’t have my life exposed and scrutinized under a magnifying glass. I don’t want what I went through all those years ago to keep coming back into the spotlight. And something tells me that if I were to ever continue anything with him—let’s say all of this didn’t unfold the way it did—I know that’s all I’ll be known for. I was the Chicago girl who left her best friend to die.
Shaking the thought from my mind, I roll over in my bed. I take a drink of water from my now room-temp glass and pull my phone off the charger. Sunlight streams through my blinds, warming the top half of my bed up and making it too comfy to leave.
Bordeaux hasn’t called yet. He normally calls when I’m in class and it makes it easier to not take his phone call. Today is Tuesday, and I have both class and work. I took some time off from the record shop after everything happened in Indiana. Frankie hired another part-time applicant who is currently helping to fill my hours, but I think I’m finally ready to go back there again. My gut told me that I’d run into Bordeaux too many times to not have the conversation begging to be had, and I can’t ignore him forever.
I check the time on my phone and the clock reads nine in the morning. I’ve got an hour before I need to be in class and six hours before my shift at The Vinyl Kitty. I try to ignore the growing nerves in my stomach and thumb through my notifications until I see one from Jax Demond. He’s sent me a message request on Instagram and while the name sounds vaguely familiar, I don’t believe I have any idea who this is. The first thought that comes to mind is that it’s probably someone wanting to sell me skinny tea. Maybe someone from high school who’s now working in network marketing and wants me to join him in a quest to make the world a healthier place.
I click on the message and quickly realize that it’s the record producer from the party I went to with Bordeaux just before he left for the tour.
Hey Isla. I was wondering if you’d be down to come hangout at the studio today. I had a cancellation and I remembered that you’re studying music management… Thought you might like to check out the space and we can even talk future possibilities if you want. I’ll be here all day but totally free from ten this morning until two-thirty. Let me know if you’d wanna come by.
A knot forms in my stomach as I remember the words Bordeaux said to me
I bet he uses that line with all the women he wants to fuck.
Does he just want to fuck me or does he really want to help an aspiring music enthusiast? Music enthusiast. I scoff at my own brain. I don't even know what I want to do with music anymore.
I don’t allow myself to hear Bordeaux’s words again. I tune him out and I click accept on the message and then type out a quick reply to Jax.
Totally. Send me the address and I’ll be there after class. Probably around twelve-thirty.
Taking a deep breath, I sit up on my bed and smile. I can handle myself. If Bordeaux is right in the end, and Jax only wants a piece of ass, I’ll even let him say he told me so whenever I actually do have the dreaded conversation with him. I’d be stupid to not take time out of my day to hangout with someone who is quite literally in the field I have dreamed of being in for the past decade—even if I am confused about what my future holds.
My conscious gnaws at me as Bordeaux calls.
I ignore them both.
Forty-Six
Bordeaux
