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Reaching for my plaid shirt, I pull it on and let the towel unravel from my long, damp hair. Running my fingers through the ends as I walk towards the door, a small smile creeping onto my face when the familiar creek of the floorboard sounds. I would dodge that board when me and Austin used to sneak out and meet Riggs, Tripp and Pacey. A pang shoots through me, but I ignore it.
Tugging the stiff drawer on my dresser open, I fish for my brush and run it through my hair. I bend slightly and look in the oak rimmed mirror at my reflection. My eye bags are heavy and have a purple shade to them, standing out against the paleness blanketing my usually tanned skin. Washed out and exhausted.
I have no idea how I am even feeling. The tears are there, and the pain is prominent, but covering it with a mental band-aid is not helping, my wound still bleeds and seeps through the thin material. All I know for certain is my heart feels like it’s been through a stampede of galloping wild horses and pushed back into my chest. Battered and bruised. It ached. Heavily. I was wounded. I just needed time to get over whatever the hell was going on and I know I will heal from this. Like I always do. It was just going to take time.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I stand and press my hand to my forehead, instantly feeling the cool metal of my thick engagement band on my warm skin and my heart sinks. Slowly, I lower my left hand and hold it out in front of me, my beautiful engagement ring didn’t feel as beautiful anymore. It was tarnished with infidelity and heartbreak. I gently touch the band with my index finger and thumb and give it a soft pull before I am met with mental resistance telling me that I’m not quite ready to take it off yet.
Not yet.
I ignore the roll of nausea in my stomach. I still couldn’t quite get my head round it. I was in such a rush to get out, I packed nothing. I didn’t even grab my phone. Just grabbed my keys, Butch and my laptop.
Puffing out my cheeks, I place my hands on my hips and just give myself a moment, willing for this sickness that I feel in my stomach and the crushing pain that’s radiating in my chest to leave.
I hear the stairs creak and I see my mom walking up them as I open my bedroom door.
“Hey, mom,” my voice is rushed. Stepping out into the hallway, I stop in front of her.
“Hey sweetheart, I was just coming up to wake you. You feeling a little better?” she asks, her head tilting to the side, her eyes bouncing back and forth between mine. I know she knows the story I spun her was bullshit. The fact I turned up in a designer dress,Jimmy Chooheelsand nothing but my dog and laptop, well, it was pretty obvious.
“I’m fine,” my tone is curt.
Those two words again.
I wasn’t fine.
At all.
“Okay sweetie. Come, I am just about to serve dinner up. Austin and your pops are bringing the horses in, then we can eat.”
Giving her a gentle nod, she wraps her arms round me and holds me tightly for a moment before unravelling me from her grasp.
“Let’s go,” she smiles, her eyes a little glassy and I force a tight-lipped smile across my lips. “For what it’s worth…” she stalls at the top of the stairs, “I’m glad you’re here,” the honesty of her words spreads across her expression like the sun beating down on the rolling green fields.
“Me too,” I whisper. “Me too.”
Walking into the large,rustic kitchen my stomach grumbles with hunger. It smells amazing. Sage green kitchen units, solid oak countertops with matching ceiling beams. This whole house screamsfarmhouseand I adore it all. It was so different to our—I meanhis—mansion back in Windsor Square with its high ceilings and modern finishes; it screamed pretentious.
The downstairs of my childhood home was mostly open planned, there aren’t many walls separating the rooms. A large archway leads to the dining room, a wide hallway breaks the kitchen from the living area. At the back of the living area is my dad’s bar and to the left of the bar is a study area where he works. It’s a cosy little room overlooking the rolling greens of Rivera Ranch and the mountains on the horizon. It’s the perfect place to sit and work.Maybe I’ll slip in there if I get the urge to write. I scoff at my own thoughts knowing I wouldn’t finish anything regardless.
“Do you need any help?” I ask, feeling like a spare part suddenly.
“You can lay the table?” My mom offers, looking over her shoulder as she drains the potatoes from the pot.
Walking through the rooms of my childhood home, I feel myself warm with the memories that we had here. We had a hard childhood, but a happy one. My mom and dad weren’t perfect, but they were happy. We were happy. My dad worked hard, harder than most I knew and we’d never had a lot of money until my dad sold an amazing horse to a well-known dressage and show jumper named Lillian Savoy. She was who I always wanted to be like, but that dream soon diminished into nothing. It became splintered and fractured into tiny pieces and it didn’t matter how much my heart wanted it, I couldn’t put the pieces back together again no matter how much I tried.
Heaviness crushes my chest and I pull myself from my thoughts.
Placing the plates on top of the placemats, I lay the cutlery out and finally the wine glasses.
“All done,” I chime as I walk back into the room to see my mom loading the serving dishes with mash, vegetables and beef short rib. I licked my lips. I wassohungry and my mom was the best cook.
“Can you get the red from the wine cellar? The pinot noir.”
Anxiety cripples through me, but I moved to do as I was asked.
I twist, turning my back to my mom and walk slowly towards the back of the house. I kick the small, rectangle rug away with the ball of my foot, sliding it along the hardwood floors before I bend, pulling up the cellar door and stepping down into the basement.
The cellar runs the complete underside of the house. It’s always fully stocked.
