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...No! He sold me another pretty painted fantasy. And this one was good, oh, it was so damn good.
Shaking my head and trying to regain my focus, I looked around me to the alleys of the park I was in. I had no idea how I got here or where the fuck here was. This seemed to be the status quo of my life recently; I have no idea where I am or where I'm going. And this time I couldn’t count on James to guide me through this maze and back to normality.
Where in the name of God was I supposed to go now? I couldn’t go back to our...the house; my phone was dead, - thank Jesus, because it buzzed non-stop for an hour - and my credit card was useless because I was not about to spend another cent of that man's money.
I couldn’t go back to Boston.
I couldn’t go back to Cuba.
I couldn’t go back to James.
I was doomed.
Hours later, when the sun went down and was replaced by city lights, my body was spent; my feet were in atrocious pain from all the walking in high heels, and my head was pulsating. Drained of energy, I crashed on a wooden bench in the heart of this unknown park. I probably looked like a failed drag queen with this dress on, my hair ruffled and mascara streaming down my face.
I couldn’t stop the tears. No matter how hard I tried to tell myself that this was not a matter for crying, that I should be furious and not sad that, yo soy cubana y soy más fuerte que esto - I'm stronger than this - I couldn’t stop. The surge of heartbreak and worry was too powerful to control.
What was he going to do now? Would he be ok? Would he remember about the appointment with the electrician on Thursday to repair that broken outlet? Did he know that Chelsea was almost out of formula and someone needed to hit the store tomorrow...?
Chelsea.
The image of smiling chubby cheeks and a pair of beautiful green eyes hit me with the force of a tsunami unleashing on the shore. I would never see her again, and the feeling of loss was settling in the hollow space in my chest. I didn’t remember ever loving something as much as I loved that child...or her stupid father. Now I had to live life without that love, and I couldn’t help but ask myself if it was even worth it.
A girl jogging alone saw me and stopped in front of me looking a bit confused. Yeah, I’d be confused too if I'd see a fancy clown crying in a park at ten P.M at night, in this chilly weather.
"Umm...are you ok? Can I help you get home or anything?"
"No, thank you." I struggled to get the words out, but my voice sounded dusty, and my throat was hurting after long hours of crying my eyes out.
"Ok. You want some water?" Oh, that I could use. I nodded to the girl, thankful for her offer, and she came closer to give me a sealed bottle.
"Thank you, and I'm fine, really; you don't need to worry. Just a bad day." The worst in the fucking history. "Won't you need the water?"
"Keep it, I'm on my way back anyways," she said with a sympathetic smile and went on her way. To her home because she had one to go to.
Discouraged by the pile of shit I had to deal with, I slowly sipped the water with even gulps, trying to wash away everything. It did not work, but I couldn’t stay here the whole night, and there were only two places I knew in this city: Zach's place and the Monroe house.
They lied to me, bluntly and to my face, but I had no other choice right now. I couldn’t go to Zach and London on their wedding night after more than likely I'd already ruined their reception and slapped the best man twice.
With a plan in mind, I got back to my feet and found the way out of the park to hunt for a taxi. Luckily, I had some cash from my run to the art supply store a couple of days ago, and twenty minutes later, the driver dropped me in front of a house in Rogers Park. I had loved that place since the first time James entertained a dinner invitation, and we visited. The house itself was small and intimate, a two bedroom that instantly felt like home, and the scenery was beautiful – it was like they lived inside a postcard. They had direct access to the lake, a small private beach and a pier in the middle of one of the biggest cities in America. Looking at their little city-cottage on the Michigan lake and back to the shiny skyscrapers and busy roads, I realized how much I loved this city. I had never found my place in Boston, even before it turned into my prison; it was too pompous, too stiff for me. But here? It was like Chicago was built to match my heart: a little bit of calm, a whole lot of chaos and so many bright colors.
Home. My home. And now I had to say goodbye to it and all because of James fucking Sullivan. Why couldn't he have just sat with me in the hospital, told me he was my fucking doctor or something. I would have been head over heels for him anyways. How could I not?
A new flood of tears gathered behind my eyelids, and I had no choice but to let them go and mechanically move my feet to the door to knock.
I could hear Wendy running to the door and opening it. She was dressed in yoga leggings and a baggy t-shirt, and her hair, so nicely braided earlier, was now freshly washed. When she saw me and the deplorable state I was in, her eyes grew wide, worried and a little guilty. Yeah, she should have been.
"Rita, my God, you look...you're not ok." It was not a question.
"Who the hell is at the door so late, babe?" I heard Jessica's voice booming from somewhere in the house.
"Umm, well, Rita's here, baby." In a matter of seconds, Wendy's wife was right by her side, watching me with a frown.
"Rita, doll, where have you been, and what the fuck happened? James was desperate looking for you; he had to leave the reception early. I think he's home with Chelsea waiting for you."
I could hear the concern in her voice, but I couldn’t say my mood had changed very much. I was already at the lowest point.
"James and his daughter will be fine. I..." I realized I didn’t need to explain myself because they picked it up from my tone.
