Chapter Eighteen

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Rock bottom: I thought I’d hit it the night Finn left.

Isn’t it funny that when you think it’s simply not possible for life to get any worse – that, no matter what else life throws at you in the future you’ll be able to handle it, because there’s just no way it could ever be as bad as the pain you’re experiencing at this very moment – life takes one good look at you and says, “You idiot, don’t you know by now? Things can always, always, always get worse. Watch, I’ll prove it.”

Days passed with an excruciating slowness that made me feel like I was losing my mind.

I left my room only for trips to the bathroom and kitchen. I skipped my classes, cancelled my sessions with Dr. Angelini, and refused to talk to Lexi when she came in to check on me. I had no appetite. I didn’t even bother to shower. Worse, though, I wasn’t sleeping.

As in, not at all.

I was afraid I’d see him in my dreams, whether as a little boy or as the man he’d become, and that prospect alone was enough to keep me awake for the rest of my life. After two full days without sleep, though, my body had different ideas. I had to be on guard at all times – if my mind wandered even for a minute, I’d find myself on the brink of unconsciousness, forced to pinch or slap myself back from sliding down into dreamland.

I became obsessed with alarm clocks – my own personal bastions against the threat of sleep. I spent hours on my laptop, reading about sleep cycles and REM stages. A concession to my body’s needs, I became the master of naps, nodding off in exact ninety minute intervals before I could fall into the deep sleep where dreaming occurs.

At some level, I knew that none of this was rational or remotely healthy, but I didn’t really care. As soon as Finn had walked out my door that night, I’d accepted the fact that my heart would never be the same; all I could do now was try to stitch the tattered shreds of my soul back together – and if it took weeks of reclusive, Howard Hughes-like behavior to get there, so be it.

I kept waiting for the moment when things would start to get better. It couldn’t go on like this forever, I reasoned; people every day, all over the world, got out of bed and faced their own heartbreaks. One day, they woke up, opened their eyes, and decided that the pain had lessoned – maybe not a lot, maybe not even enough to make a tangible difference in the devastation clinging t0 them like a dark cloud, but enough to give them hope. Hope that one day, in weeks or months or years or decades, the pain would dissipate to the point that it no longer pulsated like a physical wound, with every aching heartbeat a reminder of what had been lost.

Maybe, if I lay in bed long enough, staring at the constellations he’d left behind on my ceiling, I’d finally feel better.

Or worse. It was a toss-up, really.

That first morning I’d woken up without him, as soon as I’d opened my eyes and caught sight of the ceiling I’d leapt out of bed and driven straight to the nearest Home Depot. I threw the first can of white paint my hands had landed on inside my cart, wheeled it to the counter, and purchased it without a second thought.

When I got home though, I sat on my bedroom floor staring at that can of whitewash for almost two hours unable to even crack the lid. With a frustrated scream, I eventually just shoved the unopened paint into the back of my closet along with Finn’s leather jacket, where didn’t have to look at them anymore.

For the first day or so, I tried not to think about him at all. Then I realized how insanely useless and counterproductive that was, so I gave up and started acting like a girl – or, in other words, I began obsessing over everything he’d ever said or done in the months since we’d met.

I began to realize that, in many ways, Finn actually had tried to tell me – maybe not with words, but certainly with actions…

The night he took me out to look at the fireflies by his lookout point.

His strange song dedication when he sang at The Blue Note.

How he’d always, from the very start, called me ‘Bee.’

How protective he’d always been.

Even the way he’d phrased certain things…

There’s never been anyone real for me except you.

It’s always been you.

You’re so different from what I expected.

I love you, Brooklyn. I always have.

The list went on and on, until my eyes were swimming and I forced myself to stop searching my memories.

I think it was day seven post-Finn when the door to my bedroom was abruptly thrown open, slamming against the opposite wall so hard the photos hanging there rattled and threatened to come crashing down. Lexi stormed in, her blue eyes flashing with determination, and walked up to the bed where I was huddled under a mountain of blankets. With one jerk of her arm, she ripped the comforter from the bed and tossed it to the floor.

“Brooklyn Grace Turner. This is pathetic. Look at yourself!” She demanded, pointing at my ratty sweatshirt and ripped pajama shorts. “More importantly, though, smell yourself. Seriously, can you even remember the last time you showered?”

My lips twitched traitorously in the beginnings of a smile.

“Get up!” Lexi yelled. “Right freaking now!”

“Go away, Lexi,” I countered wearily, rolling over to face the wall. I was definitely not in the mood to play nice.

Suddenly, my bed shifted as the weight of a body landed solidly on my mattress. Startled, I rolled over to see Lexi standing over me on the bed, hands planted on her hips. I opened my mouth to ask what the hell she thought she was doing, but it snapped closed, clacking my teeth together painfully, when she began to jump up and down like a crazy person.

The whole mattress was bouncing, and me with it – each time her feet made contact with the bed, I was launched several feet in the air, clutching frantically at the frame so I wouldn’t be bounced right onto the floor.

“I SAID GET UP!” Lexi yelled, jumping even harder. When her feet came dangerously close to landing on my internal organs, I had no choice other than to abandon ship.

I dove to the ground, scurried several feet away from the bed, and spun around to face the madwoman that was my best friend. She’d stopped jumping as soon as I’d cleared the bed, but remained standing up there, fuming at me.

Without saying anything, she hopped off the bed, strode across the room, and backed me into a corner until I was pressed tight against the wall. Leaning in, she trapped my face between her palms and looked me in the eye.

“It’s been seven days, Brooklyn. I gave you a full week to wallow. And, trust me, its been hard to watch.” She made a disgusted face. “I know you’re going through a hard time right now. I get that it’s the hardest thing in the world to even fathom getting out of bed in the morning and pretending that everything is normal. I’ve been there.”

I started to interrupt, but she cut me off before I could get a word in.

“But this isn’t you, Brooklyn. I don’t care what he did – no boy is worth subjecting yourself to this.”

Was this Lexi talking?

“I know what you’re thinking. Who am I, queen of the ever-revolving door of boyfriends, to tell you anything about relationships, right?”

Wow, that had been almost my exact thought.

“And you’d be right; I have had more than my fair share of boyfriends and unhealthy relationships. But because of that, I’ve also had my share of heartbreaks.” A sad, small smile graced her lips. “If there’s one thing I’m really good at, it’s getting over assholes and moving on with my life. Maybe I don’t move on to the right people, but that’s not the point… Thing is, Brooklyn, that’s really all you can do – you just go on. In spite of the pain, in spite of everything, you keep breathing. And one day, I promise, it will get better.”

I supposed she had a point.

“Do I really smell that bad?” I asked in a quiet voice.

“Literally, I could smell you from the kitchen,” Lexi giggled. “I think you’re starting to mold.”

“Ew!” I said, crinkling my nose. “I am so not that bad.”

“Whatever you say.” She rolled her eyes. “Just shower, would ya? We’ve got places to go, people to see.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Just trust me.”

***

“Okay,” Lexi grinned over at me. “You can thank me now.”

“Off the record?” I hedged.

“Uh-huh, whatever you say.”

“Fine, I admit it. You were right.”

“That’s all I get? After the shitstorm you kicked up over this?! Not even a ‘Thank you Lexi, for being the most wonderful, thoughtful, stunningly beautiful, amazingly insightful – and did I mention good looking? – best friend on the planet, and for forcing me, against my will, to get such an incredibly sexy new haircut?’”

I rolled me eyes and walked toward the car without her.

“Oh, lighten up!” She said, racing to catch up with me. “It really does look great, though.”

As much as I hated to admit it, Lexi had been right about the haircut; it was exactly what I’d needed to shake off the gloom that I’d been drowning in for the past week. The stylist had been lectured thoroughly by Lexi for fifteen minutes before even so much as lifting a brush – in fact, I was surprised Lexi hadn’t just grabbed the scissors and started hacking off clumps of my hair herself.

Thankfully, it didn’t get that far and her micromanaging hadn’t escalated to actual maiming.

The stylist, following Lexi’s instructions to the letter, had chopped off several inches of my long hair, leaving it just long enough to brush the tops of my breasts. She’d added layers and trimmed the pieces around my face to better accentuate my features. Lastly, she’d threaded caramel-brown high- and low-lights throughout my hair, a look I’d never before attempted with my dark locks.

I’d originally been worried about how it would turn out, but as soon as I’d seen the finished product in the mirror, I’d fallen in love with it. The cut was flattering, showing off my small features and framing my face in a way that made my mouth look more supple, my cheekbones higher. The new color offset the deep green of my irises, making them stand out more prominently and flattering my skin tone.

In short, I looked – and felt – like a new woman.

After our stop at the hairdresser, I learned that it had been only the first on a long agenda of activities Lexi had planned for the day.

Next, we drove across the street to Lexi’s favorite nail salon, where we were manicured, buffed, and top-coated to perfection. Then we hit the local strip mall for some quality retail therapy, each buying a few new dresses and tops. I even found a gorgeous vintage pair of Chanel heeled boots in a second-hand shop of designer cast offs, scooping them up for a fraction of their original price.

After our shopping spree I thought for sure we were done, but instead of heading home, Lexi steered us toward the local movie theater. We ate stale popcorn with too much butter and laughed ourselves silly at the on-screen antics of our favorite female comedy duo.

By the time we finally pulled in at the house, it was well after midnight and I was exhausted from a jam-packed day of girltime. We sat in the driveway, staring at the Victorian, and I realized I’d barely thought about Finn all day – Lexi had kept me too busy.

It had been so good to laugh – to get out of that room, away from all the memories. I almost didn’t want to go back inside to face everything.

“Hey,” Lexi said, breaking the silence. “There’s one more thing on our itinerary.”

“What?” I asked.

“Sleepover. Just like when we were thirteen; we’ll eat ice cream from the carton and talk about how I’m going to marry Lance Bass and you’re going to have seventeen babies with Justin Timberlake. Except now we have the added benefits of vodka.”

“Firstly, we are never revisiting the ‘NSync phase, no matter how drunk you get me. Secondly, Lace Bass is openly gay, so good luck with that plan of yours. And thirdly, thank you.”

“Moi? Whatever for?” Lexi grinned.

“For being you,” I shrugged. “We don’t have to do the corny hug-it-out thing, right?”

“But…” Lexi winked, then burst into song. “IT’S TEARING UP MY HEA—”

“Stop!” I interrupted her. “There will be no singing, either!”

Two hours later we were both half in the bottle, singing Backstreet Boys at the top of our lungs into hairbrush microphones.

When we finally fell asleep, spooning like little girls in Lexi’s bed, a solitary tear slipped from my eye and rolled across the pillow. I thought I’d lost everything when I lost him, but I’d been wrong. I still had Lexi. And, more importantly, I had myself.

It had been a tough week, but I knew deep down that Lexi had been right – it doesn’t matter that you get knocked down.

It’s how you get back up and carry on that matters.

***

After that day, I forced myself to start living again. Eating regular meals, sleeping semi-normal hours. Piece by piece, I picked up the discarded fragments of my life and tried to find myself within the chaos.

I threw myself into my schoolwork, which was a good thing considering how many classes and assignments I’d missed during my week of hibernation. I had a lot of ground to make up academically, especially with finals and the end of the semester approaching. At least my professors had been understanding.

Dr. Angelini was a different story.

To say she was frustrated with me would be an understatement. Not that she showed it, or anything –outwardly, she appeared as calm and collected as always. But the storm of emotion raging behind her eyes gave her away.

So, to appease her, I told her everything.

“I found the trigger,” I said as soon as I sat down in her office.

“Pardon me?”

“The trigger. It was Finn.” I swallowed. “He’s the boy of my dreams.”

“Finn is the little boy from your dreams?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” I asked, growing frustrated.

“No, you said, ‘he’s the boy of my dreams,’ which has an entirely different connotation.”

“So help me god, doc, if you even think the words ‘Freudian Slip’ I will leave this office and never come back,” I grumbled.

Dr. Angelini hid a smile behind her coffee mug before taking a sip.

“So Finn is the trigger,” she prompted, gesturing at me to continue.

I told her everything, then – about the dreams I’d had, the memories I’d uncovered on the Ferris wheel, and our breakup afterwards. I glossed over my activities of last week, apologized for skipping our sessions, and prepared to leave. When I stood, Dr. Angelini stopped me.

“So that’s it?” she asked, as close to incredulous as I’d ever seen her.

“What’s what?” I was confused.

“You’re just going to give up on Finn? On all the progress you’ve made? On yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“Four months ago, if you had a problem, you’d bury your head in the sand like an ostrich, and either wait for it to go away on its own, or run like hell until it was a tiny speck in your rearview,” Dr. Angelini said. “Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing now?”

“Did you seriously just equate me to an ostrich?” I asked.

“Look, I’m probably overstepping my bounds as your therapist here, but I can’t help but feel that you are going to regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t deal with this. That moment people look back on when they’re lying in their deathbeds, wishing they’d chosen differently? This is that moment.”

“He lied to me!” I pointed out defensively.

“I know that, Brooklyn,” Dr. Angelini said quietly. “But aren’t there things you’ve kept from him as well?”

Of course there were, but I wasn’t about to own up to it.

“Humans are flawed creatures – selfish and cowardly most of the time. We lie, cheat, and steal better than we do almost anything else. We hurt each other with words, actions, and omissions,” Dr. Angelini sighed. “There is a one hundred percent guarantee that the people we love most will let us down. That’s the risk you take, when you open up your heart.” Dr. Angelini paused for a moment and leaned across the coffee table to look at me intently.

“But at some point, you have to decide which ones matter more than the pain, and forgive them for their mistakes.” She placed one hand on mine. “So, if you love him, I guess the only real question you have to ask yourself, the only question that matters is, at the end of the day, is he worth the suffering?”

***

For the rest of the day, I wandered in a daze, thinking over Dr. Angelini’s words. I drove out to the lookout point Finn had taken me to in August, sad to see that it had been overtaken by winter. Frost clung to the fronds and grasses near the riverbed, and the stream was flowing sluggishly under a thin sheet of ice. There were no fireflies; there was no life at all, here – not anymore. It was difficult to believe the hard, frozen ground would ever bring forth new flowers; that the trees would blossom again; that the animals would return to this barren place.

I wasn’t sure what I’d been looking for when I decided to come here – answers, I guess – but I definitely hadn’t found it.

I’d turned to go, depressed by the much-changed landscape, when a cardinal – red and majestic, defying the wintery chill in the air as it soared between deadened trees – burst from a nearby bush, startling me. Clutching a hand to my chest, my eyes tracked the bird’s flight and a genuine smile bloomed on my face. It felt odd, unnatural on my lips after weeks of frowning, and probably looked more akin to a grimace than an actual grin – but at least it was there.

There was life out here after all.

Even in the most desolate place, when it appeared nothing would ever be the same – there was hope.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts to a name I hadn’t pressed in weeks. Typing out a quick message, my fingers quickly went numb in the chilly air.

Do you remember when we were kids, and you told me the story of Princess Andromeda? How her parents sacrificed her to the sea monster to save their country?

His response was instantaneous, as if he’d been waiting by his phone.

Of course I do.

I typed back quickly, afraid if I didn’t say this now, I’d never find the courage again.

I never understood how Andromeda could forgive her parents so easily for that, after Perseus saved her. All my life I’ve thought about that myth, thinking it didn’t make any sense and wondering what I was missing. But I think I finally get it now.

Get what, princess? he asked.

Holding my breath, I hit send.

When you love someone, truly love them – more than your pride, more than yourself, even – you can forgive them anything, no matter how much they’ve hurt you. And maybe I’m an idiot, but I still love you. I’ve loved you since I was six years old.

My phone rang.

“Hi,” I laughed into the receiver.

“I’m coming over,” Finn said without hesitation, his voice demanding. I could hear noises in the background, as if he were pulling on his boots and jacket.

“Don’t,” I told him. “Not right now anyway. I’m not home.”

“Well, where are you? I’ll meet you somewhere. Anywhere.” Hearing his voice was a balm to my desperate soul; I let the sound wash over me, reveling in it like some kind of addict who’d been denied her fix for far too long.

“I’ll be home tonight. Come over later – let’s say eight? We can talk then,” I said. I could hear the smile in my own voice.

“But it’s only three, now,” he grumbled.

“It’s been two weeks,” I shrugged, though he couldn’t see it. “Are a few more hours going to kill you?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “I’ll be pacing my living room for the next four hours and forty seven minutes.”

“Not that you’re counting,” I laughed. “And don’t pace – you’ve got nice carpeting. It would be a shame to ruin it.”

“I’ll see you soon, princess. Don’t make any other plans. Tonight, you’re mine.” His voice held a dark promise that sent a thrill rushing through me.

“Counting the minutes,” I breathed, before hanging up.

I raced back to the Victorian, eager to shower and clean the apartment a bit before Finn’s arrival. I stopped on the way home to grab some groceries for dinner, feeling light and happy for the first time in weeks.

I couldn’t wait to see him. Sure, there were things we still needed to discuss. But now that I’d decided to forgive him, everything seemed easier – like a giant weight had fallen from my shoulders and clattered to the ground at my feet.

I walked through the front door, whistling under my breath with my arms loaded full of groceries. The apartment was quiet – Lexi and Ty were spending the weekend skiing with another couple at a mountain range three hours away. Conveniently, Finn and I would have the apartment to ourselves to get reacquainted. I blushed in anticipation, hoping all the stories I’d heard about the wonders of make-up sex were true.

I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. I didn’t have a sense of foreboding, or a gut feeling that something was deeply wrong. I was happy, with a goofy smile pasted on my face, when I walked into my bedroom.

I took two blissfully unaware steps into the room, before the images in front of my eyes registered and I came to an abrupt stop.

Horror – that’s the only word I can use to describe what I felt as I stood frozen in place, scanning the walls of my bedroom.

There were photos covering every surface of the room. They plastered the walls, a morbid collage of images; they hung from strings on the ceiling; they littered the floor and the surface of the bed.

And every single one was a photo of me.

There were snapshots taken from far away, as I made my way to class or ate at the campus student center. Here, an image of me laughing with a classmate as we entered our Criminal Justice lecture hall. There, a photo of me sitting under a tree on the quad, munching an apple as I studied for Media Law.

There were close-ups of my face, multiple shots taken from every angle and in every light. His lens had captured each emotion – happiness, joy, sadness, grief, frustration, doubt, anxiety, fear. He’d gotten photos of expressions I hadn’t even known my face could make.

None of those were as scary as the ones that had been taken from inside this very apartment. I wasn’t sure how he’d gotten in without Lexi or me ever taking notice, but there they were – unquestionable proof that he not only had access to our living space, he’d made himself fully at home.

There were shots of me cooking, singing along to the radio as I stirred pasta or checked the oven. There were images of Lexi and I taking shots of tequila. Laughing as we put on makeup and got ready for to head out for the night. Hugging tightly, with matching smiles on our faces.

They only got worse, the more I looked.

Hundreds of shots of me naked, as I changed clothes in my bedroom. More images than I wanted to count depicting me in the shower, fully exposed and vulnerable.

I had been the unknowing and unwilling subject of every image captured by his camera lens.

The most terrifying photos were the ones of Finn and me. In each of those, Finn’s face had been harshly scratched over with sharpie or cut out with scissors. Several of them showed his face with a huge gun-sight target drawn over his face.

In a daze, I pushed the hanging photographs out of my way as I walked over to the bed, my feet sliding as they searched for traction on the slippery photos covering the floor. There was a box sitting on top of my comforter amidst a pile of images, wrapped in shiny black paper. The lid was fixed with a matte black bow; I tugged on it lightly and it tumbled loose with ease.

I reached out to lift the lid of the box, bracing myself with the knowledge that whatever was inside was probably even more horrifying than the Brooklyn-collage on my walls.

I held my breath as I flipped back the lid, eyes scanning the contents disbelievingly.

He’d planned this carefully, no doubt wanting it to have maximum impact on my emotions. To simultaneously terrify me and confirm that all my suspicions had been correct.

He succeeded.

The box was full to the brim with black rose petals. Resting atop the sea of macabre flowers, there was a note. It had been written in formal calligraphy, the flowing black lettering beautiful in an archaic, timeless sort of way. It had been scribed on a piece of thick off-white cardstock, the kind used by the wealthy in the days of old when they’d send out handwritten invitations to their balls and galas.

It felt heavy in my hand as I lifted it from the box and read the slanting message.

A gift for you, since I ruined your last one.

Beneath the note and the petals, there was a beautiful dress folded inside the box. I recognized it’s green bodice and elegant beading immediately; this wasn’t any dress, it was The Dress. An exact replica of the one I’d worn the night I was attacked outside Styx – newly purchased and, terrifyingly, the correct size.

I glanced back at the note; it was signed in the bottom right corner with only two initials:

E.S.

And then I knew.

There it was, in black and white. Undeniable.

He’d come back for me.

I turned to face the door, to find my phone, to do something, anything, to stop what was about to happen. But I knew, even as I spun and caught sight of him in the doorway – his face, the face of my nightmares, unchanged by time or years behind bars – that it was far too late for that.

The table was set, first course had been served.

Somehow, I didn’t think I’d make it to dessert.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 513