Page 50 of Selfie
“Or honest men. It’s not my happiness that puts you off, Nate. It’s that you were robbed of yours.” He exhales a heavy sigh. “Sorry, forget it. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
I rub my cheek, feeling the short stubble I need to shave. “You know what? It’s fine. It happened three years ago. I should be able to talk about it.”
“You sure?” Finn’s tone is rightfully skeptical. I’ve been known to ignore all texts that ask, “Are you okay?” or, “How are you feeling?” or even, “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yeah.”
“So, how’ve you been?”
“I was doing all right. But lately shit’s been stirring up.” I omit telling him about my almost-kiss with Spencer at his wife’s birthday party. It feels unfair to admit it to him, when I still won’t admit it to Spencer. But after assailing me today with that rat-pig, I’m not sure I ever will. I didn’t touch it, but I swear I can still feel it on me. “Peter got out of prison.”
Finn’s expression flattens. “You’re fucking kidding me. After what he did?”
“Overcrowding. And Elise isn’t here to contest it.”
“Jesus,” Finn breathes out. “Where’s he staying?”
“With his mom and Claire. Supposedly he’s clean now, but we have eyes on him just in case. If he hurts Claire, I’ll…” I don’t know how to finish that sentence out loud in public, because the end of my thought is,I’ll go to prison for the rest of my life for murder.
Finn shakes his head, disgust painting his face, and I’m reminded of why I should’ve kept in touch with my friends. It’s comforting to know Finn gets it. I don’t have to explain that I’m fucking angry, scared, hurt, and out of sorts. He was there through the worst of it. He understands.
“Have you seen Claire at all?”
“Not since the day they took her,” I admit softly.
I still hear Claire’s bloodcurdling cries. I feel the sting on my knuckles. Powerless to fight it off any longer, I hang my head as the painful memory consumes me.
Three Years Prior
“Shh, shh,” I coo, rubbing the enswell gently under Claire’s eyes,alternating after each stroke. “I know, I know.”
The iron tool is used for boxers between rounds to calm the swelling in their face. Claire’s been crying so hard for nearly twenty-four hours straight. There are pock marks around her eyes where tiny blood vessels burst, blending in with her red freckles. Her eyes are nearly swollen shut.
Claire collapses against my chest, her tears dampening my shirt. Her mental breakdown is the only thing holding me steady. I need her to need me so I can focus on something other than the pain. Once I’m alone with nothing to do, I’ll fall apart to pieces.
“Maybe it wasn’t Mommy,” Claire whimpers. She pushes off of me, and desperately finds my gaze. “Did you check?”
I didn’t know a nine-year-old would go through the stages of grief just like an adult. I almost don’t want to pull her from denial. At least in denial, there’s hope.
“I saw her, honey. It was Mommy.” My voice cracks as the image of Elise, so still and cold as ice. Her bright red hair in contrast made all the blood look dark as mud. They swore they called me mere moments after the cars collided, but she was gone on impact. I never got to say goodbye. Twenty-four hours later, I still don’t remember the last thing I said to her. All I can vividly think of are the things I should’ve said, but didn’t. And never will. “We lost Mommy.”
Claire throws herself back into me. I swivel the locket I’m wearing around to my back, the golden chain now wrapped around my neck like a noose. I never take it off, but right now I don’t want the hard metal to bore into her head as she rests her head against my chest.
I try not to show her how much I’m hurting because it sets her off ten times worse. Before I know it, she’s back to dry heaves as if she’s run out of tears and can only shake and convulse in my arms.
“Shh, we’re going to be okay. I’m here.” I kiss the top of her head, my tears now flowing into her hair. “I love you.”
She does her best to say it back, but the words are broken and distorted through her fits of sobs. We hold each other tightly for minutes, hours, all day…hell if I fucking know. Time passes eerily slowly after the death of a loved one. Everything goes by in slow motion as you drift and float, waiting for something worth grasping on to, to bring you back to reality.
Pound, pound, pound.
It’s only when there’s an aggressive knock at the door I realize Claire and I must’ve dozed off. I lay her backward on the couch. I’m careful not to jostle her too much, but she’s so exhausted, now that she’s asleep, I know it’s a deep sleep. And the asshole at the door who almost disturbed her slumber is about to face my wrath.
Who the fuck even made it past the security gate? Dad’s been calling. I asked him to give me a day or two to get Claire settled. Maybe he couldn’t stay away.
“What?” I bark as I pull the door open.
Dread seeps into my pores, not when I see the uniformed officer on my doorstep, but the vile woman trying to hide behind him.
