I’d come here wanting answers.But the fact that he doesn’t even know who I am?Yeah, that changes things.
Unable to cope with this fresh wave of rejection, I push off the counter, fill the sink with cold water, and splash it on my face.I take out my makeup remover and get to work.I scrub the make-up off a little too aggressively, then strip and toss my clothes into the corner.I crank on the hot water in the shower and step inside, hoping it’s hot enough to melt these ridiculous, weak feelings from my skin.
Later, after I’ve picked at the pasta that room service delivered, I consider the subtle differences between the old Finn and the biker he’s become.The prominent scar on his temple cutting into his hairline.The slight crookedness of his nose, broken at some point.The way his dark-blue eyes carry a haunted look, shadows of trials I know nothing about.
There’s a wealth of new ink, winding over thick biceps, down his forearms, traveling onto his hands.Hands that once moved over my body like a sculpture he’d brought to life.
He was still the same man, but somehow completely changed.More serious.His voice deeper, and his words more censored, like he thinks carefully about them before he utters them.
I eventually crawl beneath the covers, switch on the bedside lamp, and grab the magazine I’d left on the table.I continue the article about forgiveness.The gist of it being, if we seek absolution and learn from our mistakes, then we’re worthy of forgiveness and should grant it to ourselves even if other people refuse to grant it in return.
I know I shouldn’t, but I try to foresee a day when I’ll learn Finn’s truths and tell him mine.
Could I ever forgive him for the way he left me?
The man doesn’t even know who the fuck you are.
I toss the magazine across the floor in a huff. Reaching up, I flick off the lamp.
He’s a job, nothing more.
“Fuck him.”
My fingers dig desperately into the damp, gritty soil.Nails break as I claw at the unyielding earth.My voice cracks as the scream rips from me.It’s followed by hoarse sobs interspersed with hiccupping gasps.All are audible in the cold, eerie stillness of this grey, dreary dawn.He can’t be dead.I won’t allow it.
Shadows lengthen, stretching toward the unmarked grave in front of me, as if trying to pull him down even further.
“No!”I keep clawing with frantic hands, dirt caking my skin as I try to reach him because I can’t let him go.
The very earth begins to shake, as if I’m willing it to give him back.
My eyes pry themselves open as I register the vibrations, not of the earth quaking beneath my hands and knees, but of the phone buzzing on the nightstand.
I’m drenched in sweat, chest heaving, hands clutching the sheets.They ache with stiffness as I open them and draw them up to cover the burning sensation in my chest.I struggle to swallow the tightness in my throat, forcing my mind to catch up with reality.
It was just a dream.Just another fucked-up dream.
The screen from my phone casts a ghostly glow from where it rests on the nightstand, buzzing in steady pulses.I flip it over.Deeds’s name is split down the middle by a crack on the screen.I close my eyes for a moment and forcibly pull myself together.After three deep, cleansing breaths, I answer, bracing for the difficult conversation ahead.
“Hey.”My voice is ragged and hollow, tinged with remnants of the nightmare.
Heavy rock music thumps in the background on his end, bass rattling through the speaker like a pulse.His voice cuts through, low and clear.“Hey, baby.How did it go?”There’s a scrape and a heavy thud, the sound of a door slamming, making the song a steady hum in the background.
I picture Deeds sitting in his room at the clubhouse, sprawled out on the old black suede couch—the leather worn to gray patches—boots kicked up on the coffee table, waiting to hear my answer.
I plop back into my pillow and stare up at the ceiling, wishing it would open up and swallow me whole. “Not well.”
“What happened?”
I push my hair out of my face, exhaling a deep breath as I let the words fall.“He didn’t recognize me.”
Silence stretches between us, tense and heavy.“Come again?”
“He looked me straight in the eye and asked me if we’d met before.Like I looked familiar, but he couldn’t place me.”My stomach is a void filled with snakes; it writhes, as this truth gnaws at me.
“Bullshit.”Deeds’s voice is sharp, clipped.
A bitter laugh escapes me, rough and raw.“It’s true.”
