I Hear...Love (A Different Road #2) (7 page)

“For here or to go?” the cashier asks.

“For here,” I answer, letting it go that Kate didn’t let me pay for her lunch.

I thought this was a thank you for watching Sadie. Or maybe, she’s opening the door to another date opportunity. Dinner perhaps?

“Look, a table just opened up by the window. Did you want to go grab it?” Kate asks. “I’ll grab your lunch for you,” she finishes.

“Sure,” I reply.

I get the only available table in the restaurant and wait for Kate. A few minutes later she comes over carrying a tray and sets it on the table in front of me. She removes a white paper bag from the tray, but doesn’t have a seat.

She’s not staying?

“Did something come up?” I ask.

Maybe she got called back into the office while she was waiting for our food or something.

“You asked about the tattoo on my wrist and the scar on my face,” she starts.

“Can we sit down and talk about this?” I ask, trying to get her to stay.

She doesn’t sit, so I stand up, look her straight in the eyes and read that all familiar nervousness again.

“I’m going to lay this all out in the open. Full disclosure. That’s best anyway, right?” she starts, then takes a deep breath. “I’ve been out of rehab for six months now,” she continues.

“Rehab?” I question with concern.

Like drugs or alcohol? I wonder.

“The tattoo. I told you it was to remind me that I am the author of my life and that it isn’t over yet. A little over a year ago . . . gosh, this is hard to say out loud. I tried to commit suicide by downing a bottle of prescription-strength pain meds that didn’t even belong to me. Since I was a little girl, I’ve struggled with a lot of crap that life seems to throw at me on a consistent basis. I won’t get into it because, honestly, I don’t think that it will matter. But, I think you should know up front that currently I’m in weekly mandatory therapy. I also have monthly mandatory home inspections to check for drugs and paraphernalia that I might use to kill myself. I’m on a strict diet and exercise program. I mostly can’t function without music plugged into my ears, and I struggle on a daily basis to keep myself in check. And when I say keeping myself in check, I mean resisting the mostly always there urges to commit suicide. I mean, I’m not in that frame of mind, but I live day-to-day hoping I never go there again . . . but anyway. I live with River because he basically has legal control over every move I make. I think that it’s only fair that you know the whole truth before you invest your time on someone . . . in someone who’s broken,” she says, grabs the white paper bag off the table, then leaves the restaurant.

I watch in stunned silence as she leaves the restaurant. A woman who looks like Kate is the last person I’d think would have suicidal feelings. I turn my attention back to my meal sitting on the table and notice there isn’t a sound in the restaurant. All eyes are on me. I sink into my seat, then realize that I just let her walk out of the restaurant without trying to stop her. Then I realize that suicide has no face. Thinking that someone like Kate wouldn’t be affected by something like suicide is naïve thinking.

I listened to all she had to say and the only thing I can think about is the fact that she thinks she’s broken. None of the other things she said matter to me. Sure, I’m concerned about the suicide part and the fact that she still needs to be monitored for it, because that means she thinks she’s not worthy of the life, the gift, that she’s been given. But, what I first thought was nervousness becomes clear now. She’s so unsure where she belongs in her life that she’s lost sight of the beauty of herself as a person. I see hope and purpose in her, and I see the beauty of life that surrounds her. I now get the attraction Sadie has for her. I don’t just see broken . . . she’s beautifully broken into a million pieces. Those pieces are scattered all around her, and she just can’t see their beauty through what life has thrown at her. I find myself wanting to show her just how beautiful each and every piece of her is, and help her put them back together.

I don’t know what I was expecting when I blurted all of my life’s crap out of my mouth, like word vomit, at Cooper. I quickly walk back to Mason Group and throw my favorite vegetarian sandwich in the trash can once inside the women’s bathroom. I lock myself in a stall for the rest of my lunch break with my headphones pressed tightly over my ears. I can’t listen to the crap my brain is saying about what I just did.

I avoid River the rest of the day, because he has this annoying sixth sense and can detect even the slightest of my mood changes. He also has an extremely close bond with Josh, his personal assistant, and I know for a fact that Josh does hourly visual checks on me and reports back to River. It’s completely irritating, but on a weird level, it helps me keep my emotions in check at work. I’m trying really hard not to screw things up at work, but I feel like everyone is always watching me just waiting for me to crack and do something stupid again. Josh’s visits can be calculated almost down to the second. So I make a point of needing water or to make a copy right before I know he’s about to come out of River’s office, just to avoid him.

Josh wears many hats and he’s also River’s personal chauffeur. I don’t think he’d admit it, but I wholeheartedly think he’s also River’s best friend. River is a tough nut to crack, and he has a very tight inner circle.

The car ride home is quiet and I know River suspects something is up. Every couple of minutes his face turns to the side, and I know it’s so he can listen to me sitting in my seat. Like me quietly
sitting
will reveal some deep, dark, hidden secret. Plus, I don’t usually go out for lunch. Josh orders in and River, Josh, and I usually eat lunch in River’s office when he’s in. Even when he’s out of the office for a lunch meeting, River always makes sure to have my lunch brought to me and insists I eat it in his office. I’m not sure if it’s because it’s unprofessional to eat at the receptionist desk, which I know, we have a very nice employee break room, or if maybe he has cameras in his office and he has Josh watch me. And now I think I’m slightly paranoid, and I really need to stop thinking about it. River wouldn’t invade my privacy like that. Well, he does invade my privacy to a point, but I’m sure not by spying on me at work. I know for a fact that River has Josh invite Stephen to eat lunch with us, which sadly, he always declines. He says he’s too busy, but I wonder if he’d come if I asked him myself. I’ve been working so hard on healing so many things in my life, and Stephen is on that list.

The second we get home from work, I tell everyone that I’m going to eat dinner by myself tonight and I go straight to the pool house. As I pass River, I see the irritated, worried look on his face. At some point, people are going to have to start trusting that when I want to be by myself, it doesn’t mean that I’m going straight to the knife block for the sharpest chef knife I can find. I do hear from reliable sources that people who have never been suicidal also like to be by themselves sometimes, on occasion. River just needs to get over it.

I make myself a protein shake, grab a blanket from the back of the couch, flip my shoes off, and head down to the beach. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and stare out into the horizon.

I have so many good things going on in my life. I have my family. No matter how small it is, it’s still mine and I love them all. I have a job in a company that I own a third of and it holds endless potential for me. I think I have a really good friendship starting with Maddy. After dinner on Sunday, we talked for hours. We exchanged numbers, and we’ve been texting back and forth like I assume most normal girlfriends do. While I was hiding in the bathroom stall, I texted her and told her what happened. She helped me keep my mind busy until my lunch hour was over.

I’m in a really good place with myself, too. Will I ever be able to include a man in the picture? I find it so hard to believe that someone can fall in love with me and my broken past. With someone who lives day-to-day, sometimes hour-by-hour, fighting to stay on the right side of sane. I say that my past is broken, but truthfully, I don’t think I can ever escape it. If I’m honest with myself, and I think I am, I’ll never be rid of the thoughts to end my own life.

I remember when I was a little girl, on the weekends when I’d wake up early, I’d get out of bed and tiptoe down the hallway to my parents’ room. I’d walk over to my dad’s side of the bed. He’d pretend to still be sleeping and I’d just stare at him with my hand over my mouth, trying not to giggle. It never failed. I always giggled that cute little girl giggle. Slowly, one of his eyes would open and it would make me giggle louder, and then his other eye would open and I’d explode in a fit of giggles. I still remember the huge smile he’d get on his face. He’d pick me up and place me between him and my mom, and the three of us would just be silly until my brothers got up. I remember thinking in that moment, that right there was what I wanted when I grew up. I wanted to be happily married like my parents with a giggling, happy daughter of my own. I wanted to lay in bed on a Saturday morning and play the Itsy Bitsy Spider with her. At night, I wanted to look up at the stars with her and say, I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish, I wish tonight and watch her eyes sparkle. Now, I’m pretty sure none of that will ever happen. I look at myself and all I see are a million jagged, broken pieces. There are just too many, some so small, they can never be put back together again.

“This is one of your favorite places to be, isn’t it?” a voice asks, scaring me out of my thoughts.

I grab my long hair that’s blowing crazy in the wind, and hold it to the side as I look to my left and see Cooper standing next to me. He’s by himself and his hands are tucked into his front pockets. The evening breeze ruffles through his hair and presses his cotton t-shirt tight against his chest. His face looks peaceful and kind with a gentle smile.

“I . . . uh . . . didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,” I admit in a low voice, looking down at my feet.

“Well, you explained the meaning of the tattoo, but you left out the part about the scar and it was killing me, I just have to know. Shit, sorry, poor choice of words,” he says, realizing he made a remark about killing himself.

And that’s another thing I hate. Everyone walks on eggshells around me. I get it. I do. But seriously, people around me can’t always be thinking twice about every word that comes out of their mouth. Just because you make a joke doesn’t mean I take it seriously.

“So, the scar?” he asks, removing one hand from his pocket.

He takes a piece of flyaway hair and tucks it behind my ear, then brushes his finger over the scar like he did at the restaurant. Since the accident, the scar tissue hasn’t had any feeling, but as he traces the scar with his finger, it comes alive and chills race down my face.

I’m pretty sure he had to get his suit dry cleaned after my last word vomit session. I’m not sure how much I should share.

“It’s from a car accident I was in when I was five years old,” I tell him, choosing my words carefully.

“I was in a car accident when I was in the sixth grade. I was spending the weekend with my grandma, and she took me out for ice cream. Michigan winters can be a bitch, and she slid on some slick pavement and rear-ended this young couple that had just gotten married. Literally, they had just left the courthouse not ten minutes earlier. What a way to start off your marriage,” he says. “It turns out my grandmother knew them from . . .”