“No, Jessie. There is still no luck,” I seethe, pacing up and down the combined length of the living room and dining room. “Do you know what, Jess…the next time you think it’s a good fucking idea to build my hope back up again, to save me from the dark, eerie places of my psyche, in an attempt to prevent me from going back out there and fucking whatever walks, please, just remember this very moment, yeah?” I point towards the apartment door, yelling louder than I ever have at Jessie.
Together, the disappointment, frustration and regret are discharged from every pore of my body. Do I blame Jessie? Actually…yes, fucking damn right I can post a certain amount of blame on her. She practically pushed us together.
She raises her hands, palms facing me in defeat. “Hey, Sammy, hold on a minute. Calm down.”
“No, fuck you and your calming down techniques and strategies, Jess. I blame you and your single person interventions, you and your faith in every fucking person on the planet. Just because you have faith and trust in people Jessie, doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to push that upon others, because do you know what? You think my way of coping is a curse––” my fingertip touches my chest, before I point it back at her scornfully, “no, your fucking way is the Goddamn curse,” I fume before fisting my hands into the roots of my hair, pulling in exasperation. I try to focus on the uncomforting strain of my actions other than my emotional hurt and fury.
“Sammy,” she whispers, her voice utterly broken. “I…I…” I glare at her, a lone tear trickling its way down the side of her contrite exterior. I can’t remember the last time Jessie cried. I don’t think I have ever been the reason to make Jessie cry.
“Not again. I cannot do this again.” I shake my head searching for an answer, a hope that something or someone will just stop this moment and salvage it, fix it and make it all better. Tears stream down my face, tears of anger, of sadness, grief…remorse––a waterfall from the deep, emotional, anguish sea that I am now lost sailing in, begging to be rescued.
I turn on my heel and briskly make my way to the solace of my bedroom. I stop at the threshold of the hallway and turn to face Jessie, who is immobilized in the center of the living room and watching me studiously.
Feeling totally lost, I mutter in defeat, “This…was what I was trying to avoid,” before retiring to my room.
I stagger through my room and flop onto my bed. I curl up, making myself insignificant, shrinking myself and my pain. The pain of being let down, left alone when you believed everything was going so right, but you were so wrong.
I lie in fetal position, and pull the lilac throw up over me from the foot of the bed, wrapping it around my aching body as I wail in desperation for the one person who has made me react this way. Wanting Hayden’s arms snaked around my waist, pulling me into the taut, warm muscle of his torso, and to feel the rapid beat of his heart against my back as I sink into the safety of his warm embrace.
I cry so much my eyes burn, my chest aches, my lungs throb, and my heart…my heart wants to give up. Why love anything in life, when you only end up losing it?
For the first time in five years, I cry myself to sleep over a man who has broken my heart…and my trust.
“Sammy…Sammy…” I am awoken by the gentle whisper of my name.
“Hayden?”
“No, sorry, it’s just me. I brought you some coffee,” she murmurs and the unease in her tone doesn’t go unnoticed. She sets my cup down on the bedside, before perching herself on the edge of the mattress.
I push myself up and wipe my face. I must have been out cold for hours; it’s dark outside. Checking the clock beside me, I see it is 6:45 p.m.
“Hayden…has he called?”
Jessie shakes her head mercifully and pained. “No, I’m sorry, Sammy.”
I nod my head grateful for her decency to tell me the truth. Reaching over, I sip at the warm, pleasant bitter taste of my coffee. I have got to pull myself together.
I have
got to pull myself together
.
“Okay, that’s it, no more moping around for, Samantha Kennedy.” Pushing myself up from the comfortable, springiness of my bed, I head for a revitalizing shower, to let the cocktail of emotions I have bared the brunt of for nearly twenty-four hours to swirl away down the drain; out of sight…out of mind.
The shower has definitely improved my mood. Now, I need to look good, to feel it. I dry my hair quickly with my fingers, allowing the thick locks to tumble down my spine in a shaggy, just-fucked sort of way, which emphasizes my layers. My eyes are smoky, with dark kohl and thickly coated with mascara, a bit of lip gloss, and I’m already feeling back to my old self. I slip on my mini red and black tartan skirt, which sits to my mid-thigh, a black strappy tight-fitted top that crosses diagonally along my breasts, boosting my cleavage and not really leaving much to the imagination. Pulling on my black fuck-me-boots with a silver, mirrored heel, I stare at myself in the mirror.
Would I fuck me…? Hmm, feeling very much my old self and very much desirable, I quickly take hold of my tiny black purse out of the bottom draw of my white dressing-table, and push the lilac, cushioned stool in the opening underneath it.
Jessie notices me at once as I emerge from the corridor, her face falling in shock-horror as she makes her way towards me.
“No, Sammy…please, you can’t do this,” she pleads, while regarding me with palpable distaste.
Throwing my keys in the little purse and slipping open the side zipper to check I have condoms, I mutter, “Jessie, I don’t want to hear any more of your, ‘do the right thing, you are worth so much more’ speech from now on.” I peer up at her wounded, begging expression, her eyes intense, her brow furrowed as she recognizes that she’s losing the battle.
How can you make a valid point to someone who has given up caring?
“Now if you will excuse me, don’t wait up.” I glide to the front door, my heels clicking hollowly on the flooring.
“I refuse to believe that this is all you’re destined for, Sammy. My God, what are you doing?” her voice cracks and splinters.
With my left hand grasping the doorknob, my right hand upon the cool wood, I rest my forehead against the door. Screwing my eyes closed, I exhale heavily.
What am I doing?
Looking back, I recall all of the feelings I have experienced: Hayden’s embrace, his tender kisses, the way he would call me ‘beautiful’, his deep, shinning eyes, his scent…his voice. His deceit and then the unwelcomed image of this Cassandra-woman with her hands all over him and fisting them in his hair, which is only meant for me, bears heavily on my mind and heart.
What am I doing?
With my eyes still screwed shut, I halt a new flow of shameful, burdening tears and the shadowing dread of the familiar response that is about to pass my lips.
“I’m coping,” I murmur wistful, before I pull open the door and leave the apartment, along with my new found morals.
HAYDEN
I toss, turn and sigh regularly as I watch the red digital numbers of my alarm clock change with every passing minute, overthrown with tension and unease as I remember the discomfort that Samantha radiated at dinner. The mere thought of such things weighed in her mind, but the inability for her to discuss them––with me, of all people––provokes a pang of disappointment that pierces through the hopefulness of a relationship that harbors no secrets…well, to a certain extent anyhow.
I roll my head across the pillow and risk another peek back at the clock on my right bedside unit, 3:02 a.m. Every passing second feels like a minute, every minute an hour, every hour an eternity.
Dammit, I admonish my mocking unconsciousness for not claiming me sooner, and have me burdened by dreary slowness of the passing time. Kicking the comforter aside, I hoist myself out of the bed, wrap my black dressing gown around my body, and pad down the hall into the living room.
Stepping up onto the podium at my window, I gaze down over the bay, the streetlights illuminating the ground a warm orange, the handful of boats moored in the bay, the twinkling lights on the opposite side of the calm, dividing water. The tranquil view to which, has never failed to soothe me, but at this precise moment, it lacks the usual calming effect that I desire. There is only one person who could bring me the solace that I crave. I have always felt completely at ease when we were near. It’s been so long.
I pour myself two-fingers worth of Southern Comfort and flop into the black leather chair at the corner of the window. Propping my feet upon the matching footrest, crossing them at the ankles, I continue to gaze out of my thirty-eighth floor window. The gentle pattering of raindrops collide and split against the glass before sliding down the surface leaving veiny streaks as they make their descent. It’s entrancing...comforting.
I swirl the amber liquid around the crystal patterned tumbler, before sipping at the synthetic consolation that is merely offered and residing in my grasp.
My body soon begins to relax and I feel the effects of the alcohol warming and clouding my mind. My body defers to the tingling sensations that radiate. The racing, revolving contemplations which have feasted upon me all night, now begin to find their way into slumber.
I place the tumbler on the hardwood floor to the right of my chair. Overlapping my arms across my chest, I continue to listening to the rain gently pitter-pattering against the glass, the orange glow from the streetlights streaming its way through the dusting, cascading droplets.
Deliberating about the events of tomorrow, I feel the pull of unconscious while I start to drift. Flowers, I must remember to get flowers––lilies––they were a favorite, is the last thought I can remember before sleep claims me.
The glare of the sun chars through the window and blazes into my eyes, blinding me even when sight is absent. I screw my eyelids even tighter still; willing my mind to go back to sleep, but it is of no use, I am dragged away kicking and screaming from a vivid, yet comforting dream, filled with picturesque scenery, familiar faces, comforting arms which so long ago embrace me, reassured me, and pure unconditional love. I feel guarded and at ease as I recollect and sift through the remnants of my dream.
Through the hazy disorientation and exhaustion, I peer up at the wall clock. I silently curse the extent of my timekeeping. Dammit, two hours to get showered, dressed and in Oakland before noon. Pulling my legs off the footrest in front of me, I heave myself out of the chair to stretch out my aching body, and my cramping muscles roar and sag with relief as the constriction is alleviated.
That is the last time I fall asleep anywhere other than
a bed again
.
With my damp hair combed back, knowing it will fall into place naturally as it dries, I stare at the silver cross on its chain, dangling from the corner of my mirror above the dresser as I begin to fasten my white shirt. Tucking the shirttails into my charcoal suit pants, with the remaining two top buttons untouched and exposing the V of my chest, I retrieve the chain. The metal is cold as I cling to it like a child with a comfort blanket.
‘This is something to remember me by, Hayden; think of me when you wear it’.
The voice echoes in my mind, one of love and familiarity. Warmth pervades my body. Kissing my whitening knuckles, I secure it around my neck and tuck it inside my shirt––so it is close to my heart––and continue with what remainders need to be completed.
The traffic to Oakland is surprisingly light considering it’s a Saturday. I pull into the parking lot and glance at the array of red and copper leaves hanging delicately from the trees that outlining the perimeter, waiting for the soft, fall breeze to sweep and snap them from their branches and send them on their awaiting journey. I inhale deeply, preparing myself for the looming haywire of emotions. Everybody told me that it would get easier,
‘you will learn to deal with it’
they would say, but even after eleven months, I haven’t, and I can’t. I don’t think I ever will.
Turning off the ignition, I hang my head and watch my hands resting on my thighs. All this is my fault, we wouldn’t be here today, if I didn’t…
Twin tears begin their decent. I hastily brush them away as they roll down each cheek and scold myself for not being stronger––for not being a man––and displaying weakness at such emotion. I reach to the passenger seat and collect the arrangement of white lilies when I see the familiar figure appear at the entranceway, blanketed by the shade of the towering burnished-red leaved, oak tree.
God, she hasn’t changed. With her trademark navy high-waist, pencil skirt, and a black camisole screened by a transparent black blouse which is tucked in tightly to emphasize her narrow waist and a pair of black court-shoes, she looks both professional and attractive. Her dark blond hair is pulled back and secured in a bun. Does this woman ever age?
I unfold myself from the car, and meander along the rock-strewn ground of the parking lot.
“Hello, Cassandra.”
“Oh, Hayden,” she murmurs with discernable contentment. Encircling her arms around me, I mirror her welcome. “Thank you for coming, I hope this didn’t interrupt your daily plans.”
I pull away from her warm embrace. “This is more important,” I smile sadly. “How is she?”
Cassandra sighs. Looking over her shoulder to a mound in the distance, a small figure disguised in black kneels on the lawn.
“She’s coping as well as can be expected,” she hums melancholic, and her face is deeply laden with sadness.
“Thank you, Cassandra.”
“There is no need for appreciations, Hayden––”
“Yes, there is, Cassandra. Without you…” I glance back up at the figure kneeling on the lawn, pensively flailing my head, “she would never have made it this far. I haven’t been the best son in the world since…since…” my breathing catches. I fight to release the rest of the sentence from my mouth, but the lump in my throat and the grief-stricken, stomach contorting sensation overpowers my ability to form the words I wish to speak.
“Hayden,” Cassandra positions her hands beneath my shoulders and pins me with her sapphire blue eyes. “You have had an obscene amount to cope with: taking over the firm, the breakdown of your relationship, the psychological result of the stress of both those matters combined. I have been with your family for a very, very long time, Hayden. I have watched you grow into a handsome, talented, successful man. I think of you Wentworth’s as my family. And thanking family is not necessary. Okay.” She rubs her compassionate, warming hands up and down my upper arms. They remain locked there until I concede, only then does she allows her hands to drop away.