I wash and rinse hurriedly but efficiently, allowing my recollections of passion, desire and hungering that I shared with Samantha in this compartment to swirl down the drain, before stepping free.
With the dustpan and brush in my hands, I rear up from my squatted position and observe the area. Everything is back in its rightful place, shards of glass are disposed of, and the scent of orange rind and blossoms now eradicates the spiced-aroma scent of whiskey that once lay splattered and pooled on my floor. As I empty the content of the pan into the garbage, hearing the clatter of broken glass as it falls away, I find myself hoping that the superstition about broken mirrors is complete drivel. I don’t know how much more bad luck I can withstand.
The sun is bright and high in the powder-blue sky. The towering buildings offer little shade. The sidewalk is bustling and the tram speeds by with a man clutching at the entrance support, as I stroll down Jackson Street. Under strict order from Victor, my DB9 is to stay in the lot at work, until I have cleared my head and remove myself and any tainted future intentions, from the last few days of self-destruction.
I cling on hopeful to his words, repeating them as my mantra:
can you accept, and overcome the fear of any future hurt, to be happy?
I wish that were possible, I have no idea how to even begin that journey, let alone travel it.
Do you want to be happy, Hayden?
My subconscious peers over his specs, bouncing his upper crossed-leg mechanically. Of course I want to be happy, name me a solitary person who travels through their life not coveting happiness.
What is the problem then?
I sigh and flail my head.
The problem is: I don’t know how to be happy.
Being blissfully content with someone isn’t always easy sailing. I nearly obliterated the connection Samantha and I shared on numerous occasions, regardless of whether it is from nightmares, jealousy, or focusing on the past instead of the present and the future. Every miniscule of detail and affairs accumulates. It’s a weighty burden to bear, especially when you’re constantly reminding your significant other––who made radical lifestyle changes to be the final missing piece of your life––of the deplorable acts she performed before you even knew her.
When you feel like giving up, you have to remember why you held on for so long in the first place.
She gave me hope. She gave me her love, her understanding when I told her about Addison, and the ill-mannered ways in which she treated me. She didn’t laugh when I poured my heart and soul out to her in the coffee shop that night and spoke of the malice and degradation that highlighted Addison sexual acts upon me. If anything, Samantha has continually reassured me, and she rarely mentions Addison at all.
The words from our first date replay in my mind,
you are too much of a nice guy for me to tangle you up in the fuck-up web that is my life. I can’t hurt you like that…and I will not hurt you like that.
She wanted to protect me from this, from these feelings, these apprehensions. Somewhere along the line, she knew this would happen, yet I didn’t care. I disregarded her foresight because I wanted
her
.
That’s it.
And it is as though the sun is rising for the first times after months of darkness.
I have wanted her since day one; I wanted her when she told me that there would never be any chance for us. Irrespective of her past, the actuality is, she isn’t that person anymore. Could I come to accept her former ways? No, I don’t think I could because if I accept her ways…then a part of my mind would be accepting Addison’s ways, and accepting gives way to understanding and validation that the corresponding behavior that was shared between them and their attitude to me when they were unfaithful was acceptable. But could I disregard those images, see passed the acts, and see her for the faithful person she is now?
I stop abruptly on the sidewalk. As a result of my sudden halt, a person accidentally bumps into me from behind. He rounds me with a disapproving click of his tongue.
With my shoulders relieved of the weight of the world, a Cheshire cat grin imprinted on my face and my insides brimming with optimism, I step inside the store I have halted at, ready to procure the first jigsaw piece as a sentient of the future.
“Oh, Hayden, how are you?” Mom gushes down the handset as I lean against the back worktop of my kitchen.
“I have been better, but––”
“That sounds ominous, Hayden. What has happened?” she interjects, concern lay thick and heavy in her voice. The very last thing my mother needs is my impediments to bear.
“It’s okay. Please, don’t worry, Mom. I’m rectifying it.” Taking a step forward, I raise my shoulder and incline my head, effectively balancing the receiver, and delve into the white and gold bag on the kitchen island.
“Okay. How are Samantha and the baby?”
I free the flat, pink box from the bag and lift the lid. Unfolding the white tissue paper, I gaze adoringly at the tiny pink bodysuit that is nestled inside.
‘Daddy’s little’
and a full blossoming velvet red rose printed beneath the lettering.
“We have decided to call her, Rose. And yes, they are both fine.” I smile in awe as I imagine the vest on our tiny, red-haired daughter. I refold the paper, and place the lid back.
“Rose Wentworth, a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. You have no idea how overjoyed I am, Hayden. To meet my granddaughter before it’s my time to leave this world…” she sniffles and I know she’s considering how my dad has missed the opportunity.
“Mom, please. Don’t cry. Dad will be watching over us. He’ll see her grow.”
She inhales loudly and regains her composure, her voice fractionally suppressed. “Yes, you are right. I’m sorry, my son. I’m just very emotional today. Please, ignore me.”
And in a feeble attempt to lighten her mood, I tell her about the vest, and my contemplations of turning my home office into a nursery.
The cab driver pulls up against the sidewalk on the opposite side of Fillmore Point Center Apartments. The electric blue, florescent light at the summit of the high-rise building appears more vibrant than usual. But then again, maybe now I hold a clearer understanding of how significant things become when you never imagined you would set eyes upon them again.
I tip the driver considerably, since he remained quiet throughout the entire journey, allowing me much needed time to concentrate greatly on exactly what I want to say to Samantha. I only have one shot at this. I have messed things up enough, I can’t risk messing this up, too.
“Enjoy your evening, sir.”
“I’ll try, thank you,” I smile as the curly-haired driver glances back at me over his leather-clad shoulder. I slam the door behind me a little harsher than intended as I exit the cab.
Shifting anxiously, I direct my focus on the digital numbers overhead, watching each red line change and connect, as the elevator climbs steadily to the fifteenth floor. Beating my fingers erratically against my black denim-clad thighs, I endeavor to quell my nerves and recover my equilibrium. My heart is pounding, and even though my breathing is shallow, I am unable to gain a decent lungful of air.
The elevator bounces as it ends its scaling. The familiar ping soon follows and the door swiftly parts, revealing Samantha’s apartment directly in front of me. I idly remember the first time I came here. Samantha was out so I had to talk with Jessie. I snort in disbelief. Look how far we have come.
But yet you have managed to return back at the very first hurdle. It appears that this so-called, relationship is not destined to move forward. It is you, Hayden. You are the problem, remove yourself, be alone, you are better off that way, you cause no pain that way.
He taunts me, his mouth thin, dark and smirking wickedly. I concentrate profusely on the scrawny entity, donning funeral attire; his back hunched, his inky hair long, and greasy and plastered to his oval, head.
I evoke his malicious, derisive ways, the scornful, belittling seeds that he sowed in my mind, the same ones that he helped develop into an involuntary negativity that I borne for so long, and find the strength to aim all of my anger, and hatred back at him. The things that I have lost, the things that I have needed reassurance to overcome and the things that I have let the voice of my paranoia transcend and triumph over…
No, I have let you win for far, too long. No more. It ends now.
Heaving a sigh, I mentally evict the fear that lay in wait from my mind. I smile in liberation as I move past, and come to defeat that which has held me back. I am no longer fearful of what has happened, and that which could happen. I am allowing myself to be happy, live in the moment. To offer Samantha the life that she deserves––a life we both deserve.
I step forward, and knock on the door.
After a few moments, the door is swung open, and I am ephemerally surprised by the tall, muscular blond that is Jessie’s boyfriend, as he glares at me with blazing, sapphire eyes.
“Matt.”
“Hayden, what are you doing here?” He steps out a fraction, drawing the door closed slightly behind him.
“I need to see, Samantha.”
Squaring his shoulders, he crosses his arms and parts his legs, holding a defensive stance. He snickers in haughty derision, “Sorry, but no.”
“Matt, no offence, but this is none of your business.” How dare he lay down the law with me? How dare he tell me that I can’t see Samantha, how long as he been on the scene for? Five minutes!?
He takes another step towards me, his face strained and menacing. “When my girlfriend has to sleep in the same bed as the woman who lay heartbroken because of you, just to comfort her, and to console her when she wakes up confused, thinking your ass never left, and that you are still together, then yeah, I think it is my fucking business.”
“I didn’t leave her; I wasn’t the one to walk away,” I hiss as my blood boils, adrenaline flooding my veins like a tidal wave.
“Who’s at the door?” the door is pulled open, and Jessie is stood stock-still, radiating hostility.
“Jess…” I murmur. She steps out of the apartment, walking past Matt so she is in front of me. “I need to––” I am halted when Jessie’s hand strikes hard, sharp and fast against the left side of my face, my head violently flailing to the right. I stand immobile and close my eyes, as my cheek tingles and heats under her assault.
“How fucking, dare you…”
“I deserve that.” I open my eyes and turn to gaze at the petite, belligerent brunet.
“Do you know what she has been through? Do you know what she said to me less than three hours ago?” I regard her patiently, as she continues. “‘If everything in life is merited on your past, then I have already signed my death certificate’
.
You may have gone to Harvard, you may have degrees and all manner of credentials coming out of your ears, but can you even comprehend how disturbing that was to hear? My best friend, someone who has taken some fucking knocks from all sorts of people in her twenty-four years, who has witnessed things that no child or no woman should have to witness––someone who has the strength and courage of a fucking lioness, to turn around and say something that…sombre?” She hisses, radiating contempt. Her voice breaks and tears find their way down her face.
Disgraced and guilt-ridden, I hang my head and shake it faintly. I had no idea.
“How dare you…” I peek up at her with hooded, dark eyes as she repeats herself once again.
“Please, Jess. I know what I have done. I know what I need to do; I just need to see her, to put this right. Please,” I plead.
“There’s no way I’m letting you in, mate,” Matt protests once again. He finds silence as I cast a scowl in his direction. Glancing down at the floor, he fluctuates from foot-to-foot.
“What’s going on?”
My heart beats faster, my adrenaline wanes as the sound of Samantha’s voice behind the door connects with my ears. I have missed that sound.
Matt pulls the door open and steps aside, permitting an unobstructed view of Samantha wrapped in her pink fluffy towel. Her eyes are swollen and bloodshot, and all I want to do is charge through the door, take her in my arms and never let her go; to bring her solace, to be her white knight and her prince all in one. To attempt to give her the Happily Ever After that she forsook dreaming about, the one that I promised her that I would give, but left her when she needed me most.
She licks her lips and holds my gaze.
“Am I dreaming?”
TWENTY-TWO
----------------------------------
SAMANTHA
I haven’t laid eyes on him in forty-eight hours, and seeing him now, standing on the opposite side of my threshold in his black jeans, navy dress-shirt with the top two buttons undone, revealing a white T-shirt underneath, has my stomach contorting with credulous anticipation. His shiny hair falls perfectly as a result of his parting, the dark shadowing of the stubble surrounding his mouth and jaw. He is staring at me with his intense, pleading, chocolate eyes. My breath catches whilst my lips offer tiny, skeptical, repetitive grins. It feels like months since I last saw him. I fight the impulse to run into his arms, to curl myself around his body like a vine and never let him go.
“Sammy, you don’t have to see him.” I am vaguely aware of Jessie’s voice, pierced with deep, weighted apprehension, yet I’m unable to divert my focus from Hayden.
His hands are nestled in his front pockets and he is observing me with his own hopeful yet guarded expression. There it is––the many distinctive tiers of my confusing, Hayden. He licks his lips quickly before muttering my name on an audible gasp.
I feel every set of eyes in the room bore into me with expectancy. Two sets silently conveying that I should maintain my guard––kick him away after the havoc he has caused my emotions to ride out the last forty-eight hours, while the other silently calls out to my heart to give the benefit of the doubt.
I fight the conflicting emotions raging through my body. I want to release the big, fat, happy tears that weigh cripplingly and pungently in my heart over the mere realization that he’s here. He came to me, even though I was the one that walked away.