Living With Regret (24 page)

September 24, 2013

THE RECOLLECTION I HAD
on the motorcycle last night came to me again in a dream. It was much the same, no more, no less, but it was like I was seeing it in a different way. It hurt more. Instead of being someone who lived in it, I saw it as an outsider.

I hated how I talked to him.

I hated the anger I felt toward him.

I hated the physical pain I felt in my sleep even though it was months ago.

I hated it all, and I’m holding onto the hope that it didn’t really happen that way. That it’s all made up in my mind. I know better, though. It’s all too vivid, too real. Besides, it can’t be a coincidence that it came to me in the exact place my car veered off the road. It was a trigger I wish hadn’t been pulled.

Glancing back, I see Sam sleeping behind me, his long dark eyelashes highlighted by closed eyes. His full, slightly puckered lips parted. It’s so tempting to reach for him, to bring his lips to mine, to beg him to make me forget. But I don’t deserve a guy like Sam. The more my actions with Cory replay, the more I feel like I don’t deserve anything remotely like this.

As if he knows I’m staring, his eyes flutter open, immediately focusing in on me. Those eyes are the most beautiful, soulful shade of brown. I wish I could completely lose myself in them and let them lull me like a lullaby, but that’s not even possible.

“How did you sleep?” he whispers.

“Okay,” I lie, swallowing down the emotions that have been tugging at my heart all morning.

He sits up, placing all his weight on one arm. “Are you crying?”

“I’m just adjusting to the light,” I quickly answer. I made myself stop a while ago knowing he’d wake soon, but it wasn’t soon enough.

“I hate to see you cry,” he says, cradling the side of my face in his hand. “Talk to me. Let me help you.”

I shut my eyes to him and the light. “I’m so tired, Sam.”

“Of what?”

“Of everything. Of feeling better about how things are going one minute, then having the world come down on me the next.”

He slides his fingers along my cheek. “I want to make it better. What can I do to make it better?”

“You can’t.”

With one quick motion, I’m enveloped in his arms, his soft lips touching my forehead. He’s everything I should need right now, yet he’s not enough. Being here like this makes me want to cry, and that’s not how this should be.

What I really need is time to work through this, and I can’t think with him this close. I want to scream. I want to cry into my pillow. I just want to disappear to where no one can find me—to be alone.

“Can you bring me home?” I ask, pressing my hand against his chest. It’s a half-hearted effort. I want to be here, but I don’t. Actually, who am I kidding … I don’t freaking know what I want or need anymore.

“Let me make you breakfast first.” He tries to pull me back into his body, but I fight it, pushing harder against his chest.

“Please, Sam. I’m not feeling well.”

“Rachel—”

“Please,” I interrupt. I break from his hold, scooting up against the old wood headboard.

He throws the sheet off his body and stands up next to the bed, running his fingers through his tousled hair. “I’d feel better about this if I didn’t feel like you were running away.”

“I’m not running. I just need to go home, okay? I need to work through this shit that’s piled in my freaking head. It has nothing to do with you … nothing to do with us!” My voice rises to levels I didn’t expect it to, but I can’t help it. I’m going through more than I can handle right now.

“Give me a few minutes. I’m going to throw some clothes on, and then I’ll get you home.” He doesn’t wait for me to say anything. He’s behind the bathroom door before he even gets the last word out.

Pulling the sheets off myself, I realize I’m in all the same clothes as yesterday, with exception to my leather jacket. There’s not much I can do to myself here. I’m sure my hair and face are a mess, but it doesn’t matter because as soon as I’m home, I’m going to jump in the shower and try to wash away the memories of last night.

I wrap my arms tightly around my folded legs and rest my cheek against my knees. The area of the loft where Sam’s bed is has muted gray walls and a few colorful abstract art pieces on the wall. It’s not really how I pictured his room to be, but it’s still him. Bold yet simple.

The bathroom door clicks open, and Sam steps out in a fresh pair of khaki shorts and a Bob Marley T-shirt. His hair is still a mess, but it’s more expertly done.

“Ready?” he asks, slipping on a pair of brown flip-flops.

“I just need to use the restroom. Give me two minutes.”

“Want a clean T-shirt or something to change into?”

“I’ll be okay,” I reply, rolling off the bed. “I’m going to shower as soon as I get home anyway.”

He nods, scrubbing his hand over his handsome, unshaven face. He’s frustrated with me and maybe a little disappointed. It’s obvious because he won’t look directly at me. “I’m going to put my bike away. Come outside when you’re ready.”

“Okay.”

Like a small piece of debris picked up by a tornado, he disappears. I instantly wish I could take back some of the coldness in my demeanor, but I can’t. The past is something we live with because it can’t be erased. For some things, there’s no do-overs or second chances.

Sam’s bathroom consists of a small shower, toilet, and pedestal sink. Nothing fancy, but it’s very modern. After straightening my clothes from their crumpled state, I squeeze a line of toothpaste on my finger and attempt to freshen up.

When I feel like I’ve done all I can, I look at my reflection in the mirror. Most of the make-up from yesterday has faded, leaving nothing but a smudge of mascara under each of my eyes. I look worn like a mother with a newborn child or a college student after cramming all night for an exam. It doesn’t suit me.

After splashing a few handfuls of cold water over my face, I go looking for Sam. There’s a part of me that wants to smooth everything over, to leave us on good, solid footing, but the selfish part of me wants to leave it like this. The only way to get the time I need to get over the turmoil this most recent flashback created is to push him back enough to give it to me.

I move through the living area, picking up my jacket from the back of the couch along the way. As I come down the stairs, I hear the soft purr of the Camaro outside. The drive between his place and mine is roughly four minutes. That’s four minutes I’m not looking forward to because I don’t know what to say. Four minutes of what’s probably going to be uncomfortable silence.

Walking out, I see his car right outside the front door. Even through the light tinting on the windows, I can make out his whole profile. He sits with his wrist propped up on the steering wheel, staring straight out the windshield. His forehead is wrinkled, and it’s evident that he’s biting down on the inside of his cheek. He’s so deep in the ocean of thought that he doesn’t see me coming until I open the door. Only then does he look up—the worried, contemplative expression on his face not changing.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod, pulling the seatbelt over my shoulder. I only consider it a half lie; I’m physically all right. My head’s just not in the right place.

He shifts the car into drive and lays his right hand on the seat between us. I think he’s hoping I’ll reach for it. He wants assurance that I can’t give him right now. I can’t even convince myself that everything is going to be okay.

“I’m still going to be here when you’re ready to talk,” he says quietly as we pull onto the road that connects his driveway to mine. A part of me wishes I’d gotten out of bed and walked home instead of watching him sleep. It would have been childish but easier.

“I know.”

“And I’m not going to let you hold it in forever.” As we turn onto my driveway, I keep my eyes on the house at the end. A pit forms in my stomach when I see Mom’s car parked out front. I’d been hoping to get in and up to my room without having to talk to anyone else.

When the Camaro comes to a stop, I undo my belt and reach for the handle, anxious to avoid any more awkwardness.

A large hand wraps around my elbow before I get the chance to see that through. “Rachel.”

He feels me slipping … I feel myself slipping.

“Yeah?”

“Can I see you tonight?”

I don’t look back. I can’t. “Call me later. Okay?”

“Look at me.” His voice shakes like a glass pane during a minor earthquake. I hate myself for it, for giving him hope then pulling it all back.

My stomach tenses even more as I turn around to where the most beautiful, fragile man sits staring at me with a pained expression.
I hate myself.

“Everything in me is saying not to let you get out of this car. Tell me you’re going to pick up the phone later when I call.”

I try to carve a smile on my face, but my lip quivers instead. The truth always has a way of coming to the surface. “If you call, I’ll answer.”

“Rachel—”

“No, you have to believe me. I just need a few hours to myself.”

“Okay,” he says, loosening his grip on my arm. “I just got you, and I’m not going to let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.” I lean across the seat and press my lips to his cheek. It’s quick, and when I’m free of his hold, I open the door and step out before he can pull me back. “Bye.”

He waves but still looks unsure. “Bye.”

After closing the door, I hurriedly make my way up the stairs and disappear inside. The door is barely closed when my mom appears in the entryway with an apron wrapped around her waist.

“Looks like you had a rough night.”

I shrug, crossing my arms over my chest. “This is just how a person looks after sleeping in their clothes.”

“I wasn’t really talking about your clothes. You look like you just ran through an emotional gauntlet,” she says, taking two steps toward me. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. I’m just worried about you.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m tired, that’s all.”

I start toward the steps, but her voice stops me in my tracks. “Did something happen with Sam?”

She’s probably waiting for me to say yes so she can go on and on about how wrong it is for me to be hanging out with the likes of Sam Shea. If only she knew how right it is being with Sam. He’s too good for me.

“No, Mom, nothing happened with Sam.”

She nods, running her hand along her chin. “Do you want me to call Dr. Schultz?”

My first thought is to say no, but then I hesitate. Maybe he’ll tell me it was all a fictional tale that snuck into my mind. My biggest fear spun into reality. “Yeah, you can do that.”

Without another word, I make my way up the rest of the stairs and disappear into my bedroom. I peel off all my clothes and haphazardly throw them on the floor before shutting myself in my bathroom. It was a long night, but I’m hoping hot water will wash it away.

After turning the shower to the hottest setting I know my skin can bear, I climb in, letting it run down my face, much like how the tears had a short time earlier. It’s almost scalding, but I like the pain. It gives me something to concentrate on besides the excruciating push and pull in my heart.

Where did my life go so wrong? In one night, I went from the girl who had it all to the girl who’d lost it all. It doesn’t seem fair, but then I guess life isn’t fair. And just when I think I’ve fallen into a better place, I’m uprooted again. I wonder if it will always be like this … if that one night will always chase after me.

“Rachel!”

“I’m in the shower.”

“Dr. Schultz said he could see you later today. Does six work?” Mom yells from the other side of the door. I’m kind of surprised the doctor wants to see me on a Sunday, but I’m not going to argue.

“That’ll work!” I brace my hands against the wall, silently begging her to go, to give me the time I need.

“Are you doing okay in there?”

“I’m fine! I just want to finish my shower. Please!”

“Okay, okay. I’m running to town. I’ll see you a little later.”

With newly gained silence, I go back to my place under the hot water, letting it run off my skin until my fingers look like wrinkled prunes. I turn it off and wrap a towel around my body, taking a moment to stop in front of the mirror and look at my deep pink skin. It doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as it looks.

After toweling myself off, I pull on a pair of black yoga pants and a tank top, and run a comb through my hair. Then, out of pure exhaustion, I fall onto my bed and drift to sleep, knowing no better way to let it all go.

WHEN I FINALLY WAKE
up, it feels as if I only slept for a few minutes, but, looking at the clock, I realize it’s been hours. I panic, thinking I’m late for work, then I remember it’s Sunday; the shop isn’t open on Sunday.

Stretching my arms above my head, I feel a little better than I did before. My heart still aches, but it’s more of a dull ache. A minor annoyance. It’s usually my own thoughts that puncture it, but when I’m able to turn them off, the bleeding slows. If only there were a permanent Band-Aid.

As I roll out of bed, I hear my phone vibrating from on top of my dresser. I pick it up, noticing I have one missed call from Kate, six from Sam, and fourteen unread texts, not to mention six voicemails.