He really does look shocked. No, he looks destroyed. He really thought we could go back to the way things were. All I know is that if he truly loved me the way he said he did, there’s no way he could survive it.
I point at the door. “Get out. And the next time you tell a girl you love her, make sure you know what the word means. I don’t think you have a fucking clue.” I pause and drive the final stake in. “You should have went on keeping it to yourself.”
His breath hitches and it’s almost like I can see a world crumbling behind his eyes. But I don’t care. I have my own ruins now to deal with.
He turns, slow, stunned, pauses a moment and then walks to the door. As soon as he’s gone I quickly slam it behind him and lock it.
I wait a few seconds, unsure whether to cry or scream or what. Then I see the Christmas presents still in the Nordstrom bags. I immediately pick them up and throw them against the wall, screaming my lungs out. Some smash like broken glasses, others land with a thud. I kick them and kick them and kick them until I’m sweating and the bags are torn and the boxes are all bent inside. I kick and stomp until they feel like my heart.
Then I fall to the ground among the carnage and I cry.
And I cry.
As the world that I loved slips past, right out of my fingers.
***
The next few days I do something I have never done before. I don’t open the shop. On day one I don’t even drag myself out of the apartment. I don’t shower, I don’t get dressed, I don’t eat. I don’t even charge my phone or turn on my computer or my TV.
I just lie there on the couch, on the bed, on the floor. I lie there and I cry. I am ruined with debilitating sorrow, a loss that’s pulled straight from my chest until I feel like I must be concave, that I could never straighten again.
Then I scream and I kick and I yell and curse the world. I am anger reborn and frustration unjustified. I am brutal hate and cold, dead winter. I am turning, tumbling in despair and there is no light, no warmth, no world, no heart.
I feel like I’ve died. But death should bring peace. I have no peace. I am not even numb. I am just stuck in this life that wasn’t the one I was living a few days before.
In this life I’ve lost everything.
On the second day, I still don’t go to work and I still don’t charge my phone or go on the computer. I don’t shower but I do manage to put on clothes. I clean up around the apartment a bit. I throw away the presents but then my curiosity wins and I fish them out of the trash. I sit on the floor and open each smashed bag.
One is a shattered ceramic bowl with lemons on it, like my mom loves to collect. That would have been Linden’s present to her. The other is a stainless steel cigar cutter. That would have been his present to my dad.
Then there is small jewelry box. I assume that’s for me. I almost can’t open it. I’m too afraid, like he’s watching somehow, like I’ll be even more hurt than I already am.
But I do open it. It’s a silver bracelet with skull shaped diamonds all around it. It’s expensive and it’s beautiful. And there is something inscribed on the inside.
Thank you for showing me your soul.
I.
Break.
Down.
Later, when I’ve had enough of being alone with my thoughts and after I’ve shoved the bracelet in the back of my closet, far, far away, I get in my car and drive all the way out to Petaluma. When I cross over the bridge, I am no longer afraid of falling but I have tears in my eyes. Hawk’s Hill, the site of our last night together, the last time we were in love, is off to my left.
What happened? I still don’t understand. Maybe I’ve never understood James and Linden’s relationship, maybe I’ve underestimated the guilt complex that Linden harbors. Maybe his parents screwed him over far greater than I thought.
But I know one thing is for sure. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t know what love is. It’s not his fault, if he’s never been told and if he’s never felt it.
But it still hurts worse than a knife to the stomach, than a bullet to the chest. It’s my heart in a claw trap, bleeding and pierced, and I can’t seem to loosen it.
When I get to my parents, my mom is waiting for me outside. It’s like she knew. My father’s car isn’t there because I guess it’s not their date night or some bullshit like that. It’s too bad though. I like my dad in situations like these. He’s good at talking sense, at seeing the male point of view.
My mom brings me into a hug and I immediately start bawling. I lose it on the front steps until she brings me inside and lays me down on the couch. She gives me some of dad’s Scotch. She listens to me as I try to explain through my sobs and hiccups.