Chapter 1 Cleo #2
As we grew up, they made sure we knew life and love wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.
Sometimes, it was going to be hard to put one foot in front of the other.
Relationships of any kind were hard without proper nurturing, but it didn’t matter because at the end of the day, the thought of living without your person was too much to bear.
Seeing my parents’ devotion to one another filled me with the hope that maybe I could have that one day, too, but it wasn’t their fault I let myself be duped by love.
I wanted to be blind with passion. I wanted to feel free, to soar through the sky like a bluebird spreading its wings. I wanted to know if I fell, someone would be there to help me back up again.
Honestly, I wanted a lot of things I knew weren’t in the cards for me anymore.
I’d been close to having it all. Twice, actually—though I tried not to think about the first. Thomas and I met my freshman year of college. We shared a class together. After years of keeping my nose in textbooks instead of putting myself out there, he finally won out.
He’d been cute. Stupidly, so. I was charmed by his boyish good looks and those green eyes that promised mischief. The rest of our story? Well, it was much more complicated than I ever let anyone know.
When things were good between us, they were good.
Great, even. The first six years were some of the happiest of my life.
When things started going south, I told myself it was just a part of life we needed to get through.
A storm to weather. I was more than willing to step up and be whoever he needed me to be if it took some of his stress away.
But Thomas saw my generosity as my being a doormat. It didn’t take him long to wipe his dirty boots against my dignity, to dig in his heels and grind me down just to free himself of whatever debris clung to his soul.
It would’ve been easy to blame my parents for why I stayed in my marriage for so long—clinging to the hope I might someday have what they did.
Or I could’ve looked at the men who still haunted me, laying the blame at their feet instead of my own.
But pointing fingers at others never did any good.
Especially considering I was the common denominator.
There were parts of me missing. Parts I still didn’t know how to get back, even after intensive and continuous therapy. Some mornings, I didn’t recognize who I was. The woman in the mirror was an empty shell of someone I once knew.
I normally kept it to myself. The only person I’d ever openly admitted everything to was Rachel, but that’d been after many tears and just as many vodka tonics.
She encouraged me to talk to Laura, which I begrudgingly did.
To this day, they were the only two people who knew every part of my story, even those secrets I’d kept close to my chest.
I guess it made sense my therapist needed to know these things.
There were days I dreaded my sessions because I knew Laura would want me to dig deep.
Sometimes, I felt myself growing tense before we’d even begun.
It was like my body was preparing for the inevitable crash that came after the screen went dark.
The train of thought cast a dark cloud over my mood and no matter what, I couldn’t shake it.
I knew today was going to be a heavy appointment.
Laura had been encouraging me to tell my family about the divorce since I’d been back home, but I kept pushing it off.
Last night, I’d finally snapped under the weight of my parents’ curious questions.
Spilling the beans before my dad’s birthday bash—his words, not mine—hadn’t been the best move.
Earlier in the year, my dad’s health had given us a major scare.
Apparently, not even the world’s best dad was immune to a sick heart.
Seeing him in a hospital bed was an image I’d never forget.
It’d been a wake-up call—one we severely needed because we had never talked about what would happen after he was gone.
When Mom had told me the news, I’d slid down the wall and cried. I hated myself for the fleeting sense of relief I felt at my dad’s expense. It was the out I’d been searching for, my reason for leaving Montana and never looking back.
“Do we need to take a break?” Laura asked, crossing her arms. “I can feel you shutting down.”
“No, I’m good,” I said, straightening my shoulders and forcing a smile. Her pursed lips told me she wasn’t buying it. “I’m just thinking about all the things I need to do today. You know how it is.”
“And now you’re deflecting,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “Look, I want to make it clear how proud of you I am. Telling your family what happened with Thomas couldn’t have been easy. I know we practiced the speech together, but I want to stress the importance of this achievement.”
“Thank you—”
“But by rehashing the details of your relationship, I’m worried you might be slipping back into your self-imposed guilt.”
“Well, no one can make me feel worse about myself than I can,” I said, trying and failing to inject a dash of darker humor into our conversation. Sometimes it worked, and I’d successfully change topics, but today was not the day.
“Cleo—”
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” I said, holding up my hands. Then I grabbed my ball and gave it one long squeeze. “See? Just like the doctor ordered.”
“You can thank Rachel for that one,” she said, smiling slightly. “Let’s stop here for the day. I know you said you’re fine, but I don’t want to push you too much. You’ve come so far. I hope you can see that.”
“Cleo!” My name came from the hallway, and the sound of her barging through my door came seconds later.
I screamed as I heard Lennox’s voice behind me. “You little shit,” I said, turning around. “How’d you get in?”
“The master key?” Lennox asked, holding up a small silver key in her hand.
“Why do you have that?” I asked, trying to rein Lennox in.
She shrugged. “Yeah, I had it made years ago so I could break into Josie’s room. Did you know she used to hide liquor at the back of her closet? Completely unrelated, of course.” She plopped down on my bed.
Lennox was quiet for a second before asking, “I already know the answer, but I feel it’s my sisterly duty to ask if you want to talk about it.”
Despite her loud and extroverted personality, there was no one who loved as fiercely as Lennox. She’d fight a fence post if she thought it’d wronged you somehow.
I pushed from my chair, going over and laying my hand on top of hers. I wasn’t big on physical contact, but she was. “No, I’m good. Thank you, though.”
She nodded. “You know I’m always here, though, right?”
“I do.” It was the first genuine smile I’d given in what felt like weeks. “And you know the same goes for me, right? If there’s anything, or anyone”—I nudged her leg—“that you want to talk about…”
“Nope,” she said, hopping down. “Not until there’s something, or someone, for you to talk about.” She gave me a pointed look, and I raised my hands. All I had to do was make it through a day without thinking of the first boy who broke my heart, which was easier said than done.