Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
HE TOOK HIS MASKS WITH HIM
PRESENT
D oes a panic attack feel like a heart attack?
My Google search doesn’t comfort me the way I’d hoped it would as I hold my phone in my shaking hands. The same hands that’d been gripping the steering wheel in a frenzied moment where the edges of my vision faded to black, and my ribs felt like they were crushing my heart.
I don’t doubt that it was a panic attack, even if it felt like I wasn’t breathing and I was going to die at any second.
Years of pretending to be a rock for everyone else is shattering any strength I have to get through each day.
This morning had been a tough one, Penny opting for her dad to help get her ready instead of me. Which meant he now couldn’t pick them up from school because he didn’t like to go into work late and then leave early.
But it wasn’t too much to ask that of me for years. Of course not.
So now, I’m sitting in my car before my lunch with my business partner, and I’m dreading having to face my five-year-old in a few hours .
Which leads to me having a panic attack as my world starts to fall into itself.
I used to be her favorite, back when she had more baby fat on her face and her little fingers would grip mine like she never wanted to let me go.
Just like I’d been gripping the steering wheel as I reminded myself to breathe.
A knock on my driver side window makes me jump.
“Get your ass outta the car. I’m starving,” Miley says before trying to open my locked door. I sigh and tuck my phone into my Prada tote that Peter got for me on my birthday.
Another fucking trigger.
Who the fuck has a panic attack because they’re terrified of their five-year-old?
I open my car door and when Miley hugs me, I try not to roll my eyes.
“This isn’t a thing we’re starting because you think I’m depressed, right?” I ask into her hair, letting myself sag into her just a little.
“Shut up. I’ve missed you.” Her words are muffled and she’s the only woman I know who comes close to my height, even if it’s only due to her impressive shoe collection.
“Are you sick of Sam yet?” I ask, making a joke at the expense of her boyfriend. It’s a term I never thought I’d use with Miley.
“ So sick of him,” she says as she pulls back, a large grin on her face.
“ Right ,” I respond as we walk inside one of our favorite restaurants. “You’re in the honeymoon phase. Stay there. It’s a great place to be.”
“Ah, ah,” she tells me, holding her finger up, “If there’s no wedding, there won’t be a honeymoon.” She tucks her platinum blonde hair behind her ear, and I smirk at the way she squares her shoulders at the thought of matrimony .
“Is he still asking?”
She nods just as the hostess comes over, and I give her the name of the reservation.
“Milas, table for two.”
Uttering my maiden name has me overthinking, knowing that while I made the decision long ago to maintain it for professional use…did I always know? Was it always meant to end this way?
The woman in front of us nods and tells us to follow her, and I tuck away these melancholy thoughts.
“Are you still saying no?” I ask as we make our way to our table, my tone hushed to avoid interrupting the others lunching.
“I don’t understand why he’d want to try again,” she mutters, a frown on her face as she tilts her head to the side to answer me. She’s got her clutch tucked between her elbow and ribs and her turquoise silk skirt looks like it was made for her. “His last attempt crashed and burned.”
“Call it the Miley Effect , I suppose,” I say. We stop in front of a table and the hostess asks if it’s okay. “Certainly.”
She gives us a smile and walks away, and I pull out my chair and sit down with a huff.
“What about you?” she asks before she reaches for a cloth napkin and settles it over her lap.
“Oh, no,” I start with a shake of my head. “We’ll need a glass of wine before we approach anything that isn’t work-related.” I try to say it with a chuckle but the acute pain in my chest has me rubbing at my collarbone, and I pretend I’m fiddling with my necklace to cover the gesture from her watchful eyes.
We run through the rigamarole of business updates, comparing notes and clients, discussing projects and making little jokes at some of the trials and tribulations of being at the mercy of other people’s tastes…or lack thereof .
A half-empty bottle of wine sits between us when she circles back to the topic of my personal life.
“How’s the divorce going?” she asks, her mouth full of pasta.
“Your mother would die if she saw you speaking with your mouth full,” I admonish, gesturing toward her with my fork, my own gnocchi growing cold from my lack of appetite. In an attempt to fill my body with some sort of sustenance, I take a healthy gulp of wine.
“Don’t threaten me with her,” she cries out after swallowing her food. “I’ve already had to endure several dinners with her and Sam and I’m almost certain he’s going to leave me for her.”
She pats at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, a sparkle in her eyes.
“As far as my divorce is concerned, I’m sure it’s going smoother than his did,” I offer, hoping to get the topic off me again. I don’t want to talk about how tempted I am to toss the legal documents out of the window, how I wake up in a cold sweat, knowing the man I’m divorcing is just down the hall in the guest room, realizing that I’ll now have to split time with the girls. It’s all so heartbreaking.
Miley rolls her eyes at the mention of her boyfriend’s difficult divorce. His ex-wife had been a client of ours and…things got pretty fucking messy.
“I didn’t even get into the details of it.”
“Oh?” I don’t prod much, knowing that for a while, he couldn’t even find her to serve her the papers.
“She got the house.” She pauses, pressing her lips together. “Honestly, she got pretty much everything, except that dining set I love. Oh, and the painting I’d gifted them. But that’s Sam for you.”
I groan, leaning forward so my face nearly meets the tabletop. “The divvying up of property and assets. Be thankful they didn’t have children.” I sit up to raise my glass .
“Every single fucking day,” she mutters as she raises her own before taking a healthy sip.
The thought of children in the crossfires of a divorce has me quiet as I stare at my glass, turning it with my fingertips on the stem.
“How are the girls taking it?” Her question is quiet and I almost want to pretend I hadn’t heard it. But the moments where I’m able to be vulnerable are so few and far between that I snatch this one up before it disappears.
“I’m sure you can guess.”
“Penny is sulking, and Jilly is oblivious?”
“Optimistically so. I worry that I’m fucking them up,” I say, looking up at her. Because as much as I try not to be like my mother, I’m worried that I’ve let things slip through the cracks. Like, sure, I wasn’t a drunk who physically abused my children in my alcohol-induced rage. But was my desire for a great love going to hinder them in an emotional way that would ruin them forever?
“It’s okay to be selfish,” Miley says, interrupting my internal conundrum.
“Says the woman who’s been selfish her whole life,” I attempt at a joke, immediately hating how bitter I sound.
“Exactly. I’m the happiest person you know.” She takes my words on the chin and I reach out to grab her hand, holding it along with her stare as she offers a small smile.
It all sounds so simple. But I’ve always envied Miley’s easygoing nature. Even back when she was eighteen.
“Do you ever miss college?” I ask, taking the conversation into a territory we hadn’t reflected on in so long.
“I barely remember any of it,” she confesses with a snort. “Hey! Remember that hot professor I saw a while back?”
My heart jumps in my chest at the vague mention of Abraham.
“I think so,” I tell her, lifting my glass of wine to take a sip, trying to ignore the way my hand shakes. I should be embarrassed that he still elicits this reaction after all this time.
“What was the story again? I know you had a class with him. Did you ever find out what happened?”
I shrug and set the glass down before I accidentally spill it. Pull it together, bitch.
Because even after all this time, I don’t know what the hell happened.
“Just rumors,” is all I can stand to say, though I hadn’t heard even those.
“A shame,” Miley says before pressing her lips together. “I do love a good dose of gossip.”
My best friend is so far removed from that part of my life, it’s strange to think we were even living together at the time.
But I guess I’m just that good at keeping secrets.
If only I were that good at keeping myself from thinking of him.
I constantly prick myself over thoughts of him, my brain having set up barbed wire around the perimeter of our memories together.
But it’s worth the sting.
That sting reminds me of the all-consuming love I once tumbled into. And how I’ll be a little more careful with my heart next time.
“Well,” Miley starts, her eyes on her phone, “it seems our sacred time has come to a close.” She shows me her phone and when I see Sam’s name, I grin.
“Go on. I’ve got the bill,” I inform her, waving her on.
“Call me later if you want to bounce design ideas off me,” she tells me as she rises, grabbing her clutch and pressing a kiss to my cheek before she answers the phone.
I hear her giggle tinkle somewhere behind me as I wave the waitress over and hand her my card. As I wait, I look through my own phone and notice a text message from Peter waiting for me.
Don’t forget you’ve got the girls today.
I don’t smile at the sight of his name. I don’t giggle on the phone with him. And, sure, the honeymoon phase doesn’t last forever. But when I look back on our time together, I can’t deny the lingering notion that I chose him because he’d undeniably chosen me.
And it felt great to be his number one. Safe, dependable Peter. He’d been exactly what I needed.
The waitress hands me back my card and I’m standing when someone bumps into me from behind, causing me to nearly tumble over.
“I’m so sor?—”
The apology dies on his lips as he gets a good look at me, helping me straighten.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen him this close that I wonder, in spite of his hand gripping my elbow to steady me, if I’m dreaming him.
Had Peter’s touch ever felt like this?
Here I am, somewhere between a love too tame to warm me and a love I swear left third degree burns on my soul.
Before I can think twice about it, I yank my elbow from his grip.
Because what the fuck is going on?
There’s no such thing as a coincidence these days.
“What are you…” I glance around to make sure Miley is gone. “What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, smoothing my linen pants to mask the way my palms have suddenly dampened.
“Not the warm reception I was hoping for, Stellina ,” he murmurs, his eyes roving over me like they’re trying to piece together the memory of me with the woman standing here now.
“Answer my question. Are you…” I lean in close, hating th at I can smell him and how familiar his scent still is, even after all these years. “Are you following me?”
He chuckles and it isn’t the adamant denial I was hoping for.
“Here’s your lunch, sir,” a voice says from behind me. “Did you have trouble finding the restroom?”
“I think trouble found me instead,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving my face.
I step away from them, determined to put space between us so I can figure out why the universe is hellbent on making me pay for every reckless decision I’ve ever made.
The most reckless of them all is following me and as I hear him call out my name, I have to decide if running away would make me look as unhinged as I feel.
“What?” I shout, stopping short at the door. He’s already unknowingly chased me out of my grocery store. I refuse to let him have this restaurant too.
“I’m not following you. This place has very good food,” he offers, lifting the bag in his hand with a shrug.
“It is the best Italian spot in Boston,” I agree before shaking my head and frowning at him. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but Boston isn’t your home. It never has been.”
I’m too on edge, not far enough removed from my panic attack, to be in this situation. And if I don’t hurry, I’ll be late getting the girls.
“I knew Boston once before,” he reminds me, and I hate how he can still rile me up like no one else has ever been able to. The calm and in control Sabrina that I’ve cultivated through the years is a distant memory in his presence.
“You knew me once before, too,” I remind him, hoping the comment stings. “But you don’t know me anymore. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to pick up my daughters.”
“I bet you’re a tremendous mother,” he offers as I step back against the door. The thought of these versions of me colliding in this very moment nearly causes me to sway under the pressure of it.
I stare at him, unsure of what response he wants from me, unable to give him anything.
“I made a lot of mistakes with you, Stellina .” He stares at the floor before meeting my gaze. “I wasn’t who you wanted me to be. But I am now.”
I want to roll my eyes, to hit him, to tell him to fuck off and to never contact me again. But I don’t. I offer him my apathy instead.
“In the words made famous by Professor Pugliesi, ‘ I don’t care ,’” I say, shoving through the door, prepared to never see him again.
Abraham could pretend that his words could rewrite the past and grant us a new beginning. He could pretend that he changed and that I was sitting around waiting for him all this time.
He doesn’t know.
I stopped waiting for him a long time ago.
Once upon a time, I fell in love with a man who wore many masks.
When it was time for him to stay, he left.
And he took his masks with him.