Chapter 6
6
Conrad Strauss
Five Years Ago
“ G oddamnit!”
Slamming the closet door, frustration bubbling inside of me, I stare down at the mess at my feet. How it covers the hardwood floor, and the way emotion swells in my chest, striking me with such intensity it sends me to my knees. Shards of ceramic mix in with the ash.
Bile rises in my throat.
Footsteps sound in the hall. They’re hurried. “Conrad?” There’s concern etched in my name. Pain in his voice. “What’s the matter?” Whit comes to an abrupt stop when he rounds the corner and takes in the scene before him. “Oh, God. Let me grab a bowl.”
Like the problem solver he is, my husband kicks into gear, brushing past me into the kitchen. He comes back a moment later, falling to his knees beside me, while I’m stuck in place, unable to move.
“Connie, what happened?” he asks.
“What the fuck does it look like happened?” I bite back.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him wince, and I know I should feel bad. He doesn’t deserve my harshness, but I can’t seem to help it.
Instead of calling me on it or snapping back at me, he touches a hand to my forearm. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “Let’s get this cleaned up, and then I can pick up a new urn tomorrow.”
“I can do it,” I reply, ripping the bowl out of his hand, placing it on the floor beside the mess of ashes that used to be my mother.
“I don’t mind helping.”
“Whit,” I snap, slicing my gaze over to him. “I said, I got it.”
He swallows roughly, biting the inside of his cheek as he flinches from my tone. “Okay, then.” Standing up, he runs a hand through his hair. “If you want to leave the broken pieces of ceramic on the floor, I can sweep it up when you’re done.”
Disappearing back down the hall, Whit leaves me to clean up the mess I’ve made. Alone. Like I demanded from him.
Lately, all I seem to do is snap at my husband. I bite his head off for the littlest things, things that aren’t even his doing at all. He’s tried to talk to me more times than I can count, and I just can’t seem to let him in. I don’t know what’s going on with me, or why it’s impossible to accept his help. The anger burning inside of me since the death of my parents is stronger than I am, and it feels like I’m drowning in it.
My vision blurs as my hands dig into the spilled ashes. Scooping them up, I place them in the plastic bowl Whit brought me.
“Ouch, fuck.” Pulling my hand back, I pluck the shattered ceramic out, watching as a drop of crimson forms between my first and second knuckle on my index finger. A dark, unforgiving cloud surrounds me as I sit back on my haunches and let my head fall onto my shoulders. Staring up at the ceiling, I wonder how I got here. How tragedy struck, and is simultaneously ripping me away from my one saving grace.
I miss Whit so much.
I miss him, and we live in the same house. We sit at the same table every night and eat dinner. Yet he’s so far away, and I have nobody to blame but myself. Every night, I tell myself that it’ll be different. I’ll crawl into bed, roll onto my side, and hold my husband. I’ll sink into him and let myself be surrounded by his love. I’ll fall asleep to the steady, even sound of his breathing in my arms.
But it never happens.
All he wants is to be there for me, and I can’t seem to let him.
I’m pushing him away, and I don’t know how to stop.
I’m going to lose him soon, I know it. I watch him grow more distant by the day. How he shields himself from me. I can see the lashes I’m leaving across his skin like physical cuts. I’m destroying my husband, and I don’t know how to stop.
Once I’m finished cleaning up the ashes, I grab a broom and sweep up the ceramic. Leaving the bowl filled with my mother on the counter, I rip open the cabinet and grab the bottle of whiskey, slamming it shut behind me. I twist off the cap and bring it up to my lips, taking a large swig, letting the harsh amber liquid fill my mouth before it burns a hot, fiery path down my throat. Taking two more for good measure, I hold the bottle by the neck as I stomp outside.
As I sit down on the porch swing overlooking the yard, resentment fills me like a toxic sludge.
Resentment toward the peaceful evening. The crickets chirping in the distance. The setting sun.
Resentment toward everybody who eyes me with pity every time they see me.
Resentment toward my husband, yet I don’t know why. He’s done nothing wrong, and everything right.
Resentment toward my parents for leaving me this fucking ranch. Life would be a hell of a lot easier if I didn’t have so much goddamn responsibility on my plate at any given moment. If they hadn’t gotten in that car that night, heading to Cheyenne to celebrate their anniversary, they would still be alive, and I wouldn’t have to deal with the anger and bitterness suffocating me at every turn.
They’re dead, and all I can feel is resentment toward them. How fucked up is that?
I lose track of time, not sure how long I sit out here, drinking, and thinking, and stewing over anger for…everything and nothing in particular. Eventually, the back door opens and out walks Whit. Coming to sit beside me on the porch swing, he doesn’t say anything for a moment. I can hear his breathing. Smell the sweet, slightly spicy scent of his body wash.
The urge to lean into him, to hold him, is there, but it’s muted. It’s buried under grief and something much stronger.
Finally, with a deep breath in, he says, “I can’t help if you won’t let me in, Connie.”
“I don’t need help.”
He laughs dryly. “Like hell you don’t. Why won’t you let me in? You have always let me in.”
“Because I don’t need help,” I repeat. “And I don’t need a husband constantly nagging at me.”
He says nothing, and I don’t need to look at him to know he’s clenching his jaw and glaring at the side of my head. It takes a lot for Whit to get pissed, but lately, I’m making a sport out of it. I hate it. I relish it.
“That’s rich coming from you,” he spits out. “Coming from the man who gets drunk on a daily basis. Look at you.” Standing up, he looks down his nose at me. I can’t bear to look back at him. “You’re a fucking mess. Did you cut your finger open? You have dried blood on your hand, and you didn’t bother washing up. You’re sucking down that bottle of whiskey like it’s your lifeline. And when was the last time you showered?”
Eyes flaring up at him, I roar, “Get off my fucking back, Whit!” I raise to my full height, staring down at him this time, chest puffed up from the darkness seeping into my bloodstream. “Take a goddamn hint, would you? I said I am fine , so back the fuck off!”
His eyes well with unshed tears. Tears that I caused. It’s a razor blade to my heart, shredding it until there’s nothing left, but even still, I can’t stop it. Can’t figure out how to let him in. Can’t figure out how to not succumb to this anger.
I’m losing him.
Losing my true lifeline.
And I can’t. Make. It. Stop.
“Conrad, please.” His voice is nothing more than a broken whisper. Stepping closer, he reaches for my hand, and I pull away before he can make contact. Deep, deep down, far enough away that I can barely feel it, the need to hold him, to breathe him in, is still there, but it’s suffocated by the dark cloud invading my body. “Why won’t you let me in?”
“Drop it,” I grit out. “I don’t fucking want or need your help.”
Something sobering washes over his face, like he’s seeing me more clearly. I feel his gaze in the depths of my soul, and I know I’ve fucked up.
“You know what, Conrad? Fuck you. Rot in your misery, but I’m not rotting with you anymore.” Stomping across the porch, he rips open the screen door, disappearing inside for only a moment before appearing again, keys and phone in hand.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Away from you,” is all he gives me before climbing into his truck. His eyes, red-rimmed and wet, meet mine from over the steering wheel, a beat passing before he puts the truck in reverse.
Then he’s gone.