Chapter 14
I zone out as I stare into my refrigerator, eyeing the assortment of fresh groceries Mandy just dropped off.
I told her she didn’t need to do that—I’m more than capable, and I sure as shit don’t have anything else to do since I’m not back to work yet.
But she insisted, carrying inside two brown paper bags filled to the brim, tucked under both arms.
Mandy is now wiping down my countertops as she fixes me a sandwich. “How are you feeling? Did your appointment with Dr. Dryden go well?”
I blink into the yellow light, not fully registering her question even though I heard it. I stare at the head of broccoli, fairly certain I can make out a vague outline of Pat Sajak. If I just tilt my head a little to the left…
Is he still alive ? Is Wheel of Fortune still a thing ?
“Dean, did you hear me?”
I glance up. Mandy is standing in front of me, holding out a sandwich on a paper plate. Her heavily painted eyes are narrowed, slicing me with concern. I close the refrigerator and force a smile. “Yeah, it went okay.”
She sighs with relief, her worried lips turning up into a toothy grin. “Good. You’re being honest with him?”
Honest ? Well, I’m not outright lying. But I’m certainly not revealing everything.
Dr. Dryden knows I killed a man, but he doesn’t know it was her face I envisioned, the images of her dignity being dismantled, that drove my fists into those savage, fatal blows.
He knows I was forced to watch Cora get raped and abused, but he doesn’t know that I, myself, was forced between her legs with a pistol to my head.
Dr. Dryden knows a lot, but he doesn’t know about the real ghosts that haunt me and keep me up at night.
So, I guess I’m lying by omission.
“Yeah,” I reply, taking the plate from Mandy’s outstretched hands. “I’m being honest.”
Now I’m lying to my fiancé.
Mandy nods her head, her perfectly coifed hair bobbing over her cashmere sweater. More relief. More smiles. “I’m proud of you, Dean. I know it’s not easy to—”
I spit out the bite of sandwich as soon as it touches my tongue, dropping the plate and wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand. “This is turkey?”
Mandy gapes at me, her glossy lips parted with alarm. “Y-Yes. You love turkey.”
“I don’t love turkey.”
“I thought…”
I close my eyes, shoving the painful flashbacks away as I shake my head. “I don’t love it anymore.” I trek backwards out of the small kitchen, trying to control my breathing. “I think I need a nap.”
“Dean…” Mandy follows me to the couch, sitting down beside me, closer than I’d prefer, and grazes her super-sized fingernails that resemble talons along my knee. “I’m here for you, babe. What can I do?”
I think over all the things she can do, but she won’t like any of them.
Go home.
Stay home.
Give me some fucking space.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, guilt soaring through me in waves.
I hate that I’m pushing away my girlfriend of fifteen years—I know she’s only trying to help.
I know she cares and wants me to get better.
But I feel like an entirely different man, and I’m not even sure this man wants to marry this woman anymore.
I’m fucking broken.
The thought stabs me like the edge of a dagger as I lay my head back against the leather couch cushion. I feel Mandy slide up even closer, her hand trailing higher and higher until…
I grab her hand before it reaches its destination, trying not to crack under the weight of the rejection in her eyes .
“Dean… please. We haven’t been intimate in almost six weeks.” Mandy’s eyes begin to mist, her nails digging into my palm. “I miss you.”
Jesus, I feel like the biggest goddamn asshole. Mandy and I always had a pretty normal sex life—a little vanilla, but I had no complaints. She’s sexy and willing and mine, and yet… I can’t fucking do it.
I’m not ready.
“I just need a little more time,” I say, letting her down as gently as possible. I have no idea how much more time I’ll need. All I know is that it’s too soon.
I just can’t.
Mandy scoots backwards, dropping her chin to her chest as the rejection manifests into anger. “I figured after weeks of celibacy, you’d be all over me.”
A prickling heat crawls up the back of my neck and settles in my ears. Fuck .
“You were only down there for three weeks, Dean,” Mandy continues, still avoiding my eyes. “I thought you would… you know, bounce back by now.”
Only three weeks .
Mandy and I once took a vacation to Cancun for three weeks.
It’s funny—I hardly remember any of it. That could have something to do with the unlimited drink packages and the spoiled pozole that knocked me on my ass for a few of those days, but…
the memories are vague and fuzzy. Only bits and pieces stand out.
I remember every vivid detail about that basement.
The dripping pipe. The cracks and ridges in the stone wall on my right.
The pink foam insulation overhead, peeking out of the wooden beams in the ceiling.
The way the sunrise cast a radiant beam of light into our dungeon, magnifying all of the little dust particles in the air.
I tried to count them one morning, but the light kept shifting and I’d lose track.
I remember the Daddy Long Leg spider in the cobwebbed corner that never seemed to move. I thought he was dead until I caught the tiniest twitch of one of his thin legs. I wondered how long he could go without food.
I bet he wondered the same thing about me.
I remember the gaudy, floral wallpaper in that moldy bathroom and the way it peeled from every corner, revealing decayed walls and water damage. I recall looking in the dusty mirror, not recognizing the man reflecting back at me.
Cora .
I think about the way she chewed on her lip while we played ‘Twenty Questions’ to pass the time. She took the game seriously, like she was up for the grand prize on a cheesy game show.
I remember the golden glints in her emerald eyes that seemed to fade with each passing day.
I recall the occasional smile I would pull out of her. They felt so magical—so beautifully out of place. Her smile was the closest thing I felt to being rescued over the course of those twenty days.
I remember the goosebumps on her skin when I’d gently caress her cheek, or her hip, or her thigh, trying to bring as much tenderness to the moment as possible. It’s just the cold , I told myself. But sometimes a small sound or squeak would accompany the goosebumps and she’d give herself away.
It was only three weeks, but it’s burned into every cell, every vein, every tainted pocket of my soul.
Forever .
And so is she.
I break down the following Saturday morning and send her a text message.
Me: Can we grab coffee? We should talk.
I pace back and forth through my living room in just my sweatpants, staring at my phone screen and scratching the back of my neck, noting that I really need to get a damn haircut.
She reads the message fairly quickly, and I hold my breath, bracing myself for a shut down.
Cora: I suppose. But only because I’m standing at your front door right now.
I blink at the response, processing her words.
Well, shit .
I jog over to the front of my townhouse, pulling open the door to reveal a bundled-up Cora, sprinkled with snowflakes, her hands in her pockets. Her eyes drift downward as the icy wind blasts me, and I remember that I’m shirtless.
She brings her gaze up from my naked chest with a sharp swallow. “You forgot your shirt.”
“You forgot to tell me you were dropping by unexpectedly. ”
“Then it wouldn’t have been unexpected.”
Faint smiles creep onto both of our faces, almost as if we forgot how but we’re trying to remember.
I take a step back, encouraging her to enter.
Cora hesitates for a moment before moving forward and stomping her snow-covered boots against my welcome mat.
I watch her shake the flurries from her hair and notice that one sticks to her eyelashes.
I want to lean in and swipe it away, but I keep my arms at my sides.
“What brings you by?” I stuff my hands into the pockets of my sweats, rocking on the heels of my feet.
“Same reason you texted me, I’m guessing.
” Cora unzips her coat and slips out of her boots, sweeping her fingers through damp hair as she takes tentative steps through my entryway.
Her eyes dance across the messy living area littered with empty potato chip bags and beer bottles, random piles of laundry, and my bed comforter I’ve been using for when I fall asleep on the couch at random hours watching mindless television shows.
Her eyes are brimming with sympathy as she cuts them back to me, pulling her arms out of her coat sleeves.
I take the jacket from her and hang it over the back of my recliner. “Sorry for the mess.” I scratch the scruff along my jawline—I still haven’t shaved. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
Cora shrugs her shoulders, a gray, oversized sweater dipping off one of them, and continues her idle perusal. “My house isn’t any better.” Her gaze lands on my side table where a book is being used as a coaster for my Miller Lite. “ Of Mice and Men ,” she mutters quietly.
We make eye contact and it lingers, and the longer it lingers, the harder it is to break away.
But I’m the first to lower my head, massaging the back of my neck with my hand.
I reach for a stray t-shirt that luckily only smells like my cedarwood deodorant, then pull it on while Cora watches from a few feet away. I clear my throat. “Coffee?”
She nods. “Sure.”
I bring two full mugs out of the kitchen a few minutes later and find Cora on my couch with her feet pulled up. She’s flipping through the book, but sets it back down when I approach.