Chapter 27
Bonnie
I thought I'd exaggerated how horrible it was living under their roof, and had imagined some sort of reunion over the coming months or years. I now know without a shadow of a doubt that there is nothing left for me in Ireland.
I stare at my reflection in Twiggy’s bedroom mirror. It’s the morning of the funeral, and Twiggy is already waiting in the lounge for me, but I can’t make myself move faster. Which is surprising because for the past eight days, all I’ve done is wait for this day to come, counting down the seconds until I can return to New York.
It reminded me of those days when I’d listen to the endless dripping of water into the puddle of the old warehouse where we preferred to stay rather than go home to Nan’s all those years ago.
The woman staring back at me looks much better than I feel. My eyes aren’t bloodshot, no bags under my eyes. There’s even some color in my cheeks. I’m surprised, considering I haven’t stepped out of the apartment in eight days.
I’ve spoken to no one except Twiggy, and the longest conversation we had was a week ago when he’d returned home from Nan’s house and told me they’d set the date for the funeral.
It was hard, but I decided to wait because I knew that if I went back to New York, I’d never return to Ireland. As soon as Twiggy told me the time of the funeral, I booked my flight back for the same day.
Still reeling from Nan’s sudden death, my parents’ cold reception was another heartbreak I hadn't anticipated. So, when Ethan sent me a text on the third day and again on the fifth, asking if everything was okay, I didn’t respond.
I’m falling in love with him and everything he represents. Ethan makes me feel giddy with desire and looks at me like I’m the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen.
But I’m not. I’m so not. My parents’ cold reception is all too tangible proof. I can't bear another heartbreak.
And Ethan will break my heart.It's too good to be true.
I also got a text from Sabrina asking me to call her. I can’t call her. No one knows about my life in Ireland. I’d have to lie about what’s happening right now, and I can’t be bothered to pretend like I’ve got it together.
“Bonnie?”
A soft knock on the door brings me back. Twiggy is waiting. He’s been so supportive this past week, although I can tell he’s struggling to accept my parents' treatment of me and was shocked to hear about the cult. He’s been wanting to talk, but I’ve not felt up to it, not in a condition to be anyone’s sounding board.
“Yes. I’m ready.”
I check my outfit for the last time. It's a plain black, long-sleeved dress. I put my veiled hat on and join Twiggy outside.
The moment Twiggy pulls into the parking lot and we approach the hall, I know something is very wrong. Apart from the beat-up van, there’s no other car in the parking lot. There are a few bicycles, though.
In the cult, they don’t really own cars.
“Twiggy, do you remember if my father mentioned anything about a Sect or a Harmonial service for the funeral?” I ask.
“No, I don’t. Why?”
“Um, nothing. Let’s go.”
The moment we reach the door of the hall, my fears are confirmed. It’s a Harmonial Sect funeral service.
With a mix of dread and overwhelming guilt, I hesitate at the doorway, peering into the darkness beyond and the soft, flickering lights of the hundreds of candles and the elongated shadows cast across the walls.
Twiggy, sensing my trepidation, puts his hand on the small of my back and encourages me on. As we make our way into the hall, I notice the quiet murmur of congregants, their attire marked by ugly, loose-fitting garments.
I feel eyes on us and hear whispers. I’m not dressed like them, so, of course, I stand out, and not to mention Twiggy with his waist-length blond hair, expensive tailored black shirt and blazer, with several buttons open to reveal the upper part of his muscular chest. I wonder if some people have recognized the Siobhán who sinned and ran away and are promptly updating the others.
I see none of Nan’s bingo or book club friends, and I realize with shock that everyone outside of the Sect was shut out. I would have been, too, if not for Twiggy. A fresh pang of hurt hits my heart.
My father sits on a raised dais, looking somber and regal.
Revulsion and rage well inside me for his audacity to desecrate her memory and her wishes. Nan had no will, but she resisted everything the Sect stood for while she was alive.
I want to scream at my mother, calling her out for being too weak to stand up to her bully of a husband.
But most of all, I blame myself for letting it happen. I was too wrapped up in my own grief and pain to speak up for the one person who believed in me against all odds and raised me as hers. While I was huddled away, selfishly licking my wounds, these crazy people had overridden Nan’s final wishes.
Beyond her wishes to be cremated, which they had at least carried out, according to Twiggy, everything else was done the way Father wanted it.
Finally locating a bench near the back, I ignore the way my skin crawls and grab Twiggy’s hand for support.
Being the Sect master, my father, of course, officiates. He goes to the podium, staring straight at me, and starts with the major tenet of the Harmonial Creed. Those words I seem to have forgotten come surging back to me now. “The path to purity is narrow…”
The congregants answer, “...and the allure of wealth nurtures the seeds of sin.”
I feel the walls close in on me then, with the whispered entreaties. Each strained breath I take is like a battle against the awful memories. The anguish of the past is a haunting reminder of a time when I dared to defy the rules that governed our Sect and the scars of how I paid dearly for that defiance.
Everything comes rushing back to me until I'm drowning in guilt and self-loathing. Everytime I kick against the rules, there is always a price to pay. And I’m doing the same thing again, crushing on a gorgeous, rich boy and throwing myself at him repeatedly and shamelessly.
The way I felt about Jake is nothing compared to this relentless, overwhelming need for Ethan. I can only imagine that the retribution would be so much worse than anything I experienced with Jake.
I would never survive it if Ethan hurt me. And he will hurt me. I just know he will.
After the funeral service, I return to New York with a renewed sense of clarity and a resolve to break things off with Ethan permanently. Starting now.
I send him a text message.
Me: Thanks for all your help. Sorry I didn’t reply to your messages. I’m back home now. I came to you the other night because I was reeling with shock and feeling vulnerable. Now, I sorely regret imposing on you that way and promise that it will never happen again. I’d appreciate it if we kept things strictly professional from now on.
Half an hour later, I get his reply.
Ethan: Alright, Bonnie. I understand. I’ve approved two weeks of bereavement leave for you, so no rush to return. Take care.
And that was that. I’m glad he didn’t make a fuss. It's best this way to avoid getting hurt.
Why then does my heart feel like it’s breaking into a million pieces?
I spend the rest of the day in bed, hoping to take a refreshing nap but I was unable to shut down my thoughts.
Seeing my father has put me in such a weird headspace, and it feels as though all the progress I made in the last five years- moving to the States, and cutting myself away from the toxicity of my past has been reversed in just ten days.
The guilt of perpetually disappointing my parents to the point that they’d rather write off their only child, weighs on me. I'm always letting them down with my desires and life choices, which have never aligned with theirs.
One thing I never did, even at the lowest point in my life, was to self-harm. However, it’s becoming apparent with each passing minute that breaking things off with Ethan because of my suffering only served to hurt me more.
Although, technically, there was nothing to break off. We weren't even a thing.
Not that my mind or body understands, not with how I’m withdrawing. I want him so bad that the need within me feels like a physical ache.
That in itself makes me panic. I’ve only been with the man twice, and it’s already this difficult to stay away from him.
I need to get over the obsession, and fast.
Later that day, after many hours of trying to rest, Stella calls me.
“Hi, Stella.”
“Where have you been, girl? You went MIA.”
“I lost my Nan, so I went back to Ireland for her funeral.”
“What! Bonnie, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have gone with you if you wanted,” she says, and I can tell she’s being genuine.
It my age-old need to keep my past away from my present, which is why I'd never take her up on that offer.
“Thanks Stella, but it was all so sudden, and I had to fly out the next day. I stayed until after the funeral.”
“Oh, that must have been an awful couple of weeks for you,” she empathizes.
“You have no idea,” I say simply. "What's happening?" I'm eager to change the subject, and I know she called for a reason.
“I just called to see if you’ll be attending the Reed’s grand opening, but you might not be in the mood. It's okay if you want to miss it,” she says.
Xavier’s new hotel on Long Beach opens in a couple of nights. I completely forgot, despite knowing that the girls mentioned it to me at some point.
“Oh, it’s okay. I can't mope forever. I’ll have to come out at some point. Did you want to go together?”
“I already have a date, which is why I wanted to check if you were coming by yourself. It was pretty much last minute. As the single women in the group, we have to stick together.”
“Of course. Is your date anyone I know?” I ask, already curious. Stella and I are similar in the sense that we don't do relationships. I'm not expecting it's anything remotely serious, but you never know.
Here I am for instance, head over heels for a guy who is the complete opposite of my usual type.
“Oh, he's just some model I styled. I thought he'd look fantastic on my arm." Stella giggles. "Come to think of it, he’s got a hunky friend with a nice smile who I think is just your type,” she offers.
I raise my eyebrow. “I didn’t realize that I had a type!” I certainly have a type, but I didn't realize Stella knew that.
“More like a pattern. You like them pretty and nice and quiet. Submissive. It goes well with the dominatrix, leather-wearing, crop-snapping persona of yours.”
Gosh, it sucks when your friends notice your habits over time. “Your imagination is wild, Stella.”
“Maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but still, no smoke without fire Bonnie. I can't be all that wrong,” she responds.
“Actually, you’re pretty spot on,” I admit, although with Ethan, it’s so different.
Even a lioness is a kitten in front of a dinosaur.
“Awesome, so are we going with these eye candies or not?”
“Sign me up,” I say.