39. “My Immortal” - Evanescence
“My Immortal” - Evanescence
Henry is gone when I wake up. I refuse to assume the worst, much to the dismay of the cynical voice in my head, which keeps hammering away at the front of my skull. I sit up in bed and survey the evidence of our late-night activities.
My clothes are crumpled in a pile next to the bed, my shoes discarded near the sofa. Several empty condom wrappers lie on the nightstand, a tingling reminder of Henry’s incredible stamina.
Will it ever get old, this feeling of being completely consumed by him? It’s like being on drugs, or at least the way I imagine being on drugs feels, except I have the advantage of not coming down from the high.
At least not yet, the nag in my head snarks.
I silence her with a hot shower and the retort that Henry will be back by the time I’m done.
When I walk out of the bathroom, he’s just coming into the room, carrying a tray of what appears to be breakfast. He’s wearing a T-shirt and joggers, a triangle of sweat on his chest. He looks a hundred times better than the food he’s holding.
See? I tell my cynical subconscious.
I smile at him. “Hey, I missed you this morning. Good run?”
He nods and hands me the food but doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’m going to take a shower.” He hesitates for a second, then presses a kiss to my forehead before heading into the bathroom.
Bile surges up my throat. I set the plate on the table with a clatter and take a sip of coffee. I don’t know what it is yet, but I can’t deny it any longer.
Something is definitely wrong.
A while later, Henry emerges from the bathroom, freshly shaven and smelling like a dream. He grabs a donut from the breakfast tray I don’t have the appetite for and demolishes it in three bites.
I cock an eyebrow. “Hungry?”
“Famished,” he says, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the carafe. He has yet to so much as glance at me.
“Henry.” I wait for him to look up. He doesn’t. “We need to talk.”
He nods as he polishes off a second donut. “I know.” He glances at his watch. “We have about two hours before your plane is scheduled to leave.”
My blood runs cold, and my fingers become icicles in my lap. “What are you talking about?”
Instead of answering, he walks into the restroom, and I hear the tap turn on. When he doesn’t return, I follow him. He’s standing with his hands on the vanity, staring at the marble floor.
I move closer and place my hand on his back. It’s warm and strong, and I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him, but he tenses at my touch and closes his eyes.
“Please talk to me.” I drop my hand. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry.” He sighs and finally meets my eyes in the mirror. “For everything.”
“You’re sorry for everything,” I repeat in a monotone. “Even yesterday? Last night?”
“No.” Pushing off from the counter, he rubs his eyes. “I don’t know.”
I make an incredulous sound. “Wow. Okay.” I blink rapidly and forbid tears from forming. “How soon are you coming home? Because I can wait. That would give us time to talk about this, and then we can fly home together.”
Henry’s mouth is a grim, hard line when he turns to face me. “I’m not coming home, C.”
Whatever expression I was wearing, I feel it falling as my face melts into a blank stare. “What are you talking about?”
“You heard me. You’re going. I’m staying.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You’re not doing this to me again. I’m staying with you.”
“You have a country to run.”
“Exactly. And I want you at my side.”
“That’s impossible.”
“No,” I say, “you’re the one who’s being impossible. You can’t tell me you don’t feel anything for me.”
“Celia, for the love of god, can you please not make this any harder?” He props his hand against the wall. Frustration radiates off him.
“Tell me it meant nothing, and I’ll go.” I wait, but he doesn’t speak. “You can’t, because we both know this is bigger than the two of us. You feel it too. I know you do.” I trace his jawline with my finger.
He shudders and pushes past me into the bedroom. I follow on his heels, ready to burst. Grabbing my discarded clothes from the floor, he begins shoving them into my bag on the bed. I yank his arm away from the suitcase, desperate for him to stop and look me in the eye.
He spins around, seizes my wrists, and pushes me up against the wall, his face inches from mine.
He’s finally meeting my eyes, and I see my own pain reflected in them.
We stay like that for what feels like an eternity, and when he finally releases me, I suck in my breath like a drowning person on solid ground again.
Hands on his hips, he stares out the window, his back to me. I ache to slide my hands around him and bury my face in the soft folds on his T-shirt, but I know he’ll only push me away.
“Henry. Please.” It’s a plea, a sob, a prayer.
He slowly turns to face me. He’s regained his composure, and his face is now an expressionless mask. “You need to finish packing.” His voice is a robot’s, cold and impersonal.
I glance at the suitcase, its contents spilling out onto the bed. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothing is going on, Celia. I don’t do relationships. You know this.”
I do know this, but like the world’s biggest idiot, I thought it was different with me. “You are such an ass!” I scream, pounding his chest with my fists. “Someday you’ll meet someone, and you’ll give her everything. Everything you promised me will be hers.”
He removes my hands as if I’m nothing more than a nuisance. “I didn’t promise you anything.”
A shaky sob spills past my lips. He’s right. He didn’t. I’m the one who read too much into the actions of a world-renowned playboy. “You knew how I felt. You implied the feeling was mutual.”
“I happen to be a really good actor.”
“Damn you, Henry!” I grab the universal remote from the nightstand and hurl it at his head.
He ducks it effortlessly, letting it slam into the wall. “Look, if you don’t pack, I’ll do it for you. It doesn’t matter to me. But you will be on that plane.”
“Why?” I yell, grabbing his face between my hands. “Tell me why you did it.”
He hisses through his teeth like I’ve burned him and takes a step back. “I thought we’d have a good time, and we did. But this”—he motions between us—“will never happen again.”
I didn’t think the giant crack in my heart could possibly get any wider, but hearing him confirm my worst fear makes me realize the pain I felt before was just the tip of the iceberg.
I’m spiraling out of control, and there is no stopping it. “You’re lying. I know you feel something.” I run my hands down his chest. “Kiss me. Prove there’s nothing.”
He stiffens, then pushes my hands away. “I’m not going to kiss you. And don’t touch me again.” Turning back to the window, he drags his fingers through his hair.
Had you asked me earlier, I would have said that after the initial pang, each subsequent injury would hurt less. It’s the first one that’s the hardest. But now I know that isn’t true. I know this is it. There is no future for us.
“So you really don’t care?” My voice is nothing more than a wobbly whisper.
“I never said that.”
“Then why are you throwing me out like some random woman you slept with?”
“Don’t ever say that. That is not what you are.”
I gulp down a shaky sob. “Then why?”
“Because nothing has changed.”
“Everything has changed. I gave you everything. You made love to me.”
He hangs his head. “And I’ve regretted it ever since.”
I can’t stop the cry that slips out of my mouth.
I sink to the floor because my legs refuse to hold me up any longer.
The rug beneath me has an intricate design, likely Persian, with splashes of red and blue.
I wonder how many hours went into creating its timeless beauty.
The fibers look like they would be rough, but they are surprisingly soft beneath my fingertips.
I lay my face down on them and weep.
I don’t notice when Henry leaves the room. I eventually open my swollen eyes to see the sun considerably higher in the sky, and abstractly, I wonder if I’ve missed my plane.
I stand up and study the room. Everything has been tidied, and my bags are packed and set by the door. Henry’s wallet lies abandoned on the desk. He couldn’t have chosen a clearer way to signal that what we never had is over.
I wander into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, then turn from my reflection in the mirror. I can’t remember ever looking worse.
There’s a knock at the bedroom door. I open it, unsure of who I’ll find on the other side, but it’s only Daphne. The way my heart sinks tells me she isn’t who I was hoping for.
Her calm expression never falters, as if finding her employer in this state is something she does every day. “The car is ready to take us to the airport, Your Royal Highness,” she says. “I see your bags are packed. Are you all set?”
I want to scream. “Do you know where Henry is?” I ask instead.
“I’m not exactly sure, ma’am, but I don’t think . . .”
He’s even stolen my maid’s allegiance. Will the hits ever stop coming? “Okay,” I say. “I’m just going to use the restroom, and then I’ll be ready to leave.”
I stumble back to the bathroom and hold a cold washcloth to my face. Would that I had a genie in a bottle to magically erase the blotchy stains. I have cried a river of tears over this man. It’s time to stem the flood.
Swallowing the giant mass in my throat, I run a brush through my hair. I rub a small amount of moisturizer onto my face and pray the circulation will encourage my skin to return to its normal hue.
While in the car to the airport, I unlock my phone to buy a few minutes of distraction.
A smattering of messages clog my inbox, mostly from Maisie and Beatrice, who are concerned by my silence.
I don’t respond. I’ll be home soon enough.
Besides, I need every minute I have left before I get there to pick up the pieces and put them back together in a way that somewhat resembles who I used to be.
The latest message from Bea is a link to a London gossip site where the top article features a picture of Henry and me kissing and the headline Prince and Princess Rendezvous in London. I click out of it in disgust.
Without even realizing I’m doing it, I catch myself scanning the airstrip for signs of him, but he, of course, is nowhere to be found. So much the better. Seeing him would only threaten the thin veneer I’ve managed to get into place.
Once we’re in the air, I search the oversize tote Daphne packed for something to read.
It would take a terrorist attack to keep my mind from agonizing over Henry, but I’ll settle for a novel.
There is a book at the bottom of the bag.
Bless Daphne. I pull it out. Wuthering Heights. Damn it. I shove it back inside.
The action dislodges an envelope wedged down the side of the bag. I tug it out, but the familiar handwriting nearly makes me jam it back. Even on a bloody plane I can’t escape him. Regardless, I’m like a moth to a flame. I tear it open.
The first thing I pull out is the divorce papers, once again neatly stacked and folded. Message received, Henry. The next thing is a letter.
Celia,
I can’t think straight when I’m around you. So I’m resorting to a letter once again to tell you what I need to say.
I shouldn’t have let you stay in my room. I shouldn’t have made love to you. And I sure as hell shouldn’t have let you believe we had a future together. Please know how sorry I am for all of it. My only excuse is that seeing you in my suite was my undoing.
I let myself pretend for a minute. I thought maybe there was a chance.
And so I made the mistake of allowing you to think something had changed, when I knew all along nothing had.
I knew the illusion couldn’t go on forever, but I just wanted to live in the bubble a little longer.
When we were finally caught on camera, I knew it had to end. We don’t belong together.
I wish I had been strong enough to do it right away. I might have saved you some pain. But I wasn’t. I wanted to hold you one more night, to make love to you one more time. It was wrong and selfish and, god, I’m so sorry.
It doesn’t change anything, but I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
It kills me to think of the pain I’ve caused you.
The hardest thing I’ve ever done was walk away from you lying on the floor of my room, sobbing because of what I did.
It took everything in me to not grab you and hold you.
But I knew that if I did, I would never let go, and that would be doing you a greater wrong than letting you cry alone.
I know you won’t be satisfied with this answer. You never are, my darling girl, but it’s going to have to be enough. I can’t promise you won’t see me again, but I’ll do my damnedest to stay out of your life. I know it’s the only way you’ll be able to move on.
And move on is what you need to do. I’ve distracted you long enough. Wesbourne needs you, and you’re going to go down in history as her greatest queen. Your potential is brimming over. With me out of your life for good, you can finally do everything you were meant to.
Dry your tears, baby, and don’t shed any more on my account.
In time, you’ll find someone who will erase me from your memory.
Maybe you and Beck can work things out. Just remember, you deserve the very best, so promise you won’t settle.
Wait for the one who brings out the best in you. He’s out there.
I know you’re crying as you read this, and I wish I could kiss the tears from your eyes. Don’t cry for me, please. I can’t stand to think of you wasting your tears on me.
Be strong. For me.
x Henry
The human heart is a funny thing. It doesn’t break the way a dropped water glass does, suddenly and all at once, its pieces scattering across the floor.
No, a heart breaks slowly, the fissures only felt at first—sensed—until finally a giant crack opens and pain oozes out.
But then it keeps breaking, the chasm opening wider each time and shards breaking off, never to be recovered.
Just when you think it’s surely over, that the pain can’t possibly get any worse, it wrenches yet again and you realize that what you felt before was nothing compared to this latest break, the one that leaves you breathless, aching, panting for relief.
The process can last for years, or it can take place in a matter of hours.
Whether I will ever recover is not the point. As the plane flies lower over the country I know and love so well, a bold certainty creeps into my heart. I have to recover. And if that proves too difficult, I’ll do my best to fake it.
Wesbourne is waiting for me.