6. Chapter 6 #2
Of Kylan Quinn, the man whose love I desperately needed to forget but somehow couldn’t, still couldn’t. Why was he still haunting me, years later? Why did it feel like every time I thought of him, my heart broke again and again, as fresh and raw as the first time?
And I just … shut down.
Was this all because of the stupid Instagram post?
He might have come and gone already. And why would it matter anyway?
It’s not like our paths would cross, and even if they did, so what?
It was so far in the past. Four years was forever ago.
Well, maybe not that long, but I’d dated many guys since then.
Surely he’d been with many women too, if his Instagram photos were any indication.
I hadn’t allowed myself to open Instagram since the day I’d seen that photo.
Not that I’d been on my phone all that much in the past week anyway, but when I had, I’d resisted clicking on the photo app.
It would do me no good to learn any details about where he was, whether he was still in town, why he was here in the first place, who he was with …
I felt a stab of pain in my chest and curled up into a ball under the covers.
By now there must be a permanent imprint of my body on the mattress in the fetal position.
Why now , of all times, was Kylan the only thing I could think about?
I had far more devastating things happen to me lately.
Heck, I’d rather think about the womanizer Brandon.
Yet I couldn’t. It turned out … he was nothing to me.
Had he ever been? Had any of them? It was almost as though nothing had mattered—nothing had been real—since Kylan.
What? That’s insane. Am I going crazy?
Maybe I had a fever again. Could that happen after someone has already recovered?
Some indeterminate amount of time later, Rafael was peeling back the covers and pinching his nose. “Girl, I’m sorry, but you need to shower.”
I ignored that. I was holed up in my room with no responsibilities and nowhere to be. Why shower? But I sat up slowly, brushing some oily red strands behind my ears.
“Raf, do I have a fever again? Am I sick? I feel like I have a heavy weight on my chest, on all of me really, holding me down. I don’t want to get out of bed. But when I sleep, my dreams are … dark.” I sniffed. “I must be sick.”
He came very close and then reared back, pinching his nose again. “Well, you badly need to brush your teeth, but I don’t smell booze. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t drunk.”
I glared at him. “I wish. I asked Rainn to pick me up some vodka yesterday, but he seems to have conveniently forgotten about it.” I crossed my arms and frowned. “Do you think I’m feverish again? Another viral thing or the same one?”
His knowing look told me I wasn’t going to like what he had to say. But it was better to know, right? “Uh, well, I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure these are not viral symptoms. It’s called depression.”
“What?” I blinked a few times. “Oh. I guess so.” I sat up, running my fingers through my rat’s nest of hair. “But I’m having some crazy thoughts, maybe delirium, fever dreams? Maybe you should check my temperature just in case? ”
His lips twitched, but he nodded and searched the nearby table for the thermometer.
A minute later, he pronounced me fever-free, but instead of smiling, his look was full of sympathy. “Do you want to talk, Annie?”
“What’s there to say, Raf? My life is a mess right now. I’m having a pity party, a party for one. Something stupid like that. You know everything already, nothing more to talk about. Just get me the vodka I asked for.”
“Are you sure, Annie?” As he studied me, I had to avert my eyes. He was trying to see into my soul, and I couldn’t let that happen.
After all, there’s probably nothing there.
“Of course I’m sure,” I said, starting to lie back down. “It’s just—”
Suddenly my phone rang somewhere nearby.
It was on the bed somewhere rather than on the nightstand.
I felt around for it with my hand. Lately, I’d been more apt to let calls go to voicemail, but taking this call—any call—might be better than continuing this conversation with Rafael.
However, it was proving hard to find the phone.
The caller tried a second time, and I attempted again to locate the phone, this time finally finding it wedged between the headboard and the mattress.
My face fell when I saw the name on the screen. Jacqueline.
Rafael saw it at the same time. “Annie, no .”
I felt torn, but at the moment, talking to my mother felt like a better option than dealing with Rafael’s prying and eventually finding out the source of my current emotional strife. “She’s my mother,” I whispered just before answering the call.
He shook his head with a pained expression and turned to leave the room.
“Hi, M–mother,” I managed, my voice already shaking.
“Anastasia, why have you been so difficult to reach?”
I swallowed with some effort. My mother wouldn’t understand, yet … “I had a really terrible week, Mom. I was sick, a man betrayed me, I quit—”
“Anastasia, calm yourself!” she exclaimed, her tone harsh. “I did not raise you to be hysterical. How do you think it makes me feel, hearing you speak like this, and after making it so hard to contact you!”
I was at a loss for words, as usual.
“I’m astounded that you could be so careless with my feelings,” my mother continued. “Though perhaps I should be accustomed to it by now.”
“I’m sorry, Mother,” I heard myself whisper.
After some silence, my mother spoke in a more delicate tone. “There, there. I forgive you, as I always do. But you can’t expect men to always be so forgiving, my darling, which is probably why your man has left you …” and on she went.
She knows nothing of the situation with Brandon, but she assumes I’m at fault. I should be livid, but … could she be right? Did I somehow push him into other women’s arms? Was that even possible?
Some saner part of me wanted to ask why on earth I was letting my mother get into my head at all, but it was drowned out.
“See, this is a perfect example where you could improve, Anastasia. I’ve called you to tell you my news, yet you’ve monopolized the conversation, haven’t you? And I’ve allowed it because I am a kind, adoring mother. It’s always been my weakness, I suppose.”
I bit my tongue, hoping I didn’t draw blood.
“I called to give you formal notice of our visit in the near future.”
“We?”
“Yes, to Minn-e-sota .” She said Minnesota as though it were a foreign word to her, never uttered before, something strange and perhaps even unsavory.
As though her only daughter hadn’t lived there for her entire adult life.
“It’s as I mentioned earlier, though Alcott has decided he wants to move sooner.
Dear Caroline needs to find a position and a new home in St. Paul before the end of this year. ”
“Mom, hold on,” I said, frustration rising above the meekness that had taken hold earlier in the conversation. “What are you talking about? I have no idea who Alcott and Caroline are, for starters.”
My mother gasped. “Anastasia, you—I—” she sputtered. “I can only assume you’re still suffering from severe illness. Dear Caroline is Ricardo’s lovely daughter, just finishing her residency at Johns Hopkins. Alcott is her dear husband. Surely you remember.”
I remembered nothing of the sort, but the name Ricardo sounded familiar. I searched my brain as quickly as I could. “Ricardo … the drug company guy?”
“Yes, he owns a pharmaceutical company,” my mother said testily. “Anastasia, you are severely trying my patience.”
I exhaled slowly. It would be easier to just play along. “Sorry. So what can I do for you, Mother?”
“We expected you could provide assistance to Caroline as she looks for suitable positions and of course a new home in St. Paul.”
“I … well, I’m not a medical recruiter or a real estate agent, Mother.”
“I’m aware, dear. What is it you do again?” My mother paused. “Never mind. I only meant that you could provide any assistance that Caroline requests, perhaps serving as her virtual assistant as she arranges their new life from afar. Surely even you could manage that.”
I swallowed the wave of nausea rising in me. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t. Shouldn’t.
“But I could have informed you of this by text message or email, darling. The true reason I called is to inform you that I’ll be visiting.
We all will, actually. I wanted you to be one of the first to know, as my daughter.
We want to make sure you have plenty of time to make due preparations for our visit.
When I have the exact dates, I will let you know. ”
“Oh, uh, I—wh—” Something like a word salad came out of my mouth.
“I had thought to ask if you had a sufficient number of guest rooms in your home with Brendan, but if he’s left you, I gather that is no longer an option. Or is it? After all, you didn’t inherit my stunning beauty for nothing … perhaps you will lure him back.”
Oh, so now she remembers his name, does she? Well, almost. But not the name of my best friend for over a decade .
My stomach turned, and I felt a slight wave of dizziness as her words echoed through my mind.
Finally, I replied, “Brandon doesn’t even live in town, Mother.
He—he was only visiting. Staying at the Four Seasons.
And no, we’re not together anymore and never will be. He’s a terrible person. He cheated.”
I heard a clucking sound. “Oh, darling. You still have much to learn. It’s fortunate I’ll be visiting soon, and we can work on your …
perspective, among other things.” And then she giggled .
I nearly expired from shock. “But I’m getting ahead of myself.
As I said, we shall let you know when we have firm dates for travel.
The Four Seasons is exactly what I had in mind.
Thanks for the suggestion, darling. I will be in touch—”
“No!” I croaked. “Not, I mean, I’d rather you didn’t stay at that hotel. I don’t know how long Brandon will be there, and I’d hate to run into him—”
“Nonsense, dearest. Ricardo will want only the best for dear Caroline and Alcott and, of course, for me, the love of his life.” Her tone turned accusing.
“Not everything can revolve around you, Anastasia. One would think I erred greatly as a mother in indulging your feelings far too much and too often when you were a child. But I could hardly be to blame. I’ve only done the best that any mother could, under the circumstances.
If I indulged you too much, well, it is only because I am such a loving person … ”
And on my mother droned. I didn’t hear any more but merely set the phone down on the bed next to me. Jacqueline would end the call eventually, none the wiser.
I stared at my nails, but not really seeing them.
There were no tears. I was somewhat numb, but not numb enough.
If the guys won’t bring me the liquor, I’ll just go find some.
As the second shot of whiskey burned a path down my throat, I realized this stuff tasted much worse now than it did in my teens and early 20s.
Jack Daniels was no longer my drink of choice, but it was all I’d been able to find in the kitchen, besides beer and wine, which were obviously far too weak for a day like today.
Just like I was.
But even as my throat burned and my taste buds objected with each shot, a calming, pleasantly heavy feeling began to spread through my core and then my limbs. Eventually, I could barely taste it, and I knew from experience that meant it was time to slow down.
I wanted numb. I wanted to not feel. But I didn’t want to be violently ill.
I knew my limits. Or at least I thought so.
In the last couple years, drinking hadn’t held nearly as much appeal as it once did.
Sure, I drank at parties and bars or occasionally threw a few back to relax with my roommates.
I was the consummate party girl, so of course I drank socially.
Sometimes a lot. But I almost never drank when alone or sad.
Not since …
Well, him.
Not since I ended a relationship with the man who’d been head over heels in love with me.
The man who was everything good in a person—the man I had never deserved.
The man I couldn’t forget … the one whose love I couldn’t put out of my mind, couldn’t erase from my body’s memory, couldn’t eradicate from my dreams.
“Kylan,” I said hoarsely. I rarely allowed myself to even think his name, much less say it aloud.
My fingers were shaky as I unlocked my phone screen and swiped to the Instagram icon, which I’d hidden on a distant home screen that I rarely used. My fingers hovered just above the screen, over the icon.
This is a mistake.
I should delete Instagram. Or unfollow him.
But my fingers apparently had a mind of their own, tapping to open the app .
After a brief moment of mindless scrolling in which I convinced myself that was all I’d do, I sighed heavily. I might as well just do what I knew I was going to end up doing: Go to his profile. Look for updates.
Taking one more shot for courage, I typed his name in the search and opened his page.
No new photos. The most recent one was from last week, from the airport.
Does that mean he’s still here? Or he just didn’t feel the need to announce his return?
The latter was more likely. He wasn’t the kind of guy who posted constant updates to narrate his life; in fact, his posts were infrequent and typically didn’t reveal much about his life. This was both a relief and a frustration, of course.
Feeling a little disappointed by the lack of new photos, I then noticed the videos section on his profile.
Two recent videos, from this past weekend actually.
Did I dare watch them?
Yes.
No!
I flopped down on the bed, my breathing faster as I imagined seeing a video of him.
It could be, like, his dog. Or his dinner. Or a sunset. Or a girlfriend.
My stomach churned.
Or it could just be … him .
The room was spinning now. I squeezed my eyes shut to block it out: the room, the phone, him. Especially him.