Chapter 21 #2
Relief washed over me when I realized what was actually in the box. About a dozen cigars were stacked neatly inside, some wrapped in plastic while others were covered in intricate paper labels. I picked up a more expensive-looking one, with a big gold foil label that read romeo y julieta.
“You’re worried for nothing,” I muttered to myself, cringing inwardly for letting some kind of unfounded worry get the best of me, because I knew better. I knew him better.
I was about to put the box back when I noticed a white envelope pressed underneath the cigars. My body and my desperate need to know everything betrayed me again as I ran my fingers over the bumps and grooves of the envelope’s contents, picking it up and spilling it onto the floor.
Two tiny plastic bags sat on the floor in front of me, and a sickening, nauseated feeling rolled through me as I picked them up and surveyed their contents.
One contained a handful of tiny blue pills and three larger white bars, and the other was filled with white powder.
I clenched my eyes shut, but when I opened them again, the bags were still in my shaking hands.
I’d never had my heart broken before, but I imagined it felt something like this, as my whole body seized up from the impact.
I didn’t know how long I sat on the floor of Brooklyn’s bedroom, half in shock and half completely dumbfounded, but it was long enough that the heavy, sick feeling that filled my stomach bubbled and festered until it turned into rage. I was like an active volcano.
Eventually I heard the door open behind me, but I didn’t turn around.
“Nat? Why are you on the floor?” Brooklyn asked.
I blinked away the tears that stung the corners of my eyes before shakily rising to my feet and turning to face him. Looking at him, his blue eyes still filled with a haze of lust from earlier, made my heart break even more.
“What is this?” I choked out, shaking the bags at him. Every time I tried to swallow, it was like there was glass in my throat. I clenched my other hand into a fist, hoping the stinging pain from my nails in my palm would wake me up from whatever nightmare I was having.
Brooklyn’s voice dropped to a low whisper. “Where did you get that?”
“This box was sticking out from under your bed.” I kicked the box toward him. The color from his cheeks drained, and he made a move to grab the bags out of my hand, but I jerked back.
“Nat, come on, are you serious?” He chuckled dryly, trying to hide the panic in his voice. “It’s a humidor for cigars, it keeps them from going bad. I probably haven’t opened that in months. That stuff could have been from—”
“Bullshit,” I snapped before he could finish. My voice began to crack. “You literally just got through telling me how fine you were. After everything you said to me that was all so meaningful and I thought . . .” I choked back a sob, my head heavy and spinning. “Brooklyn, you promised.”
“Nat, I swear,” Brooklyn pleaded. “I didn’t even know I had any of that.”
“I don’t care.” I shoved the bags in his hands. “Get rid of it. Now.”
He slowly crept toward the bathroom door, holding his hands up as if he was under fire. “I’ll get rid of it.”
I followed him into the bathroom and watched him dump the bags’ contents into the toilet.
I wanted to keel over and vomit, but I swallowed it back.
He threw the bags in the trash can and moved back toward me, but I pulled away.
I wrapped my arms tightly around my torso, as if that could somehow keep everything in me intact.
“Natalie.” Brooklyn moved toward me again, but I backed up.
“Take me home.” I turned on my heel and made a beeline for the stairs. I heard Brooklyn’s hurried footsteps behind me, but I kept my quick pace straight for his car.
We drove home in silence with the windows cracked open. The wind was cool and dried the sweat on the back of my neck. When we pulled up to my house, Brooklyn killed the engine.
“Natalie, please.” He reached for my hand, but I pulled it away again.
“Don’t,” I snapped. I pushed the car door open and slammed it behind me. I thought I heard Brooklyn call my name again, but he sounded far, far away. Maybe in another life I would have turned around, but I kept my head down and disappeared into the house.
How did that saying go? Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice and shame on me for completely tricking myself into thinking I knew better. I obviously didn’t know anything.
I sat on the edge of my bed and hung my head between my knees.
I felt ill, and even in the dark my room spun around me.
I stayed in that position and waited for the engine on Brooklyn’s car to turn.
After a deadly silent few minutes, I heard the Jeep rumble as it drove away from my street.
I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, not even bothering to change out of my clothes.
My sweater still smelled like him. I rolled over, buried my face into my pillow, and screamed.
July 12
Dad,
I’m mad. I’m mad at me, I’m mad at Brooklyn, I’m mad at Nikki, and I’m mad at you.
I know that sounds childish, but I don’t care. You left, and now every time someone starts to leave, I lose my mind trying to stop it. It’s like my brain hits some panic switch that screams not again, not again, and suddenly I’m holding on so tight I start to hurt myself.
I don’t know what to believe anymore about Brooklyn.
You’d think I’d consider walking away now.
Any rational person probably would. But I can’t.
I won’t. Because every time he comes apart, I see that same grief I’ve been dragging around since you died.
The kind that settles in your bones and makes everything heavy.
I can’t abandon him in it. Not when I know what that kind of aching bullshit feels like.
Maybe that’s my punishment for still missing you. I find pieces of you in broken people and call it caring about someone. I tell myself I’m saving them, but maybe I’m just trying to save myself from feeling all these awful things. I’m self-fulfilling prophecies that aren’t even mine.
I feel like I’m being torn in two. Half of me knows I should leave before it gets worse, but the other half firmly believes that I can hold someone together if I never let go.
So I’m staying. For now. Because I still believe, deep down, that if I keep holding on, maybe one day someone will stay for good.
Nat