55. Bailey
fifty-five
Bailey
The fucking Uber smells like cherry and asshole but I had to get out of there. My breathing is finally more manageable as we get further away from the club.
I shouldn’t have gone.
I should never have allowed myself a single second of wishful thinking because that fucking hurt.
I lit the flame of hope on a short wick and it burned everything to the ground.
“You sure you want me to drop you here, son?” The driver asks.
“I’m sure.” My words come out slurred. Between the damn vodka in my flask and the tears that keep falling, I barely recognize my own voice.
“Okay, then. You be safe now, ya hear?”
I don’t reply, I just throw open the door and shuffle onto the grass before remembering to shut it behind me.
“Sorry,” I murmur to no one in particular. He can’t hear me and I doubt the car is sentient.
I find the wrought iron fence dancing in doubles as I squint until they merge into one. I let it guide me to the gate, the hinges protesting as they swing. I shudder when it clangs shut behind me. Another finality I wasn’t ready for.
My fucking feet aren’t really understanding the messages from my frontal cortex at the moment. I huff a laugh, “Damnit.” I recognize the paved walkway, dimly lit by surrounding streetlights, and follow it down the path I shouldn’t know so well.
Who was that?
Lolly looked so happy.
That smile.
He had been laughing, eyes dancing with mischief as he listened to the pink-haired brat that was dancing against him. With him.
Jealousy is a cunt.
I take another pull from my flask as I round the last corner, recognizing the cherub statue that marks the area.
I come to a stop and plop into a seated position in front of her headstone. “Fuck, Nat. I can’t do this without you,” I say, running my hands through my hair. “I’m a fucking mess.”
Tears fall freely as I put my palms to the ground, needing to be close to her.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Nat. I miss you so much I think it’s eating me from the inside.”
A sob escapes me.
“Did Liam tell you about Peyton?”
“Did he tell you you’d still be here if I wasn’t such a fucking coward?”
I take another pull, almost dropping the flask as I try and fail to screw the top back on.
“You’d be here, and he’d be mine, and Liam would be okay again,” I cry. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Panic rises in my throat and breathing becomes so difficult it hurts. Fuck, this is not a good place to have a panic attack. I shakily dig through my jeans, hoping I remembered to put a few clonazepam in the Oh Shit pocket. My hands are tingling and my lips are beginning to numb.
I can feel my ventricles contracting so quickly they can’t adequately refill between squeezes.
My vision becomes hazy, her name no longer visible. My fingers locate a promise. A tiny, one milligram promise of breathable air. Of a maintainable heart rate. Promises of a diaphragm able to expand and contract.
I toss the promise back, swallowing it down, chasing it with what’s left of the flask.
I close my eyes, knowing relief is coming. Counting the seconds. Breathing, even though I have no desire to continue the fruitless exchange. Living, even though I’ve lost interest in existing.
I dig my fingers deeper into the ground, a last-ditch effort to hang onto something I’ll never have again. A life with her in it. With him. Love and laughter, their light to argue my darkness.