38. Hailey
“You have to go.” My voice is raw, but my words are firm. That’s something. I curl into my couch and wish Plinko would come snuggle with me. But no. The hopeless guy is perched on the credenza with his keen gaze glued to the door. He’s been in the same place for the past two days, watching and waiting for Arlo.
My throat goes so tight at the thought of him. I’m glad I’ve already ordered my aunt to leave. Because I might not be able to say another word.
At least Plink has finally decided to lie on the furniture. His poor little legs had to be tired.
Arlo isn’t coming.
Not because he doesn’t want to.
He showed up an hour after I was escorted home, only to hear me continue to dry heave. He’s called a couple of times to check in on me and sent a care package. Two actually.
Arlo isn’t coming.
Not because I don’t want him to.
I’d love nothing more than to curl up in his arms, to hear him talk to me in his special voice, and to have him make me forget.
Arlo isn’t coming.
Not because he’s in jail.
Between bouts of heaving, I spoke with Chad Iversen’s attorney. I promised not to press charges for sexual assault on his client if he promised not to press charges against Arlo. After several minutes of arguing with Nat’s attorney, the two came to an agreement.
No, Arlo can’t come over because I can’t let him.
I opened myself up, experienced the highest of highs, and then got smacked down by the lowest of lows. I tried. I failed. I am shattered goods.
Shattered goods are no good for a man like Arlo.
He deserves the world. Not a chipped and worn woman with more attachment issues than leaves in winter.
“Hailey, I’m not leaving you like this.”
I grab her hand and pull it to my mouth. Her warm hand meets my cold lips, and then I release her from propping me up, from worrying about me.
“I’m an adult.”
“Even adults need help. You know that.” She smooths my ratty hair back from my face.
“You have helped me.” I meet her gaze. “It’s all you’ve done since I was thirteen. It’s time to help yourself. Go.”
There are tears in her eyes.
I know Laurent is waiting for her.
“You think I helped you, Hay.” Her head shakes. “It’s you who helped me. You kept me grounded and gave me something to live for when so many of my friends and colleagues wasted their talents on drugs and shitty men.”
“Then we helped each other.” I push myself to sit. My muscles protest, quivering from malnutrition and screaming from overuse. Something dry heaving for hours on end will do to a body. “Now, I have to help myself.”
I’ve relied on my crutches for too long. My aunt. My career. My addiction. I have to find a way to face my issues head-on or risk losing myself completely.
A tear slips from her eyes. I wipe it away.
“I’ll see you in a month.” I eye the far side of the living room that leads to the door. “Christmas in the South of France will be magical. It will be warm and beautiful. A new tradition.” And the only way she agreed to keep her plans to move.
Nat wraps her arms around me and hugs me close.
It’s not that I don’t love her. It’s not that I don’t value her affection. It’s just that I don’t feel anything beyond sorrow and bone-deep exhaustion, though I’ve slept for the past twelve hours.
“Astor will check on you this afternoon,” she says, standing and straightening her outfit.
It’s one o’clock in the afternoon already. It was hard enough to get her to leave after the incident in the early morning hours.
“Tell her not to. Maybe tomorrow. But not today.”
My aunt’s brow pinches in worry.
“Stop.” I hold up my hand with the blanket wrapped around it. “I’m not going to hurt myself. I just need some time to process.”
“Text me before you go to sleep?”
“I’ll text you tomorrow.”
She draws a deep breath, expanding her narrow chest, then slowly lets it out. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Slowly, she walks backward toward the door, giving me all the opportunity to call her back to my side, where she’s been since I was a kid.
I give her a wave and listen as she goes.
If this were before midnight two days ago, I’d be bawling my eyes out and holding tight to Arlo.
It isn’t. I’m not.
As if my beautiful fairy tale struck midnight, everything crumbled around me. All the walls I’d erected. Gone. All the coping mechanisms I’d perfected over the years. Vanished.
With the attack and the swing of a fist, I’d experienced the most devastating panic attack of my entire life. They made the ones in the hospital after my parents’ murders seem like child’s play.
And here I am, a raw nerve ending, exposed to the world.
There are hundreds of texts and notifications on my socials.
I don’t care about people’s reactions to or opinions on the incident. I don’t care about its effect on next year's gala, which will probably garner more attendants than ever because of the debacle. I don’t care about the pictures of me retching on the floor.
I care about the damage it has done to my relationship.
Arlo wants to speak to me. He wants to apologize.
I can’t let that happen.
When it does, I’ll have to face the facts head-on.
It’s not his fault. It’s mine.
I am broken. I cannot be in a relationship because of all the what-ifs.
Plink jumps onto my lap and nuzzles my face. I don’t realize I’m sobbing until his wet fur hits my cheek.
I grab him up and hold him close.
I’ll come to terms with it myself. But not today.