Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
With a loud groan, I grip my head and squinch my eyes shut. My body protests spending the night on the hard ground, and my mouth feels like I ate a bag of cotton balls. The thought of eating anything makes my stomach lurch.
I crack open my eyes and survey the damage around me—a broken Adirondack chair, a melted tub of ice cream, and a very empty bottle of tequila.
Scrubbing my hands over my face, I smooth them back through my hair to wind it into a knot and find the missing ice cream spoon stuck in my curls.
I pick up the empty container to throw it away.
Heading inside, a whiff of last night’s mint chocolate chip hits my nose. My stomach heaves in protest, and I pause to empty it into the bushes. With that cheerful start to my morning, I head back to my room, gather my toiletries, and go to the guest bath.
I still can’t face my bathroom with the image of Ben’s betrayal so fresh. I brush my teeth, chasing the resurrection of the tequila away, then sink into the comfort of a long, hot shower.
Part of me wants to stay here in the sweet-smelling steam, hide away from the reality waiting just beyond the curtain, maybe let the warm water wash it down the drain.
But another part of me is ready to move on. Now that I’ve realized what I sacrificed for Ben and his success, I vow to make myself the priority. With one last deep breath, I shut off the water and step into my new life, starting with doing some laundry.
While I wait, I choke down some tea and toast, missing the sweet chai of India, then stand at the kitchen sink, staring out the window at the edge of the woods as the rain begins to fall, lost in thought.
The harsh buzz of the dryer pulls me back. I fold my clothes and carry them to the closet but can’t bring myself to put them away. As much as I don’t want to stay in this house—this mausoleum of my failed relationship—I don’t know where else to go.
All of my friends were our friends, and as I run through the list of people I might call, I realize I don’t have anyone. The friends I had from college drifted away while I focused all my attention on Ben.
And now, I can’t help but wonder if that wasn’t intentional on his part.
I’d been the only child of a single mother, gone too soon from the same hereditary disease I’m trying to escape. It had been so easy for Ben to become my whole world. Without him, I have nothing.
The thought stops me cold.
I consider looking for another bottle or burning something else, but instead I retreat to the guest bed and curl into the blankets. I silence my phone. No interruptions. Just the welcoming escape of sleep.
When I wake, the sun is setting. I grope for my phone and squint at the too-bright screen in the dim room. Notifications of dozens of missed calls and texts from Ben light up the screen.
I’m not ready to hear his voice, so I open the messages first.
They’re exactly what I expected—apologies, excuses, more lies. I pocket the phone and head to the kitchen, popping a frozen pizza into the oven. While it cooks, I pull out my phone again to start the search for a new place to live.
That’s when I notice another notification. Not from Ben, but the airline I flew home on, reminding me to check in for a flight tomorrow.
I frown, confused. What flight?
Opening the app, I stare at the screen in disbelief. In my rage-fueled, tequila-soaked haze last night, I’d bought a one-way ticket—right back to India. And it leaves in less than twenty-four hours.
On one hand, it’s nonrefundable. And I tell myself, if I go back, I can keep looking for the elusive Silene vitalis. It’s not the mysterious eyes drawing me in again—not at all. It’s only the plant, the cure to ensure my survival.
On the other hand, I could stay here. Try to rebuild my life and salvage my academic career. Mourn the loss of my relationship.
“Good thing I didn’t put everything away,” I mutter, the decision already made.
I tap Check In, surprised, and a little impressed, to see that drunk-me had splurged on a first-class ticket.
Sitting down with my pizza, I make a list of what needs to be done to leave my life here behind.
I’ll keep only what I can’t live without from the house and stash it all in a storage facility.
After I make a call and secure a unit, I repack my travel gear, ditching the things I didn’t use before.
I’m amazed at how much more efficient my backpack feels this time around.
With my bags packed and tomorrow planned, I go to sleep in this house for the last time. My dreams, once again, are haunted by silver eyes.
Anticipation has me out of bed before my alarm goes off. I make French press coffee, probably the last I’ll have for a while, then head to the garage.
I empty every tub and container pathologically organized by Ben into a messy pile on the floor, then make my way through the house to gather the things I want to keep. A few of my favorite kitchen gadgets, most of my clothes, several boxes of books, and a few sentimental items.
Packing the car to the brim only requires one trip to the storage shed. Despite renting the smallest one, my belongings take up less than half.
Pride at my minimalism wars with the disappointment that this is all I have to show for my thirty-odd years. If I’d met my academic goals, maybe it wouldn’t sting so much. But what do I have?
I run through a mental checklist. A few tubs of stuff. A failed relationship. No family. No friends. No doctorate. An unsuccessful research expedition. A bruised ego. A broken heart.
It’s depressing.
But then, a memory of my mom surfaces, her voice soft but certain. Sometimes the only place left to go is up, honey.
I realize I have nothing left to lose. And with that comes the sweetest feeling I’ve known in years—freedom. I can go anywhere. Do anything. And that realization bolsters my mood.
Securing the lock on the storage unit, I head back to the house for one last sweep before I say goodbye to this life to chase the Silene vitalis and my chance at survival.
My mood is short lived. Disgust pools in my gut as I round the bend and see Ben’s car in the driveway. Guarded, I walk inside to find him on the couch, elbows on knees, head in his hands.
“Dahlia, please,” he whines, looking up at me as I come in. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I stare at him. Flat. Numb. Shocked only by the fact that I feel nothing at all.
He stands and crosses the room, arms outstretched. As he reaches for my hands, I step back and snarl, “Don’t touch me.”
“It was one night. I was weak and lonely without you. We’ve never been apart for that long. Please, Dahlia, please forgive me,” he says.
It sounds sincere. His voice even has that little quaver. But I’ve known this man for too many years. I know his tells.
He spins the ring on his right hand and raises his left eyebrow. He only does that when he’s annoyed.
I’ve seen him use it on the dean, on the donors he calls “stupid rich people,” on students without low cut shirts and perky smiles who dare ask questions. And now he’s using it on me.
I play along.
“Why, Ben?” I ask quietly. “Why should I forgive you?”
I edge back toward the door. Nothing in this house is worth a confrontation, and the hair on the back of my neck is standing on end. I see the flicker of rage behind his eyes before he smooths his face back into that practiced mask.
“Dahlia, we’ve been together for years. We’ve both invested in this relationship. Please, don’t throw away everything we’ve built over one stupid mistake. It meant nothing. You mean everything. I’ve sacrificed so much for you. For us.”
I back up another step, the carpet giving way to the linoleum of the foyer under my feet. He makes it sound like we’re business partners. Like I’m an investment. Like love was nothing more than a footnote.
“Ben,” I say, voice pleading, only trying to buy more time, as I shift my weight, inching toward the door.
His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches.
I’ve rarely seen him angry—he’s too intelligent to be ruled by emotion. But something’s shifted. Something’s wrong. Because this doesn’t feel like heartbreak. It feels like control slipping away.
“Dolly,” he says, voice softening as he uses the nickname I’ve always hated, “we’re so close. So close to realizing our dreams. Let’s go back together. I can help you find the plant.”
“The plant?” I echo. That’s what this is about?
He hadn’t wanted to go with me. Laughed at my theories. Scoffed at “roughing it” in the mountains. And now he believes? Now he wants to help?
No, something’s off. As I stand there trying to piece it together, he lunges and grabs my wrist in a bruising grip.
But I’ve been hiking in high altitudes for months. I’m stronger than I was. Quicker. And, I’m mad. Just who the hell does he think he is?
My free hand finds the handle and, with a jerk, I throw the door open right into his face. A satisfying thunk is followed by a shrill shriek.
“My nose! You broke my fucking nose!” he squeals, clutching his face, blood streaming through his fingers.
I don’t stick around to enjoy the win, but run to my car, fling myself inside, and slam the locks down. Backing out of the driveway, I grind the gears and clip the curb as I take off. One hand on the wheel, the other orders a ride to pick me up at the storage lot where I’ll leave my car.
Only when Ben doesn’t appear in the rearview mirror do I ease up on the gas, thankful to be putting a continent between us.
In a million years, I never would’ve imagined this ending to our story.
How could I not have seen this coming? I never dreamed Ben would cheat on me, much less physically attack me.
Tears blur my vision, but I blink them away and focus on the road ahead.
When I pull into the lot, I grab my purse and wait, heart hammering. Every set of headlights tightens my chest until one pulls up with the familiar glow of an Uber sign. I exhale and grab my things.
I can’t help but scan the surrounding area one last time as the driver loads my luggage in the trunk.
When he slams the lid, I jump. He shoots me a worried glance, but I give him a weak smile and climb in.
And just like that, I’m on my way to the airport, back to the mountains, and far, far away from this dumpster fire.