11. Natalie
Natalie
Luke once told me he’d love me till the stars burned out. My mother told me she’d love me no matter what. My sister said I was her best friend forever and ever. But as I hyperventilate in my car once more, I wonder if they all lied.
Because if I can’t love myself after all the mistakes I’ve made, how could they?
As soon as I could procure an empty room at a local bed-and-breakfast, I slipped into my room and stood in the shower, the hot water fogging the mirror and running down my tearstained cheeks.
I didn’t care that I still had my clothes on.
I just needed to feel the weight of my mistakes slide off my skin.
I stared down at the drain, willing the feeling of guilt to subside.
After a long time of standing still, I finally strip and wash my hair, scrubbing at my face a little too roughly. I want to be rid of the mascara lines running down my cheeks.
On the ruffled bedspread, I dig through my suitcase and slip into a pink two-piece pajama set with shorts and a button-down collared shirt.
Luke got it for me on another one of our trips to check on a rental home.
Somehow I’d forgotten to pack any clothes for sleeping.
Luke, of course, said I didn’t need clothes for bed.
He enjoyed my lack of packing skills our first night away—and I can’t say I minded either—but on the second night I wanted something comfortable to lounge in before bed.
Luke set up a bubble bath for me and told me he’d be back in an hour. The hotel we stayed at was beautiful, and the jacuzzi tub was glorious. I couldn’t wait to take a long, much-needed bath to relax my sore muscles after a long day of traveling.
When I got out of the tub, Luke was waiting by the bed with three sets of pajamas, each just as comfortable and cute as the last, although none of them looked the same at all. Each was unique, and they all matched my style and what I liked perfectly.
I shake my head and sigh, the thought of Luke’s thoughtfulness and care tugging at the back of my mind.
As if on cue, my phone pings. I turn down the fluffy white comforter on the bed and grab a mini shot of vodka from my purse before walking across the room to find my cell phone. Luke’s name lights up on the screen with a text message. I look down at it on the nightstand.
Luke: Did you make it to Maple Lake alright?
I climb on the bed and cross my legs under me, chewing my lower lip as I think of a response and sip on the strong bitter drink. It burns my throat, but I’ll be sleeping well tonight.
Me: Yes, I did. Thanks for checking.
Before sending it, the thought of calling him crosses my mind. I want to tell him about the panic attacks and the dreams. I want to hear his voice telling me everything will be okay, but I know that he can’t. Nothing seems okay right now.
I want to tell him that a stranger is living in my childhood home, that my parents moved away, that I know where Jules lives—that I saw her but got too scared to speak to her.
But I told him we shouldn’t speak on the phone and that texting was all I could handle right now.
Still, it sucks that I just want my best friend right now. And that’s him.
I add a little more to my text.
Me: Yes, I did. Thanks for checking. How are you feeling?
The rest of the vodka goes down like a waterfall of fire. The plastic clatters onto the bedside table, hitting two more empty bottles and knocking them to the floor.
Laying my phone aside, I climb into bed and turn off the lights. My mind calms as the darkness envelops me, and I sink into the downy mattress, the sheets and comforter soft against my flushed body. My wet hair lays fanned out on the pillow above my head, and the room spins in the dark.
Then the room lights up with another text notification. I grab it and turn on my side.
Luke: Like my heart’s been torn out.
I gasp at his response, covering my mouth. He doesn’t deserve this … does he? I never wanted to make him feel this way. I never thought I’d be the one to break his heart.
Me: I’m so sorry, Luke. I wish it wasn’t like this.
His response is immediate.
Luke: What if it was different? What if I could win you back?
Me: It’s not about winning or losing. That’s not the point. It never was.
Luke: Do you still love me?
My eyes prick with unshed tears, and my cheeks heat from the alcohol. Of course I still love him—more than anything in the world. Being away from him is like the ocean no longer feeling the pull of the moon. I am the shape of myself left empty and dry—no longer whole.
Me: I do. As much as I did when I first said those two words at the altar. But I’m broken, Luke, and I don’t know how to see past the cracks I’ve made in myself.
The three little dots appear and disappear, a sign that he’s probably not sure how to respond. I shouldn’t have sent that text. I shouldn’t have said so much and given him any amount of hope when I don’t even know what I want.
I don’t have a grain of hope to give.
His text appears and I wipe at my damp eyes, my heart racing as I read his reply.
Luke: You’re not broken. And what we have isn’t either. I love you, Natalie Brielle Hamilton, and I’m not giving up on us. You’re passionate, extraordinary, gorgeous. You’re all I want. All I’ve ever wanted. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you. I’m going to remind you of what we used to be.
I can’t help it; I smile through my blurry vision. I smile and sob and eventually fall asleep staring at Luke’s contact photo lit up on my screen after sending one last text.
Me: I never forgot. But I just don’t know what else to do.
My sandals scrape against the walking path, much like they did yesterday, feeling heavier than any thin plastic sandal has any right to feel.
The day is hot, the sun much warmer in the clear blue sky than yesterday.
My hands drip with condensation that gathers around the two iced coffees in my hands.
I parked at Le Fou this morning, sat in my car for thirty minutes building my mental walls and an imaginary emotional care package for when this goes terribly wrong, then bought two coffees before my walk over here.
Thankfully, Ali wasn’t at work, so I didn’t have to endure the questioning stares she gave me yesterday.
But now I’m sweating over the little things, like if Jules will love or hate the latte I got her.
I know it’s a minor detail compared to seeing her again, but at least it’s keeping my mind mildly distracted as I walk from the café to her house.
Now that I know which one it is, I take in the details with more intention.
There’s a stone chimney running up one side of the blue house, meeting a dark slated roof.
The large white deck reaches out into the yard, and I imagine it’s the perfect amount of space for Jules’s family to barbecue while gathering together on warm summer evenings.
The yard is large, with no fence, and there’s a tire swing hanging from the outstretched branch of a maple tree.
Children’s toys lie in the grass. Off to the side of the house is a pile of cut logs, most likely for their indoor fireplace or maybe even a campfire.
As my steps take me from the path to the yard, I take a deep breath in, count to five, and release it through my mouth, letting the habit and the motions calm my nerves. Standing here with the lake behind me, I face the back of the house and wonder if I should walk around to the front door.
It would be weird for someone to come knocking on the back door, right? Probably.
I step around the house through the neatly cut grass and find a manicured garden lining a front walkway.
Two stone steps lead to the front door, and without giving myself even so little as a millisecond to back down, I march up the steps and extend a dripping cup of iced coffee, pressing the back of my finger against the doorbell.
The tone of the bell chimes through the door, and I back away from the steps when I hear footsteps approaching.
The door opens slowly, and then she’s there: my sister, brown eyes wide, mouth drifting open.
My pulse thrums in my ears, but I fight the urge to move.
My brain simultaneously tells me to both give her a hug and run away.
My body is a statue. A blonde statue with a bob, who wears diamond earrings and carries a cross-body Gucci bag.
Jules pulls the door wider, stepping out into the sunshine, and her deep brown eyes take me in, roaming over my face like she’s deciding if I’m real or a mirage. A trick of the eye, like a ghost come to haunt her.
“Natalie?” she breathes, each syllable hesitant like she’s forgotten how my name should sound on her tongue. The fact that I haven’t heard her voice say my name in nine years sends a pang of sadness through me.
“Hi, Jules. I brought you coffee.”