by JL Mac
“I shall do one thing in this life - one thing certain - that is, love you, and long for you, and keep wanting you till I die.”
-Sy
I think if I could breathe, a sob would come out of my mouth but my wailing is silent though no less deafening. Tucked inside the sheet of paper with the quote from Far From The Madding Crowd is the page in the book that the quote is on. He roughly tore the page from the book; its frayed edges telling of the brashness with which he ripped away the yellowing material. Along with the page is a lustrous, thick magnolia leaf the size of my open hand that I would bet money is from our tree at the secret bayou. The edges are already browning but the rest is the same deep green they always are. Gently ghosting my fingertips over the leaf I cry and let all the hurt and pain pour over me. Emptying the rest of the wine out I drink down the last drop, knowing I’ll go grab the other one from my wine rack. Tonight seems like a worthy occasion for getting drunk.
My cell phone chimes and I leap towards it, a part of me hoping against hoping that its Sylas but I see it’s a text message from momma.
Momma: Promise me you’ll begin looking for a therapist tomorrow Raegan.
Me: Yes momma. I will.
And it’s true. I will. But for now, I plan to get stupid-drunk and throw the biggest goddamn pity party on the planet as I reread words I couldn’t forget if I tried. They swim in my DNA; they’re a part of me as a person. I couldn’t forget them, outrun them, or deny them if my life depended on it.
Chapter 29
Raegan
11 months later…
It’s odd the things that distract the mind when reality is too overwhelming. I was raped and impregnated by a monster. I distracted myself with hate and a whole host of negative emotions to push back against everything that had been broken. I lost Teddy. I lost Sylas. I lost trust in human beings and I lost trust in my own judgment. Worst of all, I chose to not deal with my traumas.
Therapy has helped me recognize these truths. Like Dale said, “I wasn’t coping with some things, and now I am.”
Tonight the thing that is too overwhelming is the event I’m at and the little whisper of possibility in the back of my mind. The weight of the sequins glittering down the length of the black Burberry evening gown is a welcome weight, despite the very uncomfortable four-inch heels I’m wearing. Its heft is what distracts me tonight. It keeps me from getting lost in too much thought on a night when overthinking could and likely would lead to a meltdown. The beaded fabric makes a subtle swish on its way, slinking down my legs as I step out of the chauffeured car and into the night.
It’s late summer, but it’s still hot as hell here in Washington DC and this dress weighs a thousand pounds like the weighted blanket that helps me sleep at night. The Ambien deserves honorable mention as well.
Despite my resolve to get through the night without overthinking anything, here I am before the event has even begun considering things like useful distractions and sleep aids and therapeutic weighted blankets that help me with my own posttraumatic stress disorder.
My heart weighs a metric ton.
I smooth my left hand over my hip and readjust the black satin clutch in my right hand while pageant-smiling for the media should they take my picture. Photographers and journalists are stacked ten and twelve deep for as far as I can see over an expanse of bobbing heads. Cameras flash all over and reporters rattle off questions directed at guests but from what I can tell no one is looking at me. Not really. Certainly not beyond the cursory perusal of attire and entourage and all the other equally shallow things people stop to stare for. No, tonight I am not the focus. No entourage. All black attire, black accessories matching my black hair. I blend well in a sea of tuxedos and no one pays me any mind. Not when Senators members of Congress, ambassadors and diplomats and big name White House staff including The President and his VP are in attendance. Events honoring the military always bring out the big wigs and they play nice like good little children for the most part since it’s one of the few subjects both sides of the aisle agree on. The ones that don’t actually give a fuck about the event fake it well enough for the night.
Too-important people with too much money and too little integrity shuffle their way into the hotel where the gala is being held. I disappear into the mix of people, unnoticed. No one needs a picture of a campaign manager, even if it is Sweeney’s chief political strategist. It’s my job in fact to make sure they want a photo of the candidate I work for, not me. Despite my mood, I’m a duck in water.
I’m solo tonight, which depresses me tremendously, because it only serves to remind me of him. I bounce between thoughts of him possibly being in attendance and me being alone. It’s a sad state of affairs in my world tonight. However, I can’t discount the fact that attending as my own date only perpetuates my public image no matter how false it is.
Unattached.
Ruthless.
Workaholic.
The best goddamn political strategist money can buy. All of those things used to be true of me and they still are to an extent. Just not to the degree they once were. I’m still a duck in water I just no longer enjoy paddling around the pond no matter how good I am at it. The waters are toxic and swampy and full of snakes. It isn’t the snake’s fault. It’s not even the water’s fault. The pond hasn’t changed, I have. God, how things have changed. As recently as nearly one year ago I did not mind at all—in fact I preferred the poison waters of work versus reality. Nothing can alter a person quite like the chilly, binding tendrils of depression, loss, and regret. Terrible bedmates, the lot of them. My chatty inner circle doesn’t lend any help whatsoever. Either way, I have a reputation to maintain and a career to cultivate. I have nothing else, after all. So, quack, quack.
I walk forward and gently tug at my dress, enjoying the feel of the weight in my hand instead of thinking on the ever-present weight in my heart. Cool air slips over my skin as I enter the ballroom where everyone who is anyone in American politics is milling about, reaching for their champagne, hors d’oeuvres and perpetually out of reach moral compass. That’s a lie. They aren’t reaching for their moral compass, they chucked the damned thing right out of the window when they entered this business, just like I did. Difference between them and me is I miss its guiding presence in my life and am actively seeking it. They rub all the right elbows and cultivate all the most beneficial connections to have. Security here tonight is so tight the room practically squeaks under the heaviness of all the pretension milling about. I peer around and marvel at how this scene used to impress and excite me. Now it’s a cringe-inducing reminder of the woman I am trying very hard to recover from being.
I never meant to become that woman.
Glancing around, I begin looking for the table I’m assigned to. I wind my way through the crowd, praying Bethany was correct when she had relayed who I’d be stuck chatting with for the duration of the night, “No one particularly significant” to me, she’d said. Thank God. I’m in no mental state to be stuck wearing my campaign manager hat tonight. Navigating through a sea of tuxedos and silk, sequins and chiffon I hear a familiar voice.
“No,” I gasp quietly.
It’s not the familiar voice of a colleague or a politician I know. It’s familiar like the ache in my chest. It’s familiar like cruel reality and a painful past that refuses to change of its own accord. It’s familiar like stolen kisses and young love from some time ago in what seems like another life. History, yes, but not forgotten. Not even close.
Never.
I would know. I’ve tried. This voice has the telling, lilting accent uniquely Louisianan and belongs to the only man on the planet I have ever fallen wholly and devastatingly in love with. The way he talks—it’s as though he is hiding a laugh in a conversation. He’s always just waiting for the opportunity to laugh that way that makes my cheeks hurt, my belly cramp and the hairs on my neck stand on end. He’s infectious, magnetic. It’s only unfair he isn’t laughing all the time. I think the world would be
better for it if he did. And he’s been irksomely alluring this way for his whole life.
“Sylas,” I whisper to myself.
My heart had convinced me it was unlikely he would be here tonight but when I saw him interviewed on a cable news program, my brain warned me he very likely would be here, particularly given the fact that he’s a wounded vet who now runs a very successful nonprofit. Since I last saw him, BCF has taken off and expanded their services and locations. Sy must be so pleased. He sounds so happy, looks so happy too.
That’s what his work does for him and it has shifted into high gear in terms of reputation and popularity. What’s more is I had in fact helped this turn of events along, though no one knows. I had no role in his being invited tonight but I had pulled strings, mentioned his charity to multiple politicians and encouraged folks on the hill to take note and hopefully a vested interest in his worthy cause if for no other reason than to build on their own public image. No one will ever know about any of my behind-the-scenes efforts though. His work is growing, his name becoming known, his story being told as I knew it would even if I had not injected his reputation with growth hormone. Couple his charity work, and his history, with the fact he’s incredibly easy on the eyes and it comes as no surprise he has recently been featured on cable news multiple times following a Twitter mention and hefty donation by Congressman Travan. I watch all news networks on a split screen in my office, keeping them on mute unless something or someone catches my eye and less than a week ago, he had certainly caught my eye on screen, charming the panel of journalists he’d been chatting with on the show while discussing his work and how it all came about. He was so at ease, so authentic, so himself.
So over me.
I can’t say I blame him. It was by design of course. None of this knowledge warms my bed at night though. Knowing my culpability in the state of my relationship—or lack thereof—with him doesn’t make the chasm in me less sizable.
I’m slightly squished between two collections of people chatting so I twist my torso to look behind me. I know I shouldn’t. I know that for the sake of self-preservation I should move my ass right along to hide at my table until this event is well and over and I can make a discrete exit. I’ve been accused of lots in my adult life but being the poster girl for self-love isn’t one of them. So I turn, I watch. I’m not certain how long I stand here staring at him and the woman on his arm but as though he has sensed me looking on, his warm, rich, honey-brown gaze swivels my direction and everything stops. My breathing, my heart, the world.
His eyebrows furrow then smooth out chased away by a soft smile I’ve known nearly all my life.
I can’t breathe. Breathe!
Instantly my fingers begin fidgeting the way they do when I’m truly off kilter and full of anxiety. I watch him disentangle himself from the conversation he was having with people I don’t bother to place. He makes easy, smooth strides toward me while I make hard work of just breathing. “Hey you!” I say, greeting him warmly, as though my whole heart isn’t composed of dust blowing around the dry plains inside my chest.
“Raegan,” he sighs. “Good to see you,” he nods and side hugs me—side hugs me! It’s a gesture that causes a deep fissure in my soul to form. Or maybe it had already been there but simply overlooked given the multitude of crags and cracks and broken bits there. I imagine the place looks like mars by now. Cold, dusty, arid, desolate, devoid of all signs of life. Only eleven months ago things were far different and side hugs were decidedly off the table. “I wondered if I’d see you here but I hadn’t heard anything from your momma or mine about you bein’ here tonight.”
“Yeah, I’m sure my mom didn’t know,” I somehow manage to explain without crumpling right in front of him and his rudely gorgeous date. “I check in once a week or so and I try to avoid talking about work,” I go on, wrinkling my nose. “I had no idea you would be here tonight!”
I haven’t stalked your nonprofit’s social media pages in several weeks though. Small victories. I keep that bit to myself though.
“Yeah, definitely not in Kansas anymore.”
“Or the swamp as it were,” the blonde on his arm adds flirtatiously and it makes the jealous woman inside reach for her knife.
“Oh, trust me you’re definitely still in the swamp just a different variety.”
They nod and an awkward silence settles over the three of us. I clear my throat and move things along, both eager to escape and linger in his presence. “You two came on behalf of your nonprofit, right?” I ask careful, to not sound as though I’m begging him to dispel any notions of the woman on his arm being his girlfriend or worse…
Fiancé? Wife?
“I’m being rude. Raegan this is Christine. Chris this is Raegan. We grew up together,” he smiles and explains to her.
Raegan? Chris? We grew up together? Our history summed up in four unimpressive words. And since when does he refer to me as Raegan and not just Rae? And Christine is Chris? He didn’t even answer my question. Ouch.
I nod smiling my best diplomatic smile. “Nice to meet you, Christine.”
Take your talons off him, I scream internally.
I shake her hand and hate her instantly like a shallow teen girl with a grudge. She’s a beautiful woman. Thin and blonde, tall with a kind smile and worst of all they look striking together. His dark features, chiseled face, hulking muscular build compliment her light features, subtle curves and lithe body. The lack of discrepancy in height makes them look… made for each other. I categorically hate the idea of them as a couple on its face.
They’d make gorgeous babies, Negativity muses and I internally flip off my bitchy bedmates. Fuck you, depression, loss and regret! Nobody invited you to the party.
“Well,” I inhale deeply and sigh. “I’d better get to my seat. Work, work, work,” I singsong like any one of the other lying, phonies in this room. He slightly quirks one brow and studies my face for a beat.
“You good?” he asks, quietly as he steps closer to me. Chris turns her attention to the grandeur of the ballroom, thank fuck.
No! I’m awful!
“Yeah, of course.” I smile and hold my breath at the same time. I think for a flash of a moment he’s going to call my bluff like he’s so good at doing but he doesn’t. He simply gives one slow nod and a half-smile.
Allow me to run away please.
“You two enjoy the gala.” I smile fully, give a lame flappy wave and bat my lashes in rapid-fire fashion.
“You too,” he says amiably. I blink multiple times, hoping the tears don’t come until I make it to a bathroom stall. That’s the designated meltdown zone where falling apart isn’t exactly frowned upon, mostly because stalls are single occupancy and people can’t frown about things they are unaware of. Bathrooms are token safe-to-cry zones. Girl code, chapter one, line one.
Before my escape to Meltdownville, I watch as he walks away without a backward look, or a second glance. His broad, retreating back is swallowed by the crowd then, eventually disappears altogether. Just like my heart and any vestiges of courage I had before tonight. My therapist would be terribly delighted with me.
Isn’t that what I wanted, though? Isn’t this by design? Yes. I silently remind myself that I’m no victim here. Not in this regard anyway. He didn’t do this to us. I did. I am both the villain and the victim. This is all my handy work and as devastated as I am, I would do it all again because Sy has been spared knowledge that would hurt him and BCF isn’t dirtied by my reputation.
Four hours later, the party is over, the dress is discarded, the heels are by the front door, the makeup is wiped away and I’m blessedly alone, at least in the physical sense. Mentally, he’s here. But of course he’s always here. I’m the abandoned home, and he’s the ghost that wanders its corridors. I shower and do my best to wash away the tension that seeing him has spawned. It gathers in the form of a dense knot in my neck and an ache in my chest. I go through my nightly routine trying my best to escort myself through the too
ls my therapist has imparted me with over the last several months. These new techniques have significantly shushed all the mental chatting to myself.
When you feel yourself unraveling, picture a stoplight. It’s glowing bright red. You have to stop here, Raegan. Trace the edges of the light, the edges and plains and corners of the yellow casing, look carefully at the colored lenses, is the sky above cloudless or overcast? How high is the sun or moon…
The skeptical side of me thinks I pay way too much for this glorified version of counting to ten but the hurt, lost woman in me is thankful to have something—anything—to guide me forward.
Stoplights are better than runaway trains, so I’ll stick to the stoplight thing. Lost in thought I plop heavily down on my bed and glance at my phone. I open my music app and scroll until I find a song to match how I feel after tonight. The first notes stream straight through me and I inhale fully, allowing everything I feel to wash over me. As though the Universe has a vendetta against me, a text message from an unknown number comes through. I read the words and know exactly whom the message is from. It isn’t lost on me that while I deleted his number, he likely didn’t delete mine. A little part of me—the part that is a young girl in love with her best friend reaches out and clings to the fact that he kept my number in his phone even after all that has happened. My eyes slip shut and I breathe deeply. Like ripping a bandage off I hold my breath and do it quickly before I can chicken out.
Unknown: What’re you listenin’ to, Rae?
I can practically hear his voice in my head. The memory of that low, rich timber and his accent curl around my mind and I nuzzle into it like a forgotten house cat winding through her owner’s legs relishing even a tiny bit of attention. In my mind’s eye I can see his lopsided grin, his hands in his pockets, dark wavy hair falling across his brow, the mischievous glimmer in his eyes…
