by Tempest Phan
Finally, I stood up.
“Goodbye, baby girl.”
And I walked away, allowing myself to slowly leave behind the ghost of the wounded little boy I’d carried inside all these years.
***
It was Damien the adult who, the next day, made his way down the bright and warm halls of the Bellewood nursing home. As I stalked toward the psychiatric wing, I realized with a pang that I’d never stepped foot here, had asked my assistant to find the best place money could buy and left it at that.
Suite 309: Annette Mortensen.
I knocked.
I heard shuffling and the door opened.
My mother’s face, bright and open, her deep worry lines somehow softened, greeted me. Immediately, her eyes filled with tears, and she grabbed me in her arms.
“My boy,” she said softly. “I thought you’d never come. Come in, come in.” She motioned for me before grabbing my hand and dragging me in. “I was just making tea. It’s such a lovely evening, maybe you will stay a little?”
She looked at me, her eyes bright and clear. I don’t think I’d ever seen such lucidity in them before. The kettle began to whistle, and she let go of my hand to rush to her small kitchen nook. I looked around me. Her little apartment was clean and bright, and pictures of me, of us, lined her cream walls. I hadn’t realized so many had been salvaged. There were many of me at nearly all ages. I walked toward one that held the four of us. One of the last ones before Emily had died. With trembling fingers, I reached out to touch my sister’s face, the bright smiling face that looked so much like mine. She was sitting next to me, and my arm was around her. My parents were behind us, their faces beaming.
When had we ever been this happy?
I heard the sound of a bird chirping outside and turned to the balcony. Its doors were open, and beyond the curtains fluttering in the balmy evening breeze sat a small round cast iron table and two cushioned chairs.
My mom came back, holding a tray. She followed my gaze to the balcony. “We can sit out there, if you’d like. It overlooks the garden and waterfall, and it is very lovely at this time of day.”
I didn’t answer.
She went on, “Or we can stay inside if you prefer.” She nodded toward a cushy cream sofa. I shrugged.
“Let’s go outside, then,” she decided.
Through blurred vision, I saw her walk to the balcony. And that’s when I realized I was crying like a pussy.
My mother, the antagonist of my childhood, of my life, was well. And she was lucid. And kind. My heart broke wide open inside my chest. This was the mother I’d hoped for, growing up in that toxic, terrifying rambler, wondering when and where her next emotional blow would land. I swallowed and headed to the balcony.
She had set the tray on the table and was staring down at the lush gardens ahead and around her.
She turned to me, and I saw through my tears that she was crying, too.
“My sweet baby boy. I’m so very sorry—for everything.”
I did not, could not respond. The words would just not come.
She stayed there, leaning back against the balcony. “I never meant to hurt you. You had to grow up with my anger, my illness. You had to shoulder more than any child ought to shoulder—ever. And you bore the brunt of my guilt.”
“Your guilt?”
“I should have been watching Emily. It was not something a seven-year-old boy should have had to worry about.”
Agony battered down my heart, nearly suffocating me. And yet I found my voice, and it came out more loudly than I’d expected. “I know that now, Mama. But she is gone all the same, stolen away and killed by a nameless monster. And he is out there. And she is in the ground. And I couldn’t stop any of it.”
She took a step in my direction. She saw me stiffen and paused midmovement. “I’m so very sorry that I was so selfish, so blinded by my illness that I placed that burden, all those falsehoods on you. I love you, Damien. I’ve loved you since the minute you came into this world. You looked up at me, and I felt this great peace wash over me, like all of my demons, for once, were tamed. And that’s why I named you Damien, sweet boy. Because it means to tame, just like you’ve always tried to subdue my demons since the day you were born. And in return, I put you through hell. I’m so sorry.” Her voice wavered, but she continued. “I love you. Dad loved you. Emily loved you. I can’t think of anyone more deserving of love than you. You are the very best of us. I tore you down, and yet you continued to rise above it all. You deserve so much, Damien. So much.”
And she broke down, the tears coming down hard and fast, her face suddenly aging right before my eyes as the decades of guilt and illness caught up to her in this moment. “I’m so sorry, my boy,” she sobbed.
She looked so small, so frail, so full of regrets. In that instant, I had a choice. I could hang on to my anger toward her, or I could just let it go. Let all the hurt, the pain, just fall away. Hang on instead to those times, however few, however fleeting, when she’d shone beyond her illness and shown me a mother’s love.
I wiped my tears away and walked to her to take her in my arms and wipe hers. “It’s ok, Mama. It’s ok. I’m so glad to see you’re well.”
She looked up at me and smiled through her tears. “They treat me well, here, Damien. And I take my medication every day. I’m in therapy. I want to continue being well. For you. For my grandkids, someday. I’ll be a much better grandma than I ever was a mom.”
I smiled, vision still blurred. “You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself, there,” I joked. “I’m nowhere near having kids.”
She reached up to touch my cheek. “Remember that nice girl you were seeing in high school. I wonder how she’s doing these days. Did you keep in touch?”
I smiled at her, the pussy tears falling again. “She’s the love of my life, Mama.”
“Then she’s a lucky girl,” she responded as she sat down on one of the chairs. And then she poured the tea and handed me a cup along with a macaron. “Does she love you?”
I thought back to the lonely, devastated seven-year old she’d befriended and welcomed into her privileged life. How she’d repeatedly stood up to her father to legitimize our friendship, to legitimize me. How she’d braved my mother’s violent outbursts and given me back a priceless gift I’d thought destroyed. And beyond all of that, much more simply than that, how she’d given me her first time, her laughter, her acceptance, her light in my dark . . . her love. Her everything. She’d wanted to save me, and, like the idiot Davenport called me, I hadn’t ever let her in.
With a sudden burst of clarity all the pieces fell into place.
“Yes, without a doubt.”
“Does she deserve you?”
I laughed without humor. “The real question is, do I finally deserve her?”
My mom stood up. She reached up and took my face in her soft, warm hands and responded, “You, Damien, deserve the world. I will never forgive myself for the fact that you would ever doubt that. You are a king among men. So yes, sweet boy, there is something you can do about it. Go, go get your girl. You deserve it all.”
Present Day
Damien
I left my mom’s place and made my way back to my fancy-ass penthouse suite at the Seattle Crescendo, courtesy of our label who couldn’t wait for us to get back on the road. Soon, I’d promised. After I sorted out a few last things, not the least of which was to get back to L.A. and to the love of my life. As one does.
I was holding the cream envelope in my hand, the envelope postmarked three months ago, which somehow had made it to my publicist and that she’d dropped off at reception today.
Better late than never, I guess.
I stepped out of the elevator and ambled to my suite, popping gummy bears into my mouth and texting my P.A. to arrange for flights to L.A. As I opened my door, suddenly the one across from mine, Syn’s room, was flung wide and Crash walked out, a towel wrapped low around his hips as he headed to the room next door. He stopped
short in his tracks when he saw me. He ran a nervous hand through his hair, mumbling something as he snuck back into Syn’s room.
I shrugged as I kicked my door shut. I was about to call Bella when I looked at the envelope more closely. I tore it open and headed for the couch, throwing myself onto it.
A letter. In the loopy cursive I’d recognize anywhere.
With trembling fingers, I took the words in.
My Damien James,
I hope this letter finds you well (I know, how old-fashioned, but since you can’t seem to answer texts . . .).
I am writing . . . I am writing to let you know that Lukas and I are getting married on September 9. I will be a viscountess, soon. How weird.
I spent all afternoon sending out the invitations. The envelopes are cream. The font is gothic and done in a golden foil. You would approve, I think. Or maybe you’d think that it all looks so pretentious. The gold, at least.
I went down my list. (Over a thousand people, Dame. Can you even imagine?)
I went down that damn list, and you weren’t on it. And of course, for so many reasons, you really shouldn’t be. No matter how I look at it, it would make no sense for you to be on it. For me to even send you an invitation. At all.
And that broke my heart.
And so I’m writing you.
It’s the hardest thing I will likely ever write, the letter I had never imagined writing. Not when you took me home on your skateboard. Not when you held my hand during my first tattoo. Not when you taught me the greatest secret of all. And more.
I am writing because I needed to tell you. Because you’ve always been the one I could share everything with. The one with whom I’d shared all of my firsts. Every single one of them, Dame. Except this one. It’s devasting, really. I never imagined that you wouldn’t be by my side when this day finally came. It feels like the saddest chord of all.
I hope you’re safe and well. And happy. I hope you’ve found your happiness because I can’t think of anyone more deserving of his happily ever after than you.
Goodbye, my Damien James.
~Bella (soon-to-be Stone, Viscountess Ryding)
The room began to spin around me, and I closed my eyes against the spiraling.
All the years. All the work. She’d finally been within my reach.
And then, I started to laugh, laugh like a maniac, even though I could feel the fragments of that shattered thing in my chest poke through and suffocate me.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
How long had I been on that couch? I didn’t know. I reopened my eyes, realizing that I had crushed her letter in my hand. I breathed in, slowly, glancing down at it again. September 9. Today.
I tossed the letter onto the coffee table, but something caught my eye. It was the financial paper, some bullshit always found in the penthouse suites of these fancy hotels we stayed at. There, in the right corner, a quiet headline read, Powerful Law Firms Secure Alliance the Old-Fashioned Way.
I picked up the paper and turned the pages, knowing what awaited me. Mirabella Mei Grace Davenport and Lukas Christian Stone, Esquire, Viscount Ryding to Wed in Lavish Seattle Ceremony. Something about high society being all aflutter.
Who fucking talked like that? I couldn’t take in the rest of the blurred words in front of me, just saw her breathtaking, beaming face in black and white, and his, looking down at her with such adoration it made me sick to my stomach.
I’d been clean for months now. This was the kind of shit that could make a desperate man spiral down into a binge, if he let it.
I wouldn’t let it. My newfound sanity had come at a high price that I wasn’t ready to pay again.
I flung the paper to the floor.
Real mature, asshole.
But it didn’t matter, did it? If I’d harbored any hope that I’d one day allow myself to see her again, the crushed letter in my hand—and the news splashed all over page six—reminded me that I was a fool.
***
I laid on my hotel bed, the despair starting to take a hold of me. Her wedding was hours away. It was fucking torture, imagining the girl I loved more than life itself give herself to another man. She hadn’t been mine in years. Or ever, really. But this time, it would be different. This time, it would spell the end to whatever unconscious hope I was holding onto.
I felt the dark, bitter bile start to pile at my throat, a visceral reaction as my body continued to be poisoned by my thoughts. I knew an attack was not far off, but perhaps, perhaps I could push it out.
My phone beeped. I forced myself to look down.
SYN:
Hey, Dame.
Should I respond? Doing so would require an inordinate amount of effort. And I just didn’t have it in me any longer.
SYN:
Hey, motherfucker. I know you’re there.
I continued to ignore it.
SYN:
I’m on my way.
The fuck? That was the last thing I needed. I grabbed a pillow and buried my face against it. Right on cue, I heard the soft rapping on the door.
SYN:
Yo, let me in. I know you’re in there.
I groaned, the frustration spilling over.
“Go away, motherfucker.” I didn’t know if he could hear me.
“I’m not going anywhere until you let me in, Dame. Goddammit, open the goddamn door.”
I laid there, squeezing my eyes closed, fighting the anger that was boiling over at his intrusion.
More knocking, louder this time.
Fucker really wasn’t going to go anywhere. I let out a frustrated shout and jumped off the bed. I walked slowly to the door and opened it.
Synister Maur leaned against the doorframe, eyeing me over his black shades, his hair in his full stage-day hawk.
“You look like shit,” he said.
I just glared at him.
“Can I come in?” He didn’t wait for my response and just pushed his way in.
“No, asshole.”
He looked around the room, then back at me, and sighed. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and placed it on the couch before walking over to my bed and throwing himself on it. I noticed he had a rolled up piece of newspaper sticking out of his back pocket.
“Don’t mind me, mofo. Just make yourself at home,” I grumbled.
He smiled. “How’s therapy with Mama?” he threw out, just like that because he had absolutely no goddamn filters.
I didn’t answer. It was going well. It truly was. But I just let out a sigh because I wasn’t going to go into that with Syn right now, not when the love of my life was about to walk down the aisle and out of my life.
“All right, Dame. It’s time we have a talk.” He fiddled with his shades a bit, smacking his gum. That sound was driving me up the wall.
I groaned before heading for the couch parallel to the bed and sitting down. This was going to be a long evening.
“Did you see your girl?”
“As I’ve said a million times, she’s not my girl.”
“And that’s your problem right there, Dame,” he said, turning over and raising himself on an elbow, removing his shades to better look at me, pinning me with his blue eyes. I ignored his pointed stare.
He continued, “She should be.”
I looked at him, my blood starting to boil, incensed at his presumption. Who did he think he was, to waltz into my hotel room with his grand pronouncements?
But I said nothing.
“She’s yours, Damien. This girl loves you. I’ve never seen anyone look at you the way she looks at you. And I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at her.”
“And what way is that, asshole?” I gritted through my teeth.
He sat up, swinging his legs over so he was now on the edge of the bed, his feet on the marble-tiled floor as he leaned in and said, “Like you would massacre the world for her, like she is everything in the world to you.”
I closed my eyes. “Because I would. Because she is.”
“Then what are you doing here, motherfucker?”
I shook my head, letting a guttural sound out.
“Why are you letting her slip through your fingers? Why are you letting another man have her?”
I felt the rage come roaring inside me, making the room, my head, spin. But I said nothing and kept my eyes shut. I heard him stand up, his footsteps echoing as he stalked in my direction.
“Why are you not going to her? She doesn’t want him. She wants you.”
“Enough,” I whispered. “Enough.”
I heard the rustling, crunching sound of paper, and felt a breeze over my face as he started to wave it at me.
“She wants you, Dame. Not him. Look.”
I opened my eyes, recognized the article he’d torn out of the same financial paper I’d seen earlier. “I know. She’s marrying him.”
He groaned in frustration. “Yes, motherfucker. She’s marrying him. But for all the wrong reasons.” He waved the torn off paper in my face more urgently, pointing at it. “She’s doing it for the firm. Not for love.”
He dropped the paper on my face and went on, “Not for love. Because she’s not his. Dame, she’s yours. She’s fucking yours. All you have to do is go to her.”
“Enough,” I said more loudly, swiping the paper off my face, crushing it into a ball, and hurtling it across the room. “If you respect this friendship at all, Syn. You’ll stop right there.”
He laughed, ran a hand on the smooth, shaven right side of his skull. “It’s because I am your friend that I am not going to stop. I should have done this years ago. You need to hear this.”
“I’m warning you. There are fucking boundaries.” My voice dropped an octave. My fists were clenched, as were my eyes, my jaw, my stomach. I was wound up so tight that I was afraid what would happen if he continued to pick and prod.
