by CORY CYR
“Get in, asshole!” he shouts.
I get in, slamming the door of Keenan’s Porsche. For twenty minutes we drive in silence, the air between us filled with discord. I have no idea what the hell is going on or why my best friend cleaned my clock last night.
“You smell,” Keenan states nonchalantly.
I sniff the air, then under my arm. My body smells the way my mouth tastes—gross.
“Can you at least tell me why you ruined my face?” I ask casually.
All of a sudden, Keenan stomps on the brakes, causing the Porsche to slip and slide along the road. The car finally skids to a stop, causing a dust cloud to surround us. He looks furious. I have never seen him look like this. And for a moment, I’m terrified, scared that whatever I did is so bad that it has pushed Keenan over the edge.
“Jesus, Latch, you’re telling me you don’t remember anything about the gala?” Keenan looks aggravated.
“I remember kicking Jared’s ass, but not a whole lot after that. What the fuck happened? Why the beat down? How stupid did I get?” Now it’s my turn to be frustrated, because I can’t remember what happened last night.
“Latch, you hurt her.” Keenan’s voice shakes with contempt.
I go silent, attempting to understand what Keenan said. I hurt someone? Was it Haven? A shadow of pain crosses into my heart and I can’t breathe.
“What di-did I do?” I stammer.
The look of disappointment on Keenan’s face makes my heart sink and my pulse shoot through the roof. I feel utter despair. The physical pain I’m in is nothing compared to the mental anguish I’m feeling at this moment.
“You forced her,” Keenan says through gritted teeth and white-knuckles the steering wheel. He can’t even look at me as he says the words.
I grab Keenan’s arm. “What do you mean, I forced her? Who? What the fuck did I do? Tell me, goddammit,” I beg him.
Keenan turns towards me, looking me straight in the eyes. His look pierces my very soul.
“You forced yourself on Haven,” Keenan says quietly.
“No, no, there’s no way. Why would I force myself on her? I love her. We’re together. I wouldn’t have to force myself on her. I don’t understand what’s happening here. Did she tell you I forced her?” My voice shakes with disbelief at the accusation.
“No, Latch. Haven loves you. She even tried to defend you. Jesus Christ, you fucking left marks on her. Do you understand what I’m saying? You physically hurt her.” Keenan’s voice is quiet but stern.
I can’t process what I’m hearing. I took Haven against her will? I forced her to have sex? I put my hands on her? I hurt her? That’s not possible. I love her! Even if she did deny me sex, I would never force myself on her. Knowing I have physically hurt her is almost too much for me to bear. I can’t remember a fucking thing.
I don’t deserve her. If she’s left me, then it’s the best thing she’s ever done.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Haven
Waking up is a painful experience. I’m sore from the night before. My body aches. The bruises on my arms are more apparent now. I have a headache and I feel physically ill. I shuffle into the kitchen quietly, getting crackers and water.
“Hey,” Weezie says as she rubs the sleep from her eyes, even though she looks like she hasn’t slept.
“Hey,” I reply.
I’m not only feeling sick, but I’m tired from a restless night without any sleep.
“Are you okay, really?”
She rubs both my arms in a comforting motion. I nod, sitting on the sofa and nibbling on my crackers.
“Do you want to tell me what happened, Haven?” Weezie’s question hangs in the air.
I sigh deeply. This conversation is going to be humiliating.
“I wouldn’t know where to start.” I pause, sipping my water. “You obviously know that Jared was . . . well, he wasn’t very nice.”
Weezie acknowledges what I’m saying with a grim look.
“Yeah . . . I always knew he was a prick, but I guess he’s worse than I had imagined.” Her voice is laced with disgust.
“I don’t want to rehash old stuff. I really want to forget it and move on,” I reply with frustration.
No matter how much I’d love to forget my past, I have done nothing but dwell on it for the last seven years. I am my own worst enemy.
I grab two more crackers. Weezie moves over to the sofa to sit beside me.
“Sweetie, you do realize there is no moving forward if you don’t face the past head-on and let it go? You just can’t pretend it never happened. If you do, it will always haunt you and hold you back.” Weezie tells me.
She doesn’t realize how true her words are. I have let my past control who I am or who I could be. Even though Jared is long gone, I still let him control me. I still let his words and actions haunt me.
Weezie squeezes her eyes shut as she leans her head back. When she opens her eyes, she grabs my hand.
“Don’t let that person steal your happiness. It’s something that happened to you. It doesn’t define who you are. You’re not that person anymore. Let it go.”
“What about Latch? How do I let him go? What do I do about the man I love? He clearly lied to me. And he’s a thief . . .” I choke on the rest of my words. It hurts too much to consider what he has done to me.
“I don’t know, Haven. I’m pretty pissed at him. He’s one fucked up prick in my book. I think you need some time to collect your thoughts. Put some distance between you and Latch. Maybe you’ll be able to forgive him; I’m not sure I could. Maybe he’s too fucked up to be with anyone. Keenan told me everything.”
I want to pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about. I hang my head, feeling ashamed that I was so blinded by my emotions that I didn’t want to see the problems with Latch.
“He doesn’t want me anymore anyway. He made that Krystella clear.” I feel drained. I don’t even have the strength to be sad.
“He’s fucked up, you know that. I’m sure he’s very sorry right now.” Weezie isn’t smiling.
I know that Keenan took matters into his own hands last night. From what I heard of their phone conversation, Keenan had not only beaten the shit out of Latch, but had confessed to Weezie that Latch has a drug problem. Keenan’s personality is so well mannered and gentle that it surprised me that he got physical with Latch.
“You really don’t look good, Haven. You should go back to bed. Take it easy,” Weezie says, concern written all over her face. It’s not only the bruises and marks on my body that are making me hurt, but I ache all over.
I get up and walk to my room, taking my crackers and water with me. I spend the rest of the day in bed.
When Monday rolls around, I am still not feeling well. I decide to stay home and rest some more. Weezie works in her home office so she can keep an eye on me. She occasionally pokes her head in to check on me and brings me snacks.
There are no phone calls or text messages from Latch. Even though we had both been clear about the fact that we are done, I keep thinking in the back of my mind that it isn’t going to happen. I am alone once again. At thirty-seven years old, I have lost at love again. The only difference is I had prophesized this outcome. I had gone into this affair blindly believing it would mean nothing, then allowing myself to fall for him. Even though I knew the relationship would never really work, somewhere deep in my soul I had hoped it would. I fell in love with Latch so hard, it physically hurt. When it was good, it was glorious, but when it got bad, it was hell. I refuse to give up my tears. I just want to lie in bed for an entire week. I’m so exhausted and I feel terrible. Not only did Latch break my heart, but he also decimated my spirit.
I drag myself out of bed on Tuesday to go to work. Since I already gave Denise the day off, then I have no choice but to go to work or close the store for the day. I put on at least half a compact case of bronzer and I still look ghostly pale. I feel sick, but at least at work I can sit in a chair all day and read.<
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When I arrive at the store, I choose several books to occupy my mind. Regardless of the reading material, my mind always drifts back to Latch. Memories of our time together torment my thoughts. Each moment together is like a freeze frame in my head. I close my eyes and try to revive the first time we made love, our first kiss, Latch telling me he loved me . . .
My body shakes with melancholy. My thoughts are going to drive me out of my mind. I have no intention of refilling my anti-anxiety medication, no matter how much I need too. And I don’t want to go to therapy again either. I can’t mask my feelings with those pills, and talking to someone isn’t going to change anything. At some point, I need to take responsibility for my own actions, my own fate.
Latch hadn’t been honest with me about his addiction, and why would he? I should have known from the beginning when I first found the prescription bottles, but I chose to ignore it. I didn’t want to believe it because I thought love would be enough. It’s possible that every memory he has of us, of me, is one from when he was under the influence. Nothing about us was ever real, only to me. His love was a drug-induced haze. I thought I could change it all, like I thought I could with Jared. Somewhere deep inside, I thought I could help him, which is ludicrous considering I can’t even help myself. He is addicted to substances—I am addicted to him.
I hear the bell ring as someone comes in. I look up from my book and see that it’s Keenan. He’s holding a bouquet of lilies.
“Keenan,” I say softly as I stand and greet him.
“These are for you, from me,” he says, handing them to me. His face tenses and he appears uncomfortable.
“Thank you, but it really wasn’t necessary,” I tell him, smiling as I bend to smell them.
“Can I sit down? Is it okay if we chat for a bit?” Keenan asks.
I motion him towards a small reading area with several cushioned chairs. We both sit. Keenan clenches and unclenches his hands, and his brow furrows with the weight on his mind.
“He doesn’t remember,” Keenan spits out. He exhales deeply. “I didn’t think he would. This isn’t the first time he’s blacked out. I’m just so . . .” Keenan’s voice trails off.
I reach over and touch Keenan’s arm. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to be responsible for tearing your friendship with him apart. You’ve been friends for years. He’s only known me for a couple of months.”
Keenan rises from his chair and kneels down in front of me, and I can see the pain on his face. “I’ve told him that if he doesn’t go into rehab, we’re done. I can’t continue to sit back and watch someone I love destroy himself piece by piece. I’m so pissed off.”
“I’m glad you’re forcing his hand. I hope he cares enough about your friendship to get well. You’re a good friend and a good man. Thank you for defending my honor,” I reply solemnly. A smile touches my lips.
“He knows he fucked up. When I told him—dammit, I’ve never seen him like that.” Keenan stands up and then sits back down in the chair. He runs his hand through his hair. “Truthfully, I’ve stayed with him the last two nights because I’m afraid he might hurt himself.”
I can feel the horror spread across my face. Oh, Latch . . .
“He begged me to drive him to your house. It took me hours to talk him out of it. Not only because I think he needs to get straight first, but Weezie is . . . well, I don’t have to explain your roommate to you,” Keenan replies, half-smiling along with me as we are most likely sharing and image of Weezie in ball-busting action.
“I don’t think we’re good for each other. To be honest, Keenan, as I’m sure you know, my past relationship was damaging and painful. Latch isn’t the only one who’s broken; I am too, only I don’t get high to cope,” I explain, wringing my hands nervously.
“I just want you to know that I believe he really loves you. He never lied about that.”
Keenan stands up and gets ready to leave. My mind flashes to Krystella with Latch at the party.
“Sometimes love isn’t enough,” I say as I walk him to the door. I look at the lilies still in my hand. “Thank you again for the flowers,” I say. He nods in response and closes the door.
I put the flowers in a vase, and their fragrance fills the room. I think I’ll leave them here. I like the way they look on the front desk.
I really don’t feel well. I have no idea if it’s the trauma of what I went through with Latch, or if I’m just under the weather. I need to sit down. I feel feverish and my stomach is growling. All of a sudden, I have the chills. I must have the flu. I decide to close the story early, and hang a sign to let customers know that the store is “Closed due to an emergency.”
By the time I get home, I feel awful. I haven’t vomited, but I want to. I stopped several times on the way home, trying to throw up by the side of the road instead of in the car, but all I retched was bile and water. On the upside, I definitely have lost some weight, since my skirt feels loose in the waist. On the downside, I look and feel like crap. I call Denise and tell her that I have the flu and that I’ll most likely be out for a few days. I decide to go straight to bed. Weezie shows up about an hour later, cracking my door open and poking her head in.
“Damn, you look like hell,” she says, pressing her hand to my forehead.
“And I feel like it too. I just wish I could puke. Whatever it is, I need it to either come out or go away,” I reply dryly.
“Well, if you’re still like this tomorrow, you should go see Jacobson.”
I shake my head. “There’s nothing a doctor can do for the flu. I probably caught a bug at the gala. It’s been less than twenty-four hours. I’ll be fine.” I click off the TV.
“For all you know, Mr. Manwhore gave you some disease,” Weezie replies curtly.
“Real nice, Weezie,” I groan. “I seriously doubt even an STD would make me feel this miserable.” I wince, grab the bucket off the floor and hug it to my chest.
“If you need anything, bang on the wall,” Weezie offers, smiling. “I’ll bring you some bland food later.”
“Ugh!” I grunt as my stomach churns.
“Okay, I’ll give you until Wednesday, and then you’re going to Jacobson, even if I have to drag your ass there. You know how much I loathe puking, right? If you give me this flu, I will kill you,” Weezie says jokingly as she closes my door.
My night is flooded with lots of tossing and turning. Even though my body aches everywhere, my heart hurts the worst. God, I miss him.
Wednesday is not much better than Tuesday, except for the PJ’s and Jerry Springer. I lie on the couch, and then lie on my bed. I sit in a chair, and then I sit outside. I cannot get comfortable. I can’t shake this bug. I’ve had the flu before, but not like this. Theoretically, I’ve never had the flu combined with a broken heart. Maybe it’s a new strain.
It’s Thursday and I have had enough. I’m almost too sick to go to the doctors. Weezie had called Wednesday to make me an appointment for today because she didn’t trust that I would follow through on my own. At least my appointment is at 10:45 a.m. and I won’t miss the next episode of paid actors and their fake stories on Jerry Springer. There is no way in hell that those “guests’” stories are real—they’re as fake as Krystella’s boobs. No joke.
I haven’t seen Dr. Jacobson for a while, not since my last physical. Sitting in the waiting room is excruciating. After waiting for half an hour, I’m finally taken to a room where the nurse takes my vitals and asks a ton of annoying questions. I have the flu, go away. Get me the doctor and give me meds, ugh! Dr. Jacobson strolls in fifteen minutes late, as usual. He’s a nice looking fifty-year-old man with a jovial personality.
“What brings you in today, Haven?” He pulls his chair in front of me, tapping his pen on a clipboard.
Really, you have to ask? I look like shit. I smile weakly.
“Sick . . . I feel like crap. Pretty sure it’s the flu.”
“Any vomiting, diarrhea, fever?” he asks, pushing his glasses higher on
his nose.
“I was warm. I mean, I felt hot. No throwing up per se, just liquid mostly, my body just aches and I’m really tired.” I tell him. Even answering his questions is draining my energy.
“How many days?” he questions.
“A few, I think.”
He pauses, looking over my chart.
“No fever. Let me check your throat, heart and lungs.”
He moves forward and makes me stick out my tongue. Even though I’m wearing long sleeves, I applied a lot of cover up to my arms and neck before I came in for my appointment. I didn’t feel like playing twenty questions on anything else except my suspected flu bug. He checks my heart, and then makes me inhale deeply while he checks my lungs.
“Everything looks good. Let’s take some blood and urine,” he says as he walks out the door.
I hope I’ve applied enough cover up to my wrists. The nurse taking my blood might get suspicious if she sees the bruises. I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
I must have dozed off for a few seconds, because a nurse wakes me to tell me she’s here to take my blood. She then hands me a sealed plastic cup with my name on it. After she finishes siphoning two tubes of blood, I manage to drag myself to the bathroom. I’m so lethargic that trying to aim for the cup is almost futile. I finally manage to get some pee in the cup; hopefully it’s enough for them to do whatever tests they deem necessary. I haul myself back to the room and sit in a chair, covering myself with my jacket. I feel cold. Oh, Jesus, I’m dying.
After thirty minutes, I’m pissed. I’m sick and I want to go home. Crap, what is taking so damn long? I’m convinced that they forgot they have a patient in this room. I tell myself I will wait another ten minutes, and then I’m out of here. If I’m going to die, I want my bed and Jerry Fucking Springer. Damn, I must be dying—I’m dropping f-bombs again. This sucks.
Dr. Jacobson walks back in with two other people. Oh, this can’t be good. I am only joking about dying. I feel my body go limp and I’m light headed. I just start crying. A woman kneels down to me and pats me on my back.
