by CORY CYR
“Oh my Lord, I’m going to be a grandma,” my mom blurts out. I can hear her muffled sobs. My dad is a little sterner and gets straight to the point.
“Can we assume there’s a father?” My dad asks in a sobering tone.
“He’s not in the picture. Dad, please don’t ask me to give you the details. Our break- up is still fresh and it’s just too painful.” In addition, my dad would mostly kill him if he knew what happened at the gala.
“Richard, don’t stress her. It’s not good for the baby,” my mom says as she reprimands him.
“It’s okay, Mom. Dad’s just asking questions.” I feel a sense of relief.
We continue talking for another hour. They assure me that I’m not too old to have a baby and the news is something to celebrate. I know that it had always caused them great sorrow that I would never know the joys of motherhood and they would never have the opportunity to spoil grandchildren. I make sure that they are aware that it’s a high-risk pregnancy with other probable complications. I have no intentions of going into the details about the possibility of birth defects due to drug and alcohol abuse. If I ever do talk to them about Latch, all they need to know that he was the love of my life.
“Mom, Dad, I need to ask you if it would be too much if I come home to stay.” I confess, my voice sounding small and meek.
I can hear my mom start to cry again and I swear I even hear a small sob from my dad.
“You want to have the baby here?” my dad asks.
“Yes, I want to come home, just until the baby’s born, if that’s okay? When I get settled and the baby’s old enough, I’ll find my own place. It’s complicated, but I really can’t stay in LA, and I’m just not sure I can handle this entire thing on my own. I might need help.” I reply.
“Oh, honey, you never have to ask. This is your home, yours and the baby’s,” my mom says. I can hear her sniffling.
“How soon, Haven?” My dad asks. I know he wants to prepare my old bedroom, which they had converted into a sewing room. I also have a feeling my dad is going to turn his man cave into a nursery.
“I need to figure things out with the bookstore, Weezie and some other stuff, so maybe a in a couple of months . . . if that’s okay?”
“That gives us plenty of time,” my mom says.
“You really don’t have to go all out. I can set up a crib in my old room. It’s—”
“Not for our first grandchild,” my dad interrupts loudly. I can almost see him waving his hands in front of my face. It makes me smile.
Then my mother adds to the conversation. “I waited all my life to design a nursery for my grandchild, so let your old parents have their fun. You wouldn’t deny us the opportunity to spoil our grandbaby?” My mom asks.
I know it’s a losing battle. My mom and dad are now both in grandchild heaven. I feel a sense of tranquility, knowing that this just might work.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The next three weeks are hectic. I have to decide rather quickly what to do about my store. I’m glad I think to offer to sell it to Denise. She jumps at the chance and seems very excited, although she questions my reasoning. I tell her half of the truth, that I am moving back to Colorado. I make sure she knows that the information is private and I do not want her revealing my whereabouts to anyone.
Even though my days are busy, my thoughts are never far from Latch. I’m not really showing, but my breasts have gotten larger and tender. I still get sick in the mornings and sometimes at night, but Dr. Jacobson has given me something for it. I had a six-week test called a pre-natal “early scan” just to evaluate anything that might be going on. I have been assured that everything looks good so far. Dr. Jacobson gave me the name of a good OBGYN in Castle Rock so I can have more extensive testing done at five months. I’m still concerned about birth defects.
Weezie is extremely upset about the move, but being a true friend, she always displays a brave face. I know she really wants to go out with Keenan, but she made the decision not to see him or make plans until I leave. She doesn’t want any problems to occur. Keenan—ever the gentleman, has respected her wishes.
Weezie and I have made all of our plans for the trip to my parents’ home. Once I’m all packed, Weezie will rent a U-Haul and drive me to Colorado. The drive is less than thirty hours if we drive straight through, but we want some extra time to spend together. We’ve decided to stay in a motel at least one night. We’ll leave early on a Wednesday morning and be there by Friday night. Weezie will fly home Sunday night. She hasn’t seen my mom and dad in four years, so she’ll have the weekend to visit with them.
Weezie plans to fly out at least once a month since the flight is less than two hours. She also plans to be there when I give birth. She wants to make sure the baby knows his or her Aunt Weezie.
*****
Weezie and I have figured out our route, made our plans and have made all the arrangements for the trip. I still need to pack up the rest of my office, and Denise needs to head over to the bank to finalize some documents, so I’m at the bookstore while she’s gone.
It’s been almost a month and I haven’t heard or seen anything about Latch. After all that has happened, he must be keeping a low profile these days. I have a feeling that Keenan is keeping him away, which is for the best in the long run. I’m not sure if I could handle seeing him right now. My heart still hurts. I’m still pretty upset about him stealing my journal, and him telling me I had allowed those things to happen, but it’s nothing compared to what occurred in his mother’s flower garden. I can’t even put a name to the emotion I feel. If I have to be honest with myself, I never told him no or stop. I can lie to myself and say it was shock or fear, but deep inside of me, I had wanted him. Maybe not so callously and aggressively, but I did love him, and no matter how much I try to deny it, he had made me come—hard. He had been rough and left marks. Both Keenan and Weezie thought I was defending him, and maybe I was. However, deep down, I know that what happened at the gala wasn’t Latch—that person was not the man I loved. Drugs and alcohol had consumed the man that hurt me. He was a man I didn’t know.
I pick up a box and put it on my desk, tossing my things in to it. The front door chimes and I stop what I’m doing to help the customer. I stop dead in my tracks.
It’s Keenan and Latch. I lean back onto the front counter for support. He’s still painfully pretty. His jeans are hanging lower on his hips than usual—he’s lost weight. A short sleeve, dark green t-shirt stretches across his chest and both of his tattoos are showing. He takes off his sunglasses as he moves closer, slipping them into his shirt pocket. His eyes look tired with black circles beneath them. His left eye still shows the remnants of a faded black eye, the one Keenan had given him. His tan has faded and his skin is ashy. He looks unwell, just like a drug addict.
“Leannán,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse.
I just stand there silently, staring at the empty shell that once held the man I loved.
“You don’t get to call me that anymore,” I reply flatly, looking towards Keenan for solace. Keenan walks past Latch and gently pushes him back.
“Haven, I only brought him here so he can say goodbye.” Keenan says hesitantly.
Latch is leaving, did he find out I was moving? Is that why he’s saying goodbye?
“You’re leaving?” I swallow hard. I can’t let my emotions ruin my plans. I have to let him go. I’m having a baby.
“I’m going into a one hundred and twenty day program. No one can visit, write or call for the first ninety days. I needed to talk to you before that. Please, Haven.” His eyes are pleading for me to listen to him.
I will let him have his say, and then I will have mine. After that, what we had will finally be done. My heart aches with the impending closure.
“We can talk over here.” I motion towards the reading area.
I look over at Keenan and nod. I want to make sure he knows it’s all right; he doesn’t need to stand like a sentry. Keenan leaves us and heads to the far sect
ion of the store, out of hearing distance.
Latch sits down in one of the chairs. His face reflects so much anguish and torment, it’s crushing to see this man, who was always so vibrant, so cocky, is now obviously nervous and fragile. He looks broken. We have broken each other. I slowly move to the furthest chair from him and sit. Painful remorse seems permanently etched into his face.
“You’re afraid of me?” he asks, shaking his head. “There are no words in any language that can even come close to saying how sorry I am. I’m sorry for everything. Please, oh God, Haven, please . . . you have to forgive me.”
He startles me as he leaps out of his chair and kneels in front of me. Now I’m having an internal struggle with myself. I really want to comfort him. If I do, then it will make letting him go that much harder. His eyes reflect his sorrow and they fill with moisture. If he cries, then it will finish me. I reach out and touch his hair, gently twisting a curl around my finger. He lays his head in my lap.
“I love you more than my life. I can’t bear to lose you,” he whispers. “I never realized I was missing anything in my life until I met you. You have my heart forever. You are my other half. I won’t survive without you. You’re my air, my blood, my soul. Let me prove to you that I’m worthy. I know I don’t deserve another chance. Just knowing what I did to you that night . . . Oh God, please know I love you. Just give me another chance.”
He looks up at me, and somehow, I find the strength not to cry. My heart feels shredded. I want nothing more than to soothe him, but somehow, I find the strength to let him go, let us go.
“Latch,” I say softly, pushing his hair back. “I’m so happy you’re going to get help. I want you to get well, to be healthy. I told you before and I meant it, I’m afraid for you. You have your entire life ahead of you. You have so much to offer someone.” Latch looks up at me with his pain-filled eyes. “When the time comes, and it will, you’ll fall in love; have a family and the life you so richly deserve. It just won’t be with me.”
I look away to make sure Latch can’t see the despair in my face. He stands up, his expression filled with misery.
“I know I fucked up big time, but I’ll get clean. Then we can start fresh. I love you,” he says, his eyes begging.
“I know you do, Latch, but I don’t love you.” There, I said it. The lie tastes bitter, but I choke it down. My heart feels like it has just torn in half. The look on his face almost brings me to my knees. “Listen to me, Latch. We have too much baggage between us. It will never work. We kept too many secrets. We’re not good for each other. I’m too old for you. I could go on, but there isn’t any point.”
I stand up, catching Keenan’s eye with a look. Keenan knows it’s time to leave.
I take Latch’s hand. “You gave me more than you’ll ever know,” I tell him, smiling weakly at my ironic statement.
Seeing him makes me realize that what I’m doing is the right thing. Once he’s clean and sober, he’ll begin an entire new life, and so will I.
“Take care of yourself, Latch.” I look at Keenan as I say it.
Latch just walks away with his head hung, without saying goodbye. It’s better for him to hate me than to love me. Keenan mouths the words “see you later” as he closes the door.
As soon as the door closes, I put the “Be back in 20 minutes” sign up and lock the door. I retreat to my office and start sobbing hysterically for ten minutes straight. My chest aches. I have always thought “suffering from a broken heart” was just a saying, but I am wrong. This truly feels like a physical condition. I try to calm myself down. I know I have to be very careful. If I weren’t pregnant right now, I’d be popping my anxiety pills like Skittles.
Once I begin to relax, I open the store again and continue packing. The quicker I do everything, the faster I can put distance between Latch and myself.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Latch
Its day thirty-eight, and I swear to fucking God I don’t know how I am supposed to make it another eighty-two days. I am in hell—not just any hell, but motherfucking hell. I wish I could forget the first twenty-one days. No one told me about withdrawal. Twenty-four hours a day of nonstop projectile puking, shitting, sweating, hallucinations, and shaking. The worst part is that I am lonely. I’m surrounded by people here, so I’m not alone, but being lonely is a never-ending heartache. At the same time, I’m glad that no one is allowed to call or visit me right now. I’m a mess.
It’s so ironic that even in this place, and as bad as I look and probably reek, I still get hit on. Thirty-eight days in, and I’ve had three residents, four nurses, and one really fucked up male doctor who thought withdrawal would be so bad that I’d switch teams. Really? Personally, I’m worried. Since I’ve been here, I haven’t really been able to get a hard-on. Sometimes in the morning, but even then it’s sad. I can’t even whack off in this hell. I’m twenty-five years old and manly, I’m kind of a legend in the bedroom, at least according to Google, and now I can’t get a hard-on.
Everything is different, brighter, and clearer without booze and drugs. I am able to fill my head during the day with all the drama that goes on here, but at night, all I can think about is her. Haven fills my dreams. She whispers to me every night. She gives me the determination to make it to the next day. Sometimes, when staring out my window, I wonder if she’s looking at the same sky that I am seeing.
Around day twenty-two, I started having flash backs. The doctor’s call it fragment flashing. My brain is letting me remember everything. I really wish it wouldn’t. I would prefer blissful ignorance. Instead, I’m positive God is punishing me the only way he knows how—by making me remember what I did to her. At first, it was just tiny bits, flashes here and there, and then the entire scene plays out. How I took her from behind. What I said to her. How I touched her. What I whispered. I am a monster. That is my definition. I hurt the one person I love the most. And not just an emotional hurt—I physically put my hands on her. When I first remembered, all I wanted was to die in slow and painful agony. I got to thinking that all that shit I went through the first twenty-one days was my punishment. Not just for the substance abuse, but for Haven abuse. I should have never let myself get out of control.
I have been using the car accident as an excuse for taking the Oxy. I had that fucking accident six years ago and have been popping those pills like they’re breath mints ever since. When the Oxy alone didn’t give me the buzz I needed, I added booze. And fuck me, that was the ticket—the fucking E-ticket—and there’s not an amusement park on the planet that could make a ride that thrilling. No one actually knew about the Oxy because I was so good at keeping it a secret. Only Keenan knew, and that was bad enough—my own personal Mr. Mother Hen. He was up my ass about it daily. Sometimes I think I took the Oxy just so I could tune him out. And then, somehow, Haven found out.
I was never too secretive about my stash, only my addiction. I just made sure they looked like other prescriptions. The weekend I brought Haven to my house, I knew I fucked up. I had never brought a woman home before, ever. Hell, I barely let my mother in my house. It was my sanctuary, my version of a man cave, just on a much larger scale. I’d like to say fucking Haven was the single greatest thrill of my life. Yeah, I’d like to say that, but it wasn’t about fucking. It was the first time in my life I’d ever made love to a woman. That one act changed everything, changed me, forever. I’m pretty sure that’s when I fell—fell fucking hard for her, right between the kitchen island and the Frigidaire. Even as sexed up as Google has made me, I can honestly say I’ve never gotten that hard as many times as I was that weekend. By the time I took her home, just watching her breathe got me hard and made me want to come.
I almost wish I had fallen in love before Haven; it would have been nice to have something to compare it to. Loving her is hard, and not in a dick kind of way. I’m talking hard, hard. I’ll admit that I’m a fucking tool. Being high and buzzed is no excuse for stealing (I’d prefer the word “borrowing”) her jo
urnal. I did it because I needed to know. She wouldn’t let me in. She hid her past from me. I had to find out why she wouldn’t love me. When I took the batteries out of her vibrator and left her the post-it-note as a joke, I saw it lying there in her nightstand drawer. I swear it was taunting me, begging me to take it. I had to read it, to learn the mysteries of Haven. Okay, so that was most likely the Oxy talking, but I make no excuses; I’m a dick. I really took it for the right reason, but somehow it got fucked up and turned out so wrong. I should have quit reading it after the first ten pages. What Jared had done to her was even beyond my scope of imagination and I lost it. I should have never taken her journal because it was very intimate and personal. I was betraying Haven just by having it.
Sometimes I wonder how I actually ended up in rehab and not in prison. After what Jared had done to Haven, all I could think of was ending him. He never went as far as physically hurting her, but he had abused her every other way possible. His form of torture was tearing her down emotionally. He also threatened her. I’m positive that I had snapped on the night of my mother’s gala. It was stupid of me to have read the journal that day. After I read Haven’s entry about the gun I was blinded by extreme rage. Once again, here is an excuse for taking Oxy and pounding scotch prior to the gala. When Keenan found out, he was so pissed that he had Marlon pick up the girls. He tried his best to sober me up beforehand. Of course, once I decided to go into the library to drink what I could in the shortest period of time possible, Keenan couldn’t do jack shit without making Haven and Weezie suspicious. Any sobering I had felt before was gratefully eradicated the minute that fifty-year old scotch touched my lips, and I was delightfully on my way to oblivion.
Honestly, I had never planned to coldcock that prick, Jared. I have no idea how he even was invited. But between the journal and realizing who he was, and seeing him that close to Haven, touching her, whispering in her ear, I fucking lost it. I didn’t remember all of it or the rage I felt until a couple weeks ago. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him. If it weren’t for Keenan and the look on Haven’s face, I would have just kept pounding on him until he was a bloody pulp. Of course, my lawyers had to write that cocksucker an enormous check to keep him from having me arrested—again. I find it interesting that my mother never reprimanded me for causing such a public spectacle and most likely embarrassing her. It wasn’t the first time she chose to ignore my behavior.
