Back to Yesterday (Bleeding Hearts Book 2)

by Whitney Barbetti

Chapter Four

  I drove for forty minutes before I’d pulled enough glass off my face and my hair and my neck to fill my ashtray. After stopping at a gas station near the interstate, I dropped the visor to get a good look at my face.

  The first thing I saw was blood. I hadn’t even realized he’d cut me when he’d punched me in the face. It was a small cut by my inner eye, but I knew from experience with my mother that head wounds bled badly, even when the damage was minimal. I reached into my backpack and grabbed wet wipes, running them just under the cut and down my face. My left eye was bloodshot, and I knew from driving that while I’d been able to keep the eyelid open, my vision was spotty at best. Gently probing the skin around the eye yielded sharp pain, and I dropped the wet wipe in reaction. There were little nicks across my skin, what I guessed to be from the glass that had shattered in my hand. I pulled a speck of glass from my eyelashes and scratched against some of the blood that had dried around my face. I couldn’t go into the gas station looking like I’d walked away from a car accident, so I put my hair up in a ponytail, wincing as pieces of glass fell from my strands to my back. The skin around my jaw was tender, and my collarbone felt like someone had tried to squeeze me flat. But other than the bloodshot eye and the cut near my nose, I looked okay enough to buy a water bottle, ice, and the biggest bottle of ibuprofen they had.

  As I exited my car, I felt the trembles take me over. I’d indulged in a crying and screaming fit in my car for a couple minutes before I’d gotten back on the road and continued on. Everything north of my waist was in pain, from where he’d sat on my rib cage to where he’d slammed the back of my head onto the floor. I knew I could have a concussion, so while I was in the gas station bathroom I searched on my phone for a motel nearby. I’d need to pay cash, because I didn’t own a card, so a shoddy motel was it for me.

  After paying for my purchases, I returned to my car and picked out the glass that had collected in my seat. I filled up the tank and then continued on, holding a cold water bottle to my neck as I drove.

  The motel was tucked off the highway, with a light that blinked on and off by the entrance. A neon open sign glittered in the dark, missing a bulb behind the n. There were a few people hanging out in the plastic lawn furniture by the reception area, but I didn’t even glance at them as I stepped inside and paid for my room.

  “Can I have a room in the back?” I asked the attendant, motioning with my hand to the space around the building. “For two days?”

  She pushed her headband up and back, not even looking me over once. I was grateful for her lack of curiosity at the moment, knowing I’d need to hole up and ice my hands and my face to keep my swelling at bay before I continued on.

  To . . . where? I stared at the plaques on the wall above her head as she wrote my information down, the sounds of some pop station bleeding out of the radio on the counter beside her. Her fingernails were rainbow-colored and decorated with black tiger-like stripes across them. Her skin was unmarred, and every strand on her head was in its place. I couldn’t help but compare myself to her, with the blood under my fingernails and the bruises I knew lay in wait under my skin.

  Even the way she held on to the counter as she reached behind her for the key cards was graceful, like a dance she’d practiced a hundred times. I wanted to cry watching her slide the key card because she did everything with a smooth sense of confidence. A confidence I envied.

  She handed me the room key and rattled off the pertinent information about checkout times and then I pulled my car behind the building and parked several spaces away from my room.

  More than once, my mother and I had run away to a motel like this one. She’d sat at a table by the window, cigarette in one hand and the other hand on the curtain as she peeled it back, waiting for someone to find her, find us.

  The room was unremarkable, standard for what little I’d paid. I yanked the old floral bedspread off the bed, and grabbed the ice bucket and the cooler I’d brought in from my car.

  Once I’d returned to the room with a full cooler and full ice bucket, I turned off all the lights in the bedroom and stepped into the bathroom.

  My reflection looked like me still, but it looked like a me who had fallen down a dozen flights of stairs. I hunched my shoulders and then immediately stopped when the pain in my collarbone became too much. I turned my head but realized my eye struggled to follow the line of sight. Sighing, I stepped into the shower and laid my head against the tile as water rained down my back.

  I thought I’d cried my last tear on the side of the road when I’d pulled over and screamed, but I was wrong. As the water poured over me, over all the places Doug had held me, hurt me, it was like feeling his touch all over again.

  Unwittingly, an image of me doing this just weeks earlier blipped into my head. After Jude had kissed me on the roof, I’d climbed into the shower and tried to wash myself of it.

  And that’s what caused me to cry as the water pounded my skin. Because Jude’s touch had been good, and beautiful. And Doug’s had been the opposite. I tried to remember the weight of Jude’s hands on me, the heaviness of his gaze in my eyes. But all I saw was Doug.

  And that’s what caused me to cry even harder—Doug’s touch had erased the good kind of touch from my skin.

  I let out a growl, both to get me to stop crying and in frustration, as I dragged the rough washcloth over my skin, rubbing it raw at my shoulders.

  My hands cramped from the movement, a reminder of how I’d hit Doug. I stared at them, marveling at how the same hands that Jude had cradled in his had hit with such violence.

  I wasn’t a violent person. It didn’t run in me like it ran in those who were born to be cruel. But Doug had brought it out in me, had tainted the skin that had touched Jude and then I roared, wrapping my arms around myself to keep me safe from any more violence.

  I didn’t remember shampooing my hair, but I knew I’d done it because as I toweled it dry, it smelled like flowers and cigarettes. My mother’s house still clung to my skin, which meant Doug’s touch did too.

  I wrapped myself with one towel, but it was too small. I thought of Doug’s words, about me being useless, fat, as I wrapped a second towel around the side that gaped.

  Rationally, I knew I shouldn’t pay any mind to what he said. He was an abuser, with his words and his actions, and he was worthless to me.

  But there was a part of me that had lain dormant in my soul when I’d been with Jude, a part that fed off of criticism. A benign piece of my ugliness that took what Doug said and sucked it inside of myself.

  I changed into pajamas before lying down in the dark, ice wrapped in towels on my face and chest, and under my hands.

  And I wished for Jude.

  I smelled the juniper first—that fresh little bite. I greedily inhaled it, letting out a sigh immediately after I’d had my fill. Opening my eyes, I met his brown ones, and the corners crinkled in concern.

  “Are you okay?”

  I swallowed. “Yes.” I wanted to touch his face, feel the prickle of his beard against my palm. But my arms were heavy with fatigue, so I could do nothing but lie there as he looked me over.

  “You’re a terrible liar,” he said, one side of his mouth lifted in a smile that was heavier with sadness than it was with humor.

  “I’m not the only one,” I said, immediately regretting uttering the words. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t,” he hushed me, closing his eyes and shaking his head. I was mesmerized by the way his lashes lay against his lower eyelids when he closed his eyes. He opened them and looked into mine. “I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

  “Shh.” It was my turn to hush him. “I don’t want to talk about should’ves.”

  “What about would’ves?” The half-smile was back, and I was so grateful that I felt it pull on my chest.

  I shook my head but it hurt. “Not those either. Let’s talk about the now.”

  His smile slipped away. “But you’re not ready.”

  Th
at word. That stupid, five-lettered word. He wasn’t wrong, but I wished he were. “I will be.”

  His eyes closed halfway, a wrinkle forming between his brows. “I know.” He reached to touch me and I strained against the invisible weight that kept me in the bed, but it was useless. His hand stopped, inches from my face.

  I begged him to touch me, to erase the violence that marked my skin. I wasn’t sure if one kind touch could eliminate another born of violence, but I was willing to try. Anything to feel him again.

  His eyes bored into mine, their steadiness calming me and putting my heart at ease. I opened my mouth to ask him to hold me, but nothing came from my lips.

  And then I realized with a start that it was all a dream. I stared at the popcorn ceiling in my motel room as the weight of everything overcame me, slowly making my body something foreign to me as the pain radiated in my knuckles and my shoulders and face. My tears came again, white hot as they slid down bruised skin and dripped into my ears, soaking my hairline.

  I was alone. There was no Jude here to keep me safe. It was just me, in this cold, dark room. I rolled over in my bed and wrote something to remind me of this moment. But I knew I wouldn’t forget what it felt like, to feel hate upon your skin.

  The violence inflicted

  upon my skin was not unlike

  every negative thing

  I’ve thought about myself.

  But this time it was a manifestation;

  something I could see in a mirror,

  something I could touch,

  something that reminded me,

  with each painful step,

  with each stiff lift of my head,

  and with every solitary beat of my heart,

  that I was a maker of mistakes

  which led me to a place

  where I awoke in bed,

  alone,

  with a body covered in blood

  and bruises

  and a soul

  that was heavy

  but somehow not full.

  Chapter Five

  When I woke, I wasn’t sure I was even alive. Pain radiated from my center, between my spine and my rib cage, all the way up my neck, wrapping around my head like a mask. I couldn’t tell what hurt worse, the pain in my shoulders or in my face.

  I blinked a few times, but couldn’t feel my left eye actually blinking. The skin felt taut around my eyelid and down the side of my nose, like a deep pencil-shaped ache.

  I sat up and blinked again, adjusting to the sliver of light that poured in between my curtains. I turned to the green lights on my clock and waited for my vision to focus so I could make out the time: 6:07. Was that AM or PM?

  Gingerly, I peeled the covers from my body, but the movement caused the deepest ache in my shoulder. The motel bed was lumpy and dipped in the middle, but I’d slept deeply regardless, only waking once to replace the ice on my hands and face.

  In the bathroom mirror, I saw a kaleidoscope of color, bruises all over my hands and roaming up my arms, to collect in perfect fingerprint-sized bruises along my neck and shoulders. Bruises continued along my jaw, ending with a perfect burst of color over my left eye. The skin below my eye was swollen and when I touched it, a white spot formed against the dark, angry red. My eye was almost swollen shut and I winced when I touched it gently, just trying to see if I could open it.

  For some reason, I felt very detached from what had happened to me. Almost like it had happened to someone else. I kept expecting myself to breakdown like I had right after I’d left my mom’s trailer, but I’d adopted a coldness toward my injuries overnight, now that I was an hour from her house.

  I washed my hands, careful not to press the sore skin around my knuckles. The shower the night before hadn’t gotten rid of all the stuff under my nails, so I spent the next ten minutes scraping them with a plastic fork I found by the microwave.

  After washing the sleep from my face, I grabbed my phone from my backpack and the road atlas I kept with me. I was close to the Colorado border, but I couldn’t go there. As desperate as I was for Jude, I couldn’t go to him so soon after leaving him. Especially not like this. I couldn’t let him save me; I needed to save myself first.

  I ate a granola bar and washed it down with water before I studied my atlas more seriously. My grandfather’s words, telling me to go on an adventure, echoed in my head.

  I looked at the west coast first, California and the Pacific Northwest. But California was too hot and both California and the Pacific Northwest weren’t far enough from Colorado. I wanted to get lost, really and truly lost, so I dragged a finger along the east coast, nixing the southern states because of their heat before my finger landed on Maine. It was about as far as I could go while remaining in the contiguous United States, and it would give me a completely different setting to figure my shit out.

  My eyes traced the various routes I could take, before I finally sucked up enough courage to open my phone.

  Three missed calls and several missed texts.

  My hand went cold as I looked at the calls first. One from Jude. One from Mila. One from a number I didn’t recognize.

  I opened my laptop and Googled the phone number. It was the local police number, and after checking my dialed call list, I realized it was the same number I’d called the day before when I’d left my mom’s trailer. I guessed they wanted to tell me their findings or get a more formal report from me, but I was interested in neither. I ignored the other two missed calls and opened my texts.

  Mila: I’m sorry it happened the way it did. But can you please call? Or call Jude? He’s worried about you.

  Nope. I wasn’t doing that. I moved to the next text, the one from Jude, the one person who never left my thoughts.

  Jude: I went up on the roof tonight. It didn’t feel the same without you there. I hope you’re okay.

  I thought I’d been completely unaffected. But those three sentences had reached inside of me and pulled on whatever strings held my heart in its place. I felt the pain in my chest, and wrapped a hand around my midsection. I could deal with physical pain—ibuprofen and ice would get me on the mend. But pain like that, pain that hit a place inside myself I couldn’t touch? I was completely powerless.

  I wanted to reply. So I did.

  Me: I’m okay.

  It seemed like a lackluster response. So I typed again.

  Me: I miss you.

  Once again, I was unsatisfied with how inadequate it sounded.

  Me: I’ll look up at the sky tonight. I hope you do, too.

  I pressed send before I could talk myself out of it and then threw my phone down on the bed before I stood and paced. I couldn’t believe I’d said that. Couldn’t believe I’d essentially asked him to connect with me tonight, even from faraway.

  When my phone beeped, I waited a full ten seconds before picking it up.

  Jude: I will. Every night until you come back.

  I dropped the phone again and pressed my palm to my good eye, holding in the emotion that welled up there.

  After my second night in the motel, I packed up my car and set off on the road. I hadn’t replied to Jude’s last text, nor had I replied to Mila.

  When interstate 80 met interstate 25 to Denver, I steered the car to the right to head south. I did it unconsciously, like I’d planned all along to go to Colorado. But at the last second, I veered the car left, away from the exit and back on my path. A car honked and flashed its lights at me and I gripped the wheel tighter.

  Just breathe, I reminded myself.

  I hooked my finger through

  the hole in my heart.

  Trying to fill the places

  you kept when I left.

  But it’s useless.

  Because I don’t want to

  fill the void

  with more of me.

  Maybe I’m learning

  I’m less of me

  when I’m not

  with you.

  Chapter Six

  June 2013

>   “Trista,” the voice repeated. “Are you there?”

  It couldn’t be him, I thought. I couldn’t be talking to Jude.

  I collapsed to my knees on the hot asphalt. “No,” I said, but my blood was so loud in my ears that I wasn’t sure it’d been even audible to him through the phone.

  “Mila called you,” Jude said. He sighed, a sound so long and solid that I dug the fingers of one hand into the hot stones on the roof, needing to feel tied to the earth, to reality.

  I coughed his name, feeling the clench in my gut. It was him. He was alive.

  My eyes closed as I remembered Mila’s call. I’d ignored the first one, but when the second had come through seconds after the first ended, I picked it up.

  “Mila,” I said, prepared to launch into a reminder of why I didn’t want her calling me. But her sobs thundered through the phone, so I froze in place. “What’s wrong?” I tried to keep myself from panicking, but there was only one reason Mila would be calling me.

  It sounded like she was gasping for air. “Oh my god!” she cried from the other end, her voice in a state of agony. I’d never heard anyone in grief like that, like she was sucking up all the air she could, but her grief was so great that it was compressing her chest. Her sobs were immediately followed by a loud suck of breath, followed again by a sob that vibrated through the phone. And then she cried harder, and tears pricked the insides of my eyes. I imagined her doubled over in emotional pain as she tried to tell me what was wrong. The very thought made the first tear slide slowly down my cheek; it was impossible to hear someone grieving that desperately and not feel a single thing.

  “What?” I asked, breathless as I felt my own chest constrict. Suddenly, it felt like my heart was too heavy to beat. I could feel each movement of breath, arching my chest and painfully pressing against my rib cage. I gripped the bedspread as tight in my fist as I could, until my hand began to shake. “Tell me.”