Absinthe Of The Heart

by Monica James

  Our heavy, anger-soaked breaths mingle as one, and before long, I’m not sure where mine ends and his starts. He’s about a foot taller, but I stand my ground, refusing to back down. “I’m not the one who ran away…you did. I may have left, but I never ran away.” My entire body is trembling, years of anger bubbling close to explosion. “Well, I hope it was worth it.”

  “It was,” he bites back, evading my personal space with zero qualms.

  I push him backward, unable to have him this close. “Well, it’s good to see my memory hasn’t failed me.”

  He arches a brow, confused by my statement. I clear up any confusion a second later. “I was right all along. You are a mistake.” He hisses, pulling backward as if burned.

  “Say that, and you can’t take it back.”

  We’re suddenly transported to that fateful night under the stars. If only I knew then what I know now, I would have told the teenage me to run—run far away and not look back. I can’t undo the past, but I can dictate my future. “I should thank you because if it wasn’t for you, I’d be stuck in this hellhole in a dead-end job I hate. Maybe I’d be your competition on the Boulevard, manager of some shitty bar too.”

  My comment hits him where it hurts.

  “But your uncanny ability to be an astronomical asshole forced me to fend for myself and grow the fuck up. I made something of myself. Little Holland Brooks-Ferris is not so little and defenseless anymore. So thank you for making me a better person.”

  He applauds me, patronizing me further. “I never once thought you were defenseless. You were the bravest person I knew.” I recoil, offended he refers to my bravery in the past tense. He reveals why a moment later.

  Stepping forward, I’m caged in a London prison, but I don’t move a muscle. “But now—” the air whooshes from my lungs when he presses his chest to mine “—that rock on your finger just confirms that yes, you grew up, but who did you grow into? The girl I once knew wouldn’t be caught dead with that weight around her neck. She was spirited, wild, and she was free. But you come here, thinking you’re different than the girls you grew to hate, but Holland…” He gently cups my throat, arching my neck backward. “You’re exactly like them. Maybe even worse,” he mock whispers, tightening his grip.

  I swallow against his palm, his aggression exciting and pissing me off in the same breath.

  “These fancy clothes hide the real you, but I see beneath the layers, Princess…I always have.”

  “Let me go,” I whimper, bowing farther backward when he cups my jaw in one hand.

  “You can leave at any time. No one is stopping you. But you always seem to end up on my doorstep, don’t you?” Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back.

  Is he confirming what I always thought to be true? Did he see me that night I turned up at his house, desperate for him to tell me it’ll be okay?

  “Never again,” I vow, shaking my head once. “You may have taken the one thing I can never get back, but you live and learn, and I’ve learned that you, London Sinclair, are my past.” Holding up my hand, I flash my ring with pride. “And Lincoln is my future.”

  It’s like an atomic bomb implodes between us, and he strokes my neck deliriously slow. It’s a fine line between pleasure and pain, but I snap my head to the right, breaking his hold.

  “You’re marrying that asshole?” He inhales sharply, his eyes narrowing into slits. “You do realize his surname is O’Toole, right? But I suppose it’s fitting.” His childish jab does a poor job of concealing his anger.

  “Looks like the better man won,” I counter with a shrug, challenging him when I purse my lips.

  He takes the bait. “It was never a competition, Princess,” he snarls, jaw clenched. “Good luck to you. You’ll need it.” His dig is a silent dismissal, but neither of us moves an inch.

  The air is crackling with embers of raw electricity, ready to electrocute us both, but leaving now feels like I’m being cheated somehow. This is the showdown I’ve been craving for years, but why do I feel so empty inside?

  Did I want him to fight me? Tell me that marrying Lincoln is a mistake? Such a notion is beyond absurd, but why are my feet still glued to the floor?

  “I don’t need it,” I refute, my wavering voice contradicting my claim.

  “You don’t know what you need.” His lightning quick response catches me off guard, but I bounce back, done with this conversation.

  A hair’s breadth away, I declare, “That may have been true once upon a time, but not anymore. I have everything I want…everything I need. In three weeks, I will be out of here and back to my perfect life in New York with my perfect husband. Where will you be? Stuck here, running this shithole and hosing down the hallways after happy hour ends. Good to see you’ve made something of yourself. Your parents must be so proud.”

  This is the moment I should break out into a victory dance and celebrate the fact that I’ve managed to get under London’s skin, but I don’t. I’ve never felt more ashamed of myself than I do right now.

  I’m waiting for a smartass response, a jab to completely undermine mine, but all I’m greeted with is silence…and the grinding of London’s jaw. “You think just because you come here in expensive clothes, bragging about your perfect life that you’re somehow better than I am? Happier than I am?” He shakes his head, laughing with malevolence. “You know nothing, Princess. Go back to where you belong…because you sure as hell don’t belong here anymore.”

  I deserve everything he just said because he’s right. What is the matter with me? I used to hate the girls who thought their shit didn’t stink, but I’m no better than them. I’m worse.

  This place isn’t a shithole, and the name has now left me even more curious because I know who the owner is.

  Just as I’m about to apologize for being an utter bitch, a sultry voice sounds to the left. “Hey, boss, everything all right?”

  Out comes the claws when I see the busty barmaid from last night. She’s in short shorts, the pockets hanging from the frayed edges which are cut quite high. A pair of well-loved cowboy boots sit prettily on her small feet, offsetting the plaid shirt she’s wearing, tied at the waist, Daisy Duke style. Her long hair sits in a high ponytail, showcasing her plump lips and striking green eyes.

  An immediate sense of possession fills the small space between us, and I have no doubt if she could mark her territory, she’d be cocking her leg the moment she entered the room.

  “Everything is peachy, darlin’.”

  “She lost?” she asks, not even having the common decency to look at me.

  London folds his arms across his broad chest. “She was just leaving.” I leave half crescent moons in my palms as it takes every ounce of willpower not to slap the insolence from her plastic primped face.

  “I know the way out.” I push past him, squashing down my offense because it has no right being there.

  “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

  Her voice is like nails clawing down a blackboard. Without missing a beat, I counter, “I’m pretty sure Donald Duck wants his lips back, so how about you do everyone a favor and shut the hell up?”

  Once upon a time, London would have appreciated my spunk, but not now, as I’m quite certain I’ve just insulted his blow-up doll. I hobble out the door, shoeless, but with my head held high.

  As I limp down the street, ignoring the blatant stares of passersby, I attempt to decipher what exactly I’m feeling. Today was the perfect opportunity to ask London what happened all those years ago, but instead, I led with my pigheadedness and am no closer to getting over this once and for all.

  The look on his face, his words, everything will haunt me for the rest of my life. No matter how together I thought my life was, London Sinclair has always had the ability to make me feel like I’m sixteen-years-old.

  A horn tooting snaps me from my misery, but when I see Lincoln’s face near smooshed to the windshield, I slip into a deeper despair. I should stop walking, but I don’t. W
hat am I supposed to say?

  “Hey, Holland, it’s me.” Our rented BMW crawls along the sidewalk, matching my idling pace. “Babe?”

  Raising my eyes to the heavens, I ask the universe for strength and finally come to a stop. Turning over my shoulder, my heart crumbles when I see Lincoln half leaning over the passenger seat, looking out the window, concerned. His eyes dart back and forth between me and the traffic. “Get in,” he says, confused why I wouldn’t do so on my own accord.

  I’m sick of the smog and the ache in my chest, so I comply.

  The moment I settle into the seat, I instantly feel like I’m going to cry, but I don’t. “Thanks for picking me up.”

  He waits for me to elaborate. When I lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes, he realizes that’s all I wish to say for now.

  “Where are your shoes?” It seems to be the most trivial of questions.

  Replying lethargically, as it’s all I can muster for now, “In the alley.”

  “Oh?” he answers. “Well…isn’t it lucky you brought ten pairs.”

  All I can do is laugh because it’s either that or burst into uncontrollable tears.

  My fingers resemble prunes, but I have no intention of getting out of this tub anytime soon.

  After we arrived back at my parents’ house, I trudged upstairs, desperate to wash off the filth—both physically and metaphorically. I know I need to get over this. It happened over ten years ago. So much has happened since then, since him, but I just can’t.

  London was my first love, and as much as I hate it, I think he’ll forever be scorched into my soul.

  I can’t lie to Lincoln; it’s not fair. I have to tell him what happened today. I’m just trying to figure out how. I know he’s just outside the door, waiting for me to explain what the hell is going on. I can’t hide in here forever, no matter how tempting that thought may be.

  With a heavy sigh, I raise my weary body and reach for a towel. Drying off, I don’t bother dressing because if I don’t do this now, I will chicken out and hate myself even more than I do right now. Opening the door with force, I storm forward. Lincoln launches off the bed, surprised by my sudden entrance.

  “I freaked out today while trying on a wedding dress. I got mugged. And I saw London,” I blurt out in one long breath. When I’m done with my purge, I inhale deeply, hoping to fill my lungs with the strength to go on. Lincoln takes a literal step backward, running his fingers through his snarled hair.

  Now that it’s out, I realize I probably should have led with something a little subtler, but I can’t take it back. All I can do is wait and hope he shows mercy.

  I tighten the towel around me, my raspy breaths the only sound filling the otherwise still room.

  Lincoln is pissed. He confirms how much when he begins to pace the room like a caged tiger. With hands interlaced behind his nape, he mumbles gibberish under his breath. I decide to get out of the firing line and plonk onto the foot of the bed, watching him walk backward and forward, afraid he’ll wear a hole in the carpet.

  I open my mouth, but close it soon after when he finally stops and spins to face me. “You saw him?”

  My insides drop. “It was an accident. I bumped into Chloe Helm yesterday when I was out for dinner. We got to talking, and I agreed to have a drink with her. We ended up at some bar, and as it turns out, it’s London’s bar.” I bite my lip, toying with the short hem of the towel, too afraid to meet Lincoln’s eyes.

  “That doesn’t explain why you were there today.” His tone is accusing, and although he has every right to be pissed, he seems to have overlooked the fact that a bunch of other things happened today as well.

  “Just in case you didn’t hear me, I got mugged. So thanks for the concern.” I have no right to be snappy, but if the tables were turned, I would have pushed down my jealousy and first of all asked if he were okay.

  “Don’t you turn this back around on me, Holland! I’m not the one who ended up at my ex’s front door. We haven’t even been here for forty-eight hours, and he’s already managed to worm his way back into your life!”

  Shooting up from the mattress, I hobble over to where he stands. “Are you even listening to me? That was not what happened. I had a complete meltdown at the bridal store and—”

  “And what? To help deal with your cold feet you decided to go see your ex-boyfriend? That makes me feel a whole lot better.”

  “Stop it,” I demand, latching onto his bicep but am surprised when he yanks out of my grip violently. “He was never my boyfriend. Lincoln—”

  “No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you went to see him. Did you kiss him?” He levels me with a cold stare—one I have not seen before.

  I pull back, horrified, but more so, utterly offended. “What? Of course not. How can you even ask that of me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. History repeating itself maybe?” He begins pacing once again while I watch. The truth has done the complete opposite of setting me free.

  “I thought we were past this. I’ve told you a million times I was sorry. I was a dumb kid. I made a mistake. You can’t hold it against me for the rest of my life.” I know what I did was wrong, and he’ll always hold a grudge, but I would never do that to him again. I’ve learned my lesson. Yet the fact I ended up at London’s bar begs to differ. However, I swallow past that niggling voice and focus on my fiancé. “Would you stop moving and talk to me!” I plead.

  “I don’t even know what to say,” he reveals, which hurts.

  Lincoln and I have fought in the past, but something is different this time. London has always been a touchy subject for him, as their rivalry has obviously survived the decades, but this is ridiculous.

  Raising my hands in surrender, I approach him as I would a cornered animal. “I love you. I’m marrying you. No one else matters but you. You know this.” A small piece of my heart rises in protest, rattling its confines, but I quash it down because I can never see London again.

  He does nothing but destroy.

  “Lincoln?” I’m not used to losing an argument, but I know this is one I have to back down from. He meets my eyes, nothing but pain and betrayal rising to the surface. Does he not trust me?

  The thought turns my stomach because not once did I question his whereabouts last night. Lincoln was a complete player in high school, including playing me in the beginning, but the past is in the past, and I thought we had moved on. Obviously, I was wrong.

  Turning, I make my way over to the walk-in closet to hunt for something to wear. Rows of designer threads hang from the cushioned hangers, but for some unknown reason, I reach for a pair of torn jeans and a ratty t-shirt I forgot I had. Once I change into them, I realize this tee was one I owned when I was sixteen. Mom must have brought it with them when they moved.

  Fingering the soft material, I remember wearing this Greenpeace t-shirt to death. It was one of the better pieces of clothing I owned, but looking at it now, I recall just how poor we really were. No wonder the popular girls looked down their nose jobs at me. They saw me as nothing but white trash. Tears sting my eyes, not because the memory cuts me deep but rather, the adult me would think the same thing if she saw me all those years ago.

  “You come here, thinking you’re different from the girls you grew to hate, but Holland…you’re exactly like them. Maybe even worse.” London’s words pierce fiercely at my temple, and I fist both my eyes in rage.

  I’ve made something of myself, so screw him. But at the expense of what? I barely see my parents, using my busy lifestyle as an excuse. There was a time when my parents were my world, but now, I know they look at me like I’m a mere stranger.

  I live with my fiancé, but I may as well live alone. And now, the thought of stepping within a hundred yards of a wedding store has me breaking out in hives. What is the matter with me? I knew what I wanted. I had a life plan. Life was simple back in New York, but now, that life seems like an eternity ago.

  Slipping into my
Chucks, I suddenly have the urge to get out of here to clear my head. Lincoln still won’t look at me, which is fine, because it appears we both need time. His navy blazer is draped over the back of the chair, so without a second thought, I hunt through the pockets to find the car keys. But when my fingers pass over a sharp, crisp edge, I know I’ve got more than I bargained for.

  “Holland, no!” But it’s too late.

  With a lump in my throat, I slowly pull the envelope from Lincoln’s pocket. The date stamp reveals this was sent yesterday, and it was sent to my parents’ address. They know I’m here.

  “What the hell?” I whisper, shaking my head, blinking back my tears. “They know where my parents live? They know I’m here?” A complete glutton for punishment, I flip open the seal and reach for the folded piece of paper.

  It floats to the floor when I read what’s inscribed in the all too familiar red ink.

  It’s only a matter of time…slut.

  Only a matter of time for what?

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I cry, a hand cupped over my lips.

  “To protect you,” Lincoln replies, tipping his head back in frustration.

  He knows what my response will be even before I say it. “I don’t need you to protect me. I need you to tell me the truth. I can’t believe you had the nerve to grill me, while all along, you were guarding your own little secret. At least I had the balls to tell you.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise.” But he can’t promise that, especially now.

  “I wish I could believe that, but the fact you hid this from me shows me otherwise. You know the threats are getting more personal, more serious. I need to go to the police.”

  “No!” he nearly yells, which has me raising an eyebrow.

  “No? Why not?”

  He sighs, suddenly appearing beyond shamefaced, which has me wondering why. It only takes me a second to figure out why.