Absinthe Of The Heart

by Monica James

  “You’re unbelievable,” I spit, shaking my head. “You’re worried about what a scandal like this would do to your precious reputation, aren’t you?” He doesn’t need to reply because his guilty conscience almost blinds me with the truth.

  I’ve never felt more betrayed than I do right now.

  I don’t even bother waiting around for him to explain because his silence speaks volumes. Slamming the door shut behind me, I haul down the stairs, ignoring the pain in my ankle. I’m thankful my parents are nowhere to be found. I need to be alone.

  A small part of me hopes Lincoln will come chasing after me, apologizing for being an asshole, but he doesn’t. The engine starts with a splutter, and the moment I put the car into gear, I take off like the devil is on my heels. I have no idea where I’m headed, but the farther I drive, the better I feel.

  I’m thankful I still know these streets like the back of my hand because I’m driving on auto-pilot. My mind is a million miles away. How did they, whoever they are, know where I was? My parents’ address is not made public for this exact reason, but I should have known there is no hiding from the Italian mafia.

  This has just stepped up a notch. I know I’ll have to contact the investigating detectives who worked on the Rossi case because they did warn me that something like this may happen. I, of course, led with my hard head, but now that my parents have been dragged into this, I have no other choice but to report it. I can’t let anything happen to them on account of me being a stubborn ass. They’ve protected me my entire life, and now it’s my turn to do the same.

  Clenching the steering wheel, I suddenly realize that the streets have become less crowded, and the streetlights are not shining as brightly as before. I know where I’m headed, but the question is why.

  I need to pull a U-turn and go back to where I belong, but being here in the one place that, regardless of how poor I was, makes me finally appreciate that I never once felt unsafe or unloved. I may not have had everything I have now, but there was a naïve beauty to the simplicity. I never worried about being one of the cool kids or wearing the latest trends because all that stuff didn’t matter. It still doesn’t.

  All I wanted in life was to be happy, and for the most part, I was.

  My parents and I made our house a home, and I miss that. My apartment in New York may tick all the right boxes, but it’s missing one essential element—love.

  The four walls around us may have been slanted and the off-yellow paint faded with age, but if those marred walls could talk, they’d tell a tale of laughter and love and a family who made something out of nothing.

  My vision is blurred, thanks to the tears streaming down my cheeks, but the moment I take a sharp, crooked left, I could navigate down this road with my eyes closed. I roll down the window, the familiar smells taking me back to when I was ten. I remember riding my secondhand bike up and down this potholed street, singing Michael Jackson at the top of my lungs. When I fell over a crater, Mrs. Tully and her fifteen cats came to the rescue, stitching me back up so my mom wouldn’t know.

  Mr. Ito, our neighbor five doors down, bought a dozen eggs from the corner store every week, but he was unmarried and had no need for so many, so every Tuesday when there was a knock on the door, I knew it was him, splitting his loot in exchange for a cup of coffee and a chat about the good ole days.

  At the time, I saw this neighborhood as a mark of my social standing to the outside world, but now I see this community as a band of people who stuck by each other when the world turned their backs on us, banishing us for not fitting into their perfect little lives. But now that I’m a part of it, I see that it’s the imperfections that make life beautiful.

  Wiping away my tears, I pull the car up in front of house number five hundred and forty-nine. The outside still looks exactly the same way it did when I closed that rusted iron gate over ten years ago. The bottle green exterior complemented with pale yellow trimmings gives this home a tender touch. It depicts to the outside world that regardless of the zip code, home is where the heart is, and my heart, well, a piece of it, was lost within those walls the moment I left for Florida a changed woman.

  I tried so hard to forget my roots because remembering them was remembering him, but in the process, I forgot me. I never once was embarrassed about who I was growing up, but now, can I say the same?

  Turning off the engine, I unsnap my belt and exit the car. Standing here under the full moon brings back so many memories, and I suddenly feel like a teenager, a small child once again. I walk toward my old house, careful of the uneven sidewalk which still hasn’t been fixed. Once I’m a few feet away, I stop, never feeling more at home than I do right now. It looks so much smaller than I remember, but back then, the world was my oyster.

  There is a single light glowing from the front window—our living room. There are no signs to indicate who resides inside. Regardless, I hope they’re as happy as I once was. The familiar sounds catching on the warm summer breeze transports me back to when they lulled me to sleep at night.

  You have to embrace the noise to appreciate the silence, and at this moment, I have both. With eyes closed, I lift my face to the heavens and bask in the freedom of having absolutely nowhere to be. Lost in my own private oasis, I almost tune out the world around me, but when I hear a squawk, my senses prick in remembrance because there is no way I would ever forget that sound.

  My eyes pop open, almost unbelieving, but the bright orange fluff ball rubbing up against my legs confirms that Mrs. Tully’s most favorite pet still lives. Dropping to a squat, I rub him under the chin, and just like years ago, he purrs like a lawnmower.

  “Hey, Ninja. How you doing, buddy?” In response, he purrs louder and headbutts my hand.

  Peering up ahead, Mrs. Tully’s porch light flickers dimly. I know that she’s home, and regardless of the late hour, she’d be overjoyed to see me. She may be the crazy cat lady, and I’ll end up leaving her home covered in cat hair, but I don’t care. I have fond memories of her rescuing every stray cat in the neighborhood, her kindness on full display when although she could barely feed herself, she never turned her back on a stray.

  With that decided, I give Ninja one final pat before proceeding to stand. However, when a branch snaps behind me, eliciting the hair at the back of my neck to stand on end, I freeze on the spot. I’m mid crouch, too afraid to move.

  My choppy breaths leave me in small bursts because something ominous is lurking beyond the shadows. A sheen of sweat coats my entire body, and when Ninja’s ears fall back flat against his head and he lets out a low growl, I know he senses the threat too. He hisses before taking off in the opposite direction, his little legs almost unable to keep up.

  That now leaves me alone with whoever is skulking behind me.

  Counting to three, I stand tall and turn slowly. The entire time I’m attempting to convince myself that I’m overreacting, but when I see a hooded figure standing a few yards away, I know that this person isn’t just a passerby—they’re here for me. It’s a game of cat and mouse because I have no doubt if I make a move, he will hunt me down.

  His head is downturned, a hood covering his features. His hands are dug deep into his pockets. There is nothing distinguishable about this person. The only small clue I have is a red dragon embroidered on the upper left corner of the hoodie. The clue is pointless, however, as I have no idea what it means.

  He’s waiting for me to make the first move. I want to call out, ask him what he’s doing, but I’ve never been more frightened in all my life.

  Call it women’s intuition, but I know this is the person who has been tormenting me for the past six months. He’s finally grown a pair and come out into the light. But now that he’s here, I can’t help but wonder what happens next.

  A swell of adrenaline spills from me. I managed to stay safe growing up in this neighborhood, so I’ll be damned if that changes now. He’s methodically watching my every move, so I know my window to make a break for it leaves no room for erro
r.

  There are ten steps separating me from freedom. My assailant could catch me in eight. But regardless of the odds, I have to make a move, and I have to move now. Taking one final deep breath, I lock eyes with this bastard.

  Fisting the keys in my pocket, I gently finger the one I need, my gaze never wavering from his. I’ve thought of this scenario often, but now that my attacker is feet away, all I want to do is flee.

  One…

  Two…

  Three…

  My feet kick out from under me as I make a mad dash for the car. I can hear his heavy footsteps beat wildly on the ground, but I continue running, using the remote to unlock the door. Ten steps suddenly feel like ten million, but when I’m within reach, I yank open the door and throw myself into the driver’s seat, locking the doors.

  My heart is beating so wildly, I can hear the rhythm pound piercingly against my eardrums. It’s almost a distraction, but I pull it together and shove the key in the ignition. The car splutters to life and I slam it into drive. The parking brake is still on, stalling me, a total amateur move, one which will cost me dearly.

  I’m waiting for the darkened shape to appear at my window, shattering it and snatching me once and for all, but none of the above happens because nothing happens at all. I frantically search my mirrors, hunting for where he went, but it appears he disappeared into the shadows just as quietly as he appeared.

  I jerk my head from left to right, turning over my shoulders to search for his location, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  I should be relieved, but I’m not. I know this is only the beginning.

  With a trembling hand, I release the parking brake and glide into the night. The entire drive back, I keep checking my mirrors to ensure I’m not being followed. I’m not. A wishful part reasons that maybe my exhausted mind was playing tricks on me, conjuring up something that wasn’t really there. But I can still taste the fear, and the constant chill I can’t kick reveals that he was real, and it’s only a matter of time before he comes out of the shadows for good.

  There is no greater smell than coffee. There especially is no better smell when you’ve had about an hour’s sleep, too afraid to close your eyes in case the bogeyman is ready to finish what he started.

  After last night, my body seems to be in a state of hyper awareness, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. I came back to my parents’, thankful that Lincoln was sound asleep. The bottle of whiskey tucked under his arm was probably the reason he was passed out by eleven p.m. This town has changed us both.

  Back in New York, we rarely fought, but I suppose that was because we barely saw one another. The fact we can’t seem to see eye to eye has nothing to do with Los Angeles and everything to do with the fact that being here has unleashed old feelings and exposed hidden insecurities.

  I know a small part of Lincoln will never forgive me for sleeping with London. He can play it off, pretend it doesn’t matter, but his reaction yesterday was all the confirmation I need. He still feels threatened by him, and he has every right to be angry with me for seeing him. I still don’t know why I ended up there, but it’s a mystery which will remain unsolved because if I want this marriage to last, then I have to let London go.

  I have to let go of the anger and betrayal and get on with my life.

  “Babe?” Cracking open an eye, I see Lincoln sheepishly sitting by the side of the bed. He comes in peace. “I brought you coffee.”

  Slowing rising, I reach for the porcelain cup before leaning backward against the headboard. I inhale the liquid gold, needing a moment to collect my thoughts. I know I owe Lincoln some kind of an apology. He had every right to be angry with me. Even though I don’t appreciate him pointing the finger, I understand why he did.

  Just as I open my mouth, ready to pay my dues, Lincoln beats me to the punch. “I’m so sorry for acting like a complete jerk. This wedding stuff, work, just everything…it’s all getting to me. Forgive me?” I know exactly what he means. These past six months have been tough on us both. “I know getting married so quickly seems insane, but I don’t want to wait.”

  His confession is exactly what I needed to hear. We’ve both been under so much stress; it seems we both needed to remember why he proposed to me in the first place. All my doubts and fears drift away for now.

  “I’ll only forgive you if you forgive me. I’m sorry for…everything too.” The pause is because I know better than to mention London’s name.

  Lincoln sighs in relief and shuffles closer. “I overreacted. I just—”

  I stop him. “I know.” There is no need for him to explain.

  “I thought getting married would solve everything.” He fists his hair, while my heart suddenly drops. Solve what exactly?

  “You don’t want to get married?”

  “What?” he asks, horrified. “Of course, I do. Do you?”

  He waits patiently, and I hate that I need a second to reply. “Yes, I do.”

  His relief is clear. “I didn’t tell you about the letter because I didn’t want you to worry. It was stupid, but you’ve been under so much stress, and I didn’t want to upset you.”

  “I understand, but from now on, we have to be completely honest with one another about everything, okay?”

  He nods, staring me deep in the eyes. “I promise.”

  A weight instantly lifts from my shoulders, but I still want to address the big, pink elephant in the room. Cradling the cup, I get lost in the impending truth. “When we get back to New York, I want to report everything that’s happened.”

  “Of course, babe, anything you want.” This is a conversation we should have had months ago. Things would have been so much easier if we had.

  Taking a deep breath, I confess, “I think I’m being followed.”

  “What? By whom?” His eyes widen to the size of saucers.

  “I don’t know. Last night, I went to visit my old neighborhood. Stupid, I know. But when I turned around, someone was definitely behind me, watching me.”

  “Did you see who?” he asks, his fists clenched by his sides.

  “No, they had on a hood. I couldn’t see their face, but I just know it was him. The person who has been tormenting me these past six months.”

  I have never seen Lincoln this mad before. “From now on, you don’t leave my side.”

  I can’t help but smile, touched by the sentiment. “That’s hardly necessary. I’ll just be more careful from now on and not wander into strange neighborhoods at night.” It was meant to be a joke, but Lincoln doesn’t seem amused in the slightest. “I want you to trust me.”

  “I do.” Lincoln’s response is heavy with misgivings.

  “I like to think that you do, but I know when it comes to some things…certain people, you don’t.” Lifting my gaze, I’m not sure what I’ll see.

  “Okay.” Not exactly poetic, but it’s music to my ears.

  “Okay?” I question, raising a brow. “Wow, that was easy. Case closed.”

  He grins, leaning forward. “Nothing is easy with you. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I still can’t kick the feeling he’s hiding something, but that’s probably just my suspicious nature.

  His honesty touches me, and I suddenly reprimand myself for ever doubting my commitment to him. I may have freaked out when it came to the wedding stuff, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to marry him. Every bride has a bout of cold feet, but it’s time I stopped and accepted my fate.

  After an afternoon of catching up on emails and sleep, Lincoln told me his parents had invited us to go out for dinner. My future in-laws have always been semi-civil toward me, but deep down, I know they still hate the fact that their only son was marrying a Brooks-Ferris.

  Sylvia and Harold won’t appreciate my pushiness, but I invited my parents too, because eventually, we all have to get along. Lincoln is up ahead talking to my dad while my mother and I lag behind.

  We haven’t really spoken since my runaway bride stint. I know she’s giving me
time to approach her myself. I do owe her an explanation, but I don’t know where to start. “Sorry about yesterday.”

  My mother would make a terrible lawyer. She has the worst poker face. “Sweetie, there’s no need to apologize, but I am worried.”

  I gulp. “Why?”

  No matter one’s age, our parents have the uncanny ability to make us feel like a child again. “You’re not ready to get married.” She holds up her finger when I attempt to object. My courtroom prowess won’t cut it with my mom. “You may think you are, but you’re not. I know you better than you know yourself. You’re a part of me.”

  Hearing someone else confirm my worst fears doesn’t clear the fog. Lincoln’s heartfelt confession repeats loudly in my ears. What is the matter with me? “For argument’s sake, let’s just say you’re right. What should I do?”

  She loops her arm through mine, leaning into my side. “You need to uncover the reason. I know you love Lincoln, but you need to marry him for the right reasons.”

  “So love isn’t the right reason?” I counter, suddenly so confused.

  “Love is the only right reason,” she objects without a second thought.

  “I do love him,” I stress, lowering my voice and peering up ahead to ensure Lincoln can’t hear our conversation.

  “Well, in that case, marrying him shouldn’t leave you in a cold sweat and seeking out people from the past.” I trip over my heels, almost falling flat on my face.

  I don’t know how she knows, but she knows. There isn’t a trace of disappointment or anger in her tone, merely concern for my happiness.

  “Coming back here was a mistake.” I sound like a spoiled child.

  “Why?” When I’m silent, mulling over the many reasons, she offers, “A place shouldn’t affect your feelings for someone. Your love for that person should be universal, wherever you go.”

  Game. Set. Match.

  Sighing, I suddenly feel a weight settle deep within my gut. She’s right. But the question is, what am I going to do about it?