by W. Winters
Kamden opens his mouth. “I—” A subtle shake of his head stops him from continuing. He was going to tell me one thing, and then he changed his mind. His thumbnail finding his bottom teeth as he leans back, once again he focuses on the empty fire. Another few long seconds go by. The rain makes it easier to sit through this conversation. It gives me something to listen to other than the beat of my heart and all my own thoughts. His expression gives me something new to think about; it reads nothing but regret. The longer I sit, the more questions build in my mind.
“I had a relapse,” he admits in a whisper and then clears his throat, meeting my eyes. “I didn’t go to see her, because I couldn’t. I know one of your dirty secrets. Now you know one of mine.”
“A relapse?” The leather armrest tightens under my grasp. Kamden stands up and shrugs off his jacket. He’s wearing a heather gray shirt underneath with his jeans. He’d look comfortable here if he weren’t trying to suppress so much emotion. He tosses the jacket onto one of the other chairs and sits down again.
“I overdosed.” Kamden’s mouth curves down, his cheeks reddening again, and I’d know that expression anywhere. I’ve seen it on my own face in the mirror enough times. He settles back into the chair and he’s joined by guilt.
Guilt. Real, pained guilt.
That heat I felt before dims instead as I watch him, finding no trace of deception.
Kamden clears his throat. “Fuck you for judging me.” His eyes are hard on mine now. He looks like this hurts to say even more than admitting the relapse. “I found her. I’m the one who found her. She’d jumped out of a window. Not this place. I can’t go back to her southern home. I thought she was dead. Lying there like a corpse, there was so much blood by her head. I thought she was dead.”
The image slams into me like a long-haul truck. Ella, lying lifeless and still on the ground outside some featureless window. The horrified feeling of coming upon her that way. The slow realization. Kamden wouldn’t have wanted to believe it was true. Reality would have forced its way in anyway. She had lived. Obviously she had lived. But there would have been a moment when his heart was in his throat, when his mind was screaming for her not to have done what she did. My own heart pounds to imagine it. I have to keep my face neutral with every bit of restraint I have.
It’s far more serious than I thought with Ella. I thought she had a moment of weakness once. Only once. “She tried to kill herself more than once?”
“Twice now,” Kamden answers and swallows hard. “She was admitted after she jumped out the window. The only thing that saved her that time was the railing. Her ankle caught it on the way down and prevented her from landing on concrete stairs.” He readjusts again in his seat, this time opting to sit back, his gaze focusing on the blanket. Like all he wants to do is hide beneath it. As if it could all be written off as a bad dream. “I couldn’t do anything about it. The police came. I was in shock. She’d jumped. It was obvious. I wasn’t there when they spoke to her when she woke up, they wouldn’t let me. They admitted her before I could do a damn thing to help her.”
A chill settles between us, dragging the tension down to the ground until it’s subdued entirely. All I can wonder is if Damon knows. My mind drifts to the file. Kamden’s quiet for another long stretch until he tells me, “And then, at the center, she drank drain cleaner. I’ve been—” He stops, putting a fist to his mouth, and takes a deep breath. Putting his hands in his lap before he continues. “I’ve been clean for a decade, but I couldn’t stop blaming myself.”
“For what? What did you do?”
“I’m the one who left her alone in the first place.” His eyes find mine. “She was losing it. Crying, which I expected. But she was angry and hysterical.”
This wouldn’t have been in the file. Even if I’d read it, this statement from Kamden wouldn’t have been in there. He wouldn’t be telling me now if he assumed I already knew about it. It comes back to me then—Ella telling me that everything in the file was carefully curated. I thought she meant she did it all by herself, but Kamden must have had a hand too. He must have kept out certain details.
“You left her alone because she was upset?” I shake my head, my own guilt rising again. I did the same thing. I let Quincy walk through the city by herself. I want to convince Kamden it wasn’t his fault as much as I want to convince myself, but lies don’t help a damn soul.
“No. I left her alone, and I took her phone. So she had no one. I took her phone,” he repeats as if the phone is what did her in. “She couldn’t call anyone … but she couldn’t have it. It was driving her mad.”
None of this makes any sense. “Why the hell would you take her phone?”
He’s looking into the fireplace again, and I almost wish I’d turned the damn thing on so he wouldn’t look so desolate while he stares into nothing. Kamden takes a trip back into his memories and resurfaces with a shake of his head. “They kept posting it. The video. It was all over her social. They kept tagging her, over and over again. Every time she saw one pop up, she lost it.”
“Posting the video?”
“Ella kept watching it over and over. Someone would tag her and the whole cycle would start again. She couldn’t stop herself. She’d play the video and cry. Gut-wrenching sobs. All day. After a few hours she’d manage to collect herself, but it would only be for a few minutes. An hour at most. And then she went back to the video. Back and back and back. When it was at its worst she would beg people to stop posting, but they wouldn’t. Asking them to take it down only made more people share the link. It was vicious. She had nowhere to go. Maybe you don’t get it, but sharing everything with them … she couldn’t back away and they wouldn’t let her.”
I’m missing a crucial piece of information, and for the first time I feel a real, genuine regret that I haven’t read her file. I haven’t done everything in my power to learn about Ella. I’m against it in general because I think people need the chance to tell their own stories, but this is a part of it that she’s yet to confide in me.
I didn’t know about the suicide attempt at her old place. I didn’t know she jumped out of a fucking window. And Kamden thinks she did that because of some people posting about her. No—posting a video. I’ve seen some videos, but—
“What were they posting?”
Kamden meets my eyes with deep disappointment. Somehow, the tables have turned since he walked into this room. “You want to make me the villain in all this because you’re pissed off at me, but I’m not the villain. You might be, though.”
“What got to her—” I stop and take a deep breath. I won’t let my anger get the best of me. I won’t even talk myself up into thinking I haven’t made any mistakes. “What did they post that made her that upset?” It has to do with James. It’s the only thing I can imagine. The realization is suffocating.
Kamden looks down at his hands in his lap, then back up to me. “You should ask her.” He shakes his head then adds, “No. You should already know.”
Ella
I haven’t looked forward to Damon and his chats. It’s something I’ve tolerated because I was told I had to do it. Therapy isn’t something I’ve ever wanted. Until this morning.
Waking up to find another gift from Kam, glazed pastries from a quaint French bakery downtown, and a note from Zander, letting me know he had to have arrangements made but would see me tonight … left me feeling more alone than I’d have liked. Barefoot in the kitchen, that sinking feeling resonated until Damon walked into the room.
“Is there anything you want to talk about this morning?” Damon’s professional as always, but I don’t miss his subtle change in expression when he glances down at my nightgown. It’s the same one from yesterday. I was eager to get downstairs, to find Zander and didn’t think much else of, well, of anything else.
“Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to pick those topics?”
“I could … just thought I’d offer,” he says and shrugs. Eyeing him I wonder how this man always looks
so professional. Even in only a simple white tee and faded blue jeans, he radiates an aura of strength. Freshly shaven, his dark skin taut over his muscular arms. It’s easy to decide that it’s just him. It’s the air around him. Everything about him reads: authority.
And then there’s me. In a wrinkled nightshirt, with finger-combed hair.
Clearing my throat, I hesitantly take a seat at the counter. “I haven’t brushed my teeth, let alone begun to think about what we should talk about.” Lies. The softly spoken words sound like lies even to my own ears.
“There’s nothing you want to talk about?” he questions. Staring past him to the kettle still on the stove from yesterday, I wonder if Z told him about last night. I wouldn’t think so, but then again, I’m not a part of those conversations. There’s so much out of my own control.
“You seem …”
“Out of it?” I surmise.
“Upset,” he says, correcting me. The stool grates on the floor as I stand up and busy myself with the kettle.
In truth, I’m exhausted. I slept so well, yet it feels like I haven’t slept at all. With the water running he questions, “Are you all right?”
With a gentle sigh escaping, I tell him, “I’ll be all right. Just feeling needy today.”
Damon nods, rounding the counter to join me in the working space of the kitchen. He manhandles the coffee pot, finding it empty.
When he opens the canister, the scent of fresh grounds filling the room, I comment on how much I love the smell.
Which he duly ignores. “Is there anything in particular that upset you this morning?” Even though he’s facing a now brewing pot of coffee, pretending like he’s not watching me, I feel his eyes on the side of my face. That’s when I realize I’m watching a kettle, waiting for the pot to boil.
“It’s just a ball in a box,” I murmur, knowing full well why I’m upset. “I’m still grieving.”
Damon’s charming smile isn’t what I expect to see from him. He nods and says, “We always grieve.”
I nod in return and debate on letting it all out. Telling him about last night, but maybe he already knows.
“Did Z tell you?” I whisper the question.
Grabbing his mug of black coffee with both hands, he shakes his head. “Did something happen?”
I scoot from in front of the stove to the counter so I can rest my back against it, gripping the edge on either side. “Last night, I just … I had a moment.”
Damon gestures to the breakfast nook to the right with his mug. “Would you like to sit?”
Raising a brow, I ask him, “Would you like to add your sugar and cream?” My sarcastic response grants me an even broader smile. “Sitting can wait until I at least have a cup of tea,” I add as he sets his mug down and adds cream and sugar as he always does.
“You know there isn’t a story worth not having sugar in your morning brew.”
The spoon stops mid-twirl in his mug at my comment, the warmth leaving his expression for a moment as he seems to carefully consider his words. “There is purpose in suffering.”
“What?”
“I wanted to wait for the right time, but I feel like you need to know that this morning.”
He peeks at me from the corner of his eye as the kettle whistles.
“There is purpose in suffering.” He leans against the counter as I prepare my tea. “It wasn’t so much that I was caught up in your story, not that I wasn’t invested.” He adds, “Just … more that I wanted to make sure I told you that.”
“Mr. Dwell-in-your-emotions thinks there’s purpose in suffering … how am I not surprised by that?” I offer wryly but with a semblance of a smirk.
He takes his time, his heavy footsteps careful as he takes a seat at the small table. After a moment, I join him, letting the tea steep and watching the steam billow.
Since Zander didn’t tell Damon, I don’t want to confess that I cried last night. But I wanted to get these thoughts out of me. I need someone else to take them. “I don’t often feel scared. But I do now. It’s alarming how scared I am.”
“Why do you say that?”
“At one point in my life I had so much to lose, and yet, there wasn’t much at all that I was afraid of.”
Speaking the words out loud makes so much of it real. I’m scared. Maybe I’m just as scared as I am upset.
“There was a time that I was scared to be hated. Then someone told me if there aren’t people out there who hate you, then it’s because no one knows who you are. People with viewpoints are hated; my favorite people are demons in someone else’s story. Don’t you want to be someone who is known for what they believe in?” I recall the conversation I had, but I don’t even remember who gave me the advice. “That’s why I wanted it all out there. It’s why I love that I got to share my life. I was hated, but everyone knew damn well what I believed in and I found the people who wanted the same in life.” Peeking up at Damon I tell him, “I remember I wasn’t scared anymore after that. Not like I was.”
“But you’re scared now?” he asks and my throat dries as I nod. I confess in a whisper, “I’m terrified.”
“What are you scared of?”
“I haven’t shared much in a long time.”
“Kamden said you’ve started, though,” he comments, his voice hopeful.
“Only two posts.”
“It’s something.”
“It is.”
“So you want to share more and you’re scared of that.”
“Not of sharing per se … scared of not sharing where I stand. It’s just … it’s complicated.”
“What are you afraid of now?”
“It feels like I have so little left.”
“In this big house?” he jokes in a calm, comforting way. I know he’s got a smile on his face and he’s watching me, but I can only watch the billowing steam.
In my silence, he presses, “Money?”
“No … money is fine. It comes and goes, but money is fine. … It’s just there are things that I want to talk about, and I’m afraid if I share it with them …” I can’t bring myself to say it, but somehow I do. “If I share it, somehow they’ll make it hurt. They’ll make that little piece that means so much, become insignificant and then there won’t be anything left at all.”
“Well, you know no one has control over you. Only you do. You can only control yourself.”
Nodding, my response is cracked when spoken. “I know.”
“Maybe you should keep some things to yourself. It’s not a bad thing. You don’t owe anyone anything.”
“It feels selfish in a way.”
“Protecting yourself isn’t selfish.” Damon’s adamant, but so is my phone that buzzes with a new text. The cement block that it is, opens to reveal a simple question.
“Everything okay?” Damon asks when I go quiet.
“It’s just Kam. He wants to have a meeting soon.” Toying with the phone I add, “He asked me when I’m free.”
“And that upsets you?” he asks, gauging my solemn expression.
“He’s never asked before.” Again, that cold, lonely feeling that overwhelmed me when I woke up covers every inch of my skin.
“Things are different now.” I swallow down the regret and push my phone away. “Everything is different.”
“Different is not only okay. Different is good sometimes.”
“I just wish some things could go back to the way they were.”
“Which things?” he asks and my answer is immediate. “I wish I weren’t so damn afraid.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“That I’m going to make a mistake. Just one and I’m going to lose everything because of it.” Zander. I’m going to lose Zander. I can’t tell him, because even confessing that to Damon feels like it could lead to me losing him. No matter where I look, I think, one step, and it’s all gone.
Zander
There’s a bite in the air when I pull up behind Ella’s the next evening. Sunset comes
faster in the fall, and it’s almost finished now. Not quite cold enough for a winter coat, but there’s a frosty edge to the breeze. The kitchen lights are on, spilling light out onto the porch, and Damon’s in there.
Staring down at my phone, I see there are three unanswered messages.
Kamden: Have you talked to her? You need to really talk to her.
Cade: There’s no chance in hell that she’s moving out of that house. She’s under our protection and to the judge’s order, it is only under the condition that she stays at that location. And the cameras will be staying. I can’t make exceptions and you know that.
Damon: I don’t know what happened last night, but you should have been there this morning.
Everyone is watching us. Judging us. Even worse, their approval is an actual fucking factor in our relationship. None of this is ideal.
Another message comes in. This one from one of the lawyers involved in Quincy’s case.
Arguments start at 9:30 sharp—wanted to keep you updated. Courtroom will be open if you want to sit in.
For a brief moment, I hesitate in the car. It would be far too easy to tell them all to fuck off. To tell them I’m handling it, that I’ve got her. It’s their intentions that kept me from texting each one of them just that. I’ll give Kamden the benefit of the doubt. They all have her best interest at heart. We all want the same thing: for Ella to be healthy and happy.
All day I’ve wondered what it is I want from this, and all that resonated was the moment in her kitchen when I heard her laugh for the first time. When she smiled up at me with a knowing look. I want that flirtatious look in her eyes. I want her moaning my name. I want her.
Clicking off my phone and shoving it into my back pocket, I settle on not responding until I speak to Ella and decide together what I should tell them.
Damon’s message is the one that blindsided me the most. Him telling me I should have been there doesn’t sit well with me. If he’s pissed at me for turning my back on The Firm, he should say it.
