by Riley Jean
It couldn’t be. It made no sense.
Still, who else would have sent me black roses, today, on the anniversary of his death?
I picked up the vase overflowing with roses; the glass was cool and its weight heavy in my hands. My breathing grew irregular. My head swam. Memories too painful to recall came rushing back in staccato flashes. Outrage and fear and guilt gripped me, tightly twisting, like fingers closing over my throat. It was too much. Too much…
A loud crash rang out in the small space, the only sound in a world of nothing. Shattered fragments of glass and flowers and water rained down through my fingers. Everything blurred together.
That’s where Claire found me later that night, broken on the floor. She didn’t say anything, just got down on the carpet in her pretty pink dress and wrapped her arms around me.
I felt naked. This was the Scarlett no one was ever allowed to see, the one hidden in the murky depths below. Just when I thought I’d left it all behind, these emotions reared their ugly heads. I felt stuck in this constant cycle of bottling it all up, and exploding.
I was wrong. I wasn’t fine. And leaving my hometown didn’t erase my problems, which meant this whole thing was just another elaborate failure. That’s what hurt most of all—all the people I’d hurt in my process to outrun this, and it was all for nothing. My fear was the culprit, indecision my downfall. Life doesn’t pause for anybody. And complacency held up about as well as a house of cards in front of a bulldozer.
Demons couldn’t cure other demons. But apparently, neither could avoidance.
“I’ve done things I’m not proud of,” I confessed between cries. “Horrible things.”
She spoke softly as she helped me bandage my hands. “That don’t make you a horrible person.”
I shook my head. “You don’t understand, Claire. I am. I am a horrible person.”
“But you’re sorry, ain’t ya? You feel bad about it? In your heart?”
I nodded. I felt it all. I felt too much.
“That’s how I know for sure. Horrible people don’t feel conviction like this.”
I laughed a little through my tears. “So that’s the answer? Embrace the guilt? Be doomed to feel like this forever?”
“No,” she said, and her smile grew hopeful. “You can let go of your guilt. You can be free from your burdens and your past.”
I wiped my tears. “But how? I don’t feel like I deserve it.”
“That’s the beauty of grace,” she told me. “No one deserves it.”
* * *
[Journal]
Sometimes I think I can fly… and I never find out I can’t, until I crash.
* * *
That Sunday, I asked Claire for a ride to church.
For a long time now, I’d been struggling with the whole idea of faith. My reasons ranged from anger to loneliness. There were too many unanswered questions in this world, too much that didn’t seem fair. To put it plainly, I was hindered by the limitations of my mind. I wanted easy, black and white. I wanted a concept that fit neatly into my own little box. But how often do complex questions have simple answers? Not often, I supposed. So I came with an open mind and a hungry heart.
The service wasn’t what I expected. The congregation was small, not one of those mega churches they show on TV. I was so nervous, I accidentally dropped the little cracker during Communion. Panic hit me. I dropped the body of Christ! But Claire said not to sweat it, she was pretty sure the five-second rule still applied. Surprisingly, the people didn’t make me feel judged or like an outcast, either. Instead, they recognized that I was new, and invited me over for pie.
And the sermon? Pretty sure that sermon was written specifically for me.
I clung to every word that fell from the pastor’s mouth about a God who was bigger than my circumstances, and a grace that offered so much more than a temporary escape. After a lifetime of striving for perfection, I was under the impression that falling short made my whole life a complete failure. But I realized I had missed the whole point. We weren’t designed to be perfect; we were designed to be loved. And forgiven. Just as we were—flaws and all. And there was nothing we could do to separate us from that promise. All we had to do was accept it.
We weren’t supposed to take that gift and disregard it, or hide it away. We were supposed to let that love into our hearts. We were supposed to learn from the past, grow from it, and move forward to become better people. And most importantly, we were supposed to share that love with others.
And I was struck with a thought… Maybe it wasn’t too late for me. Maybe it was time to make the choice to be led by my heart rather than my fears. After all I’d done, if God could forgive me, if He could still love me… couldn’t I forgive myself?
No words could quite explain how this idea made me feel. It was liberating, like a light clicked on and this elusive feeling of purpose was finally within sight. I didn’t fully understand how or why. I had no clue what this was supposed to look like. All I knew was… I needed it.
At the end of the service, a line of men and women formed, inviting folks to come up for prayer. I found myself putting one foot in front of the other, walking straight towards them before I’d even thought it over.
Despite our separation, I still felt my best friend’s influence in my life. He was right, it was time to let go of my grief and work through my past. I needed help. I needed to talk to somebody. And it seemed like prayer was a good place to start.
* * *
[Journal]
This isn’t life. This is nonexistence.
* * *
The church put me in touch with someone that I could talk to. We arranged to meet there for an hour every week. They were flexible with my school schedule, and Claire gave me rides. In fact we were able to align our meetings to the same time Claire came to practice with the band.
We began (where else?) at the beginning. I spoke of growing up with high expectations and the pressure of perfection on my shoulders, which ultimately led to my extreme fear of failure. Sad to say, even as I recounted my youth, it was hard to miss my family, because along with them came so much fighting and disappointment. Now that we were separated, strained relationships had turned into strangers. And the resentment I felt for my parents and brother were just one small step away from apathy.
“When was the last time you really talked to your mother?” my counselor asked me.
“Well… she emailed me once at the beginning of the semester to make sure I arrived in Texas in one piece. And I think another time after that…”
She paused from writing in her notepad and looked up at me. “Two emails in the last two months?”
“Yes. That sounds about right.” I drummed my fingers on the couch. “It was about the same when I lived at home.”
“I see.” She continued to take notes. “And what do you think would happen if you called her tonight and wanted to have a real conversation?”
I thought for a minute. “It’d be weird. Neither one of us are really good at that. I don’t know what there would be to say.”
“You have a lot to say, Scarlett. It’s possible she’s just as unsure on where to begin. But that doesn’t mean you both aren’t capable. All it takes is one person to get the ball rolling.”
* * *
We worked diligently through my youth and moved on to the clique and my first relationships. I told her about how close my best friends were, but how we drifted apart after high school. I spent almost a whole hour talking about Nathan, and only around five minutes on Miles.
When I was young and naïve, I remembered thinking about both boys, “I can bring out the best in him,” but I couldn’t. Or telling myself “maybe this time will be different,” but it wasn’t. Or believing “he cares about me,” but he didn’t.
They never did.
“It sounds like Nathan hurt you pretty deeply,” she said. Always a smart cookie, that one.
I shrugged. “Not that he cared.”
; “I’m not convinced he didn’t care. The opposite of love isn’t hate, Scarlett, it’s indifference. Sometimes it’s difficult for adolescent boys to express their feelings.”
“Oh, he had no problem expressing exactly how he felt,” I said, remembering the glorious “Fuck Buddy” song.
“Hmm. There may be more to that story than we know. But I’m going to suggest you try and find closure with this, even if you aren’t able to get the outcome you desire. There’s a lot to learn in first relationships especially. People do crazy things when they’re hurting. Can you relate?”
I bit my lip, picturing the face of another. We hadn’t even gotten that far yet. “Maybe.”
“Nobody’s perfect, Scarlett. They have a saying here in the south: the only animal that can’t fall down is the worm.”
Next I talked about Ricky. Despite all the good times I revisited, about flashcards, foosball, poker games and late night visits, I got emotional, knowing our story didn’t have a happy conclusion. In the end, we’d let each other down.
This was where things started to get a little hazy chronologically. I busied myself with covering about everything I could, while systematically avoiding two specific men and any details pertaining to the past year.
Of course when I brought up what Ricky taught me about embracing my anger, she had something to say about that.
“Anger isn’t a cure, Scarlett. It’s a poison. One that you have to treat before it makes its way through your entire system. Healing can be very difficult once you let it infect your heart.”
* * *
[Journal]
Nathan once accused me of using Miles. I finally realize he was right.
It wasn’t intentional. Miles knew I was still heartbroken when we first got together. Healing takes time, and he understood. He tried to make me feel better, and some days it worked. Maybe I would have fallen in love with him, eventually.
I hadn’t dated Miles for the sole purpose of revenge against Nathan. But on occasion I had used our relationship to try to hurt him. Was I any better than Nathan?
And maybe Miles was physically unfaithful to me. But how long were we together while I subconsciously pined for someone else’s attention? I was emotionally unfaithful, so was I any better than Miles?
When you’re young, experiencing new relationships and first loves, nobody really knows what they’re doing. We chase the butterflies and try to capture the perfect moments. But the more you grow, the more you realize that’s not what it’s all about. Love becomes real when the ideal fades away. When that one person becomes more important than yourself. When you make the decision that no matter the cost, you’ll never stop fighting for them. When you can face each other, scarred and unashamed in this dark, lonely world, and feel like you’re finally home.
Until we are ready to love with all our hearts, all our minds, and all our souls, we are nothing but lonesome people, just looking to use somebody.
* * *
“Wanna sing with me?” Claire said one evening as we lounged about in our room. “I’ve heard you in the shower. Your set of pipes makes mine sound like a dying cat caught in a rain storm.”
I felt my cheeks warm. “I don’t know the words.”
“You’ll catch on.”
I almost felt another excuse coming on. Then I remembered what my counselor said… the only way to break the cycle is to not merely suppress bad, but also to actively pursue good. Old habits like alcohol and flings offered a poor excuse for comfort, but they were easy to slip into when life got hard and there was nothing solid to fall back on. I needed to fill that void with good, healthy things. And music was the best thing that came to mind.
Setting aside my hesitancy, I put down the journal and turned to face her. It felt kind of strange at first, singing to each other. I didn’t know where else to look, so I dropped my gaze to the guitar and watched her fingers switch it up.
“Do you play?” she asked between two verses.
“Not really.” Nathan had taught me a little, but that was years ago. I doubted any of it had stuck.
“Come here, I’ll show you,” she offered, removing the guitar strap and patting the bed beside her. “You can get by alright on just a few chords.”
I came to sit on her bed and she passed the instrument over. I handled it delicately, putting the strap over my shoulder and sliding it into my lap with the utmost care. Nathan had been very particular about his guitar. Roxanne was his baby.
“You won’t hurt it,” she laughed. “And if you do, it’s okay. It’s just a thing.” She arranged my fingers on the strings. I held them in place a bit stiffly, memorizing their positions.
“Okay. Strum.”
I used the pick to strum.
The sound hit me like a tidal wave. I could actually feel the music coming from my very own fingertips, reverberating in my ribcage. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. My eyes widened. That wasn’t bad-sounding at all.
“You’re a natural!” she said, mirroring my enthusiasm. “Okay. One more time, then we’ll learn another.”
* * *
[Journal]
I went from trusting everyone to trusting no one. In which case was I more disillusioned?
* * *
It took a whole month of meeting with my counselor before I finally opened up and shared the rest of my story.
Starting with the truth about Gabriel. And what I had done.
I relived the multitude of emotions all over again. Every loss, every heartache. From Gabriel’s betrayal and our final moments in the backseat of my car, to the night I used it all as an excuse to break Vance’s heart.
The diagnosis? Survivor’s guilt, acute paranoia, as well as (drum roll please) post-traumatic stress disorder.
Vance was right. Again.
It seemed so simple, once I stopped trying to stuff it all down. The nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks, even the social anxiety was all explained. I was just a lost little girl who defined herself by one night, by one man. Without him, I had a case of identity crisis on my hands.
The goal was cognitive restructuring, which was a fancy term for rewiring the memories in my brain to recall them accurately and realistically. She wanted to focus on alleviating myself of the self-imposed guilt I felt over all the lives lost that night, and unromanticizing the life and death of Gabriel Leighton.
I mean… Gavin Lockwood.
The end goal: Absolution.
Structure. Procedure. Solution. At last, for the first time in a long time, it felt like I was taking a big step in the right direction. Consider me officially moving forward.
* * *
“Claire?”
“Yeah, Scarlett?” she replied, wet hair wrapped up in a towel while she painted a daisy over each bright yellow big toe.
“You and Anthony… He’s not going to sleep over here ever… is he?”
She blushed and giggled a little. “He’s a youth pastor, Scarlett. You won’t have to worry about that.”
“Oh.” My own pedicure was also coming along nicely, my toenails a dusty pink. A couple seconds passed before I spoke again. “Claire?”
“Yeah, Scarlett?”
“You guys are in love, right?”
“Truly, madly, deeply,” she said, singsong.
“How do you know?”
She grinned and twisted the polish cap back on, her work done. “It’s different for everybody, I reckon.”
“But what does it mean to you?”
Her expression softened, her gaze floating to a far off place. “To me… love is like music. Like a new song hummin’ in the back of your head, that’s just beggin’ to be written. There’s no gettin’ around it. You can’t lock it up inside and pretend it’s not there. Eventually it will eat away with you and drive you insane! Sure—the chords’ll need some tweakin’, and it might take awhile to get the words just right. Love is like that, you know? You have to put in the work. Just like it takes work to uncover a new song. But once you
find it… it’s a masterpiece.”
I chewed my lip, reflecting on her words. “But what if you’re afraid to play the song?”
Her smile turned a little sad. “Then, sugar, that’s what I’d call a tragedy.”
“But how do you know for sure? Maybe the song just isn’t meant to be? What if playing it after all this time is just selfish and will hurt everyone who hears it?”
“Hypothetically?” she asked, giggling at me knowingly.
I huffed and fell backwards on my bed.
She shuffled over, wet toes spread and pointed up. The thin mattress dipped as she came to sit beside me. “Here’s what I know: God opens door and he closes them. I just keep movin’ forward until I get a clear sign that I’m supposed to stop or turn around. And then—this is the most important part—I listen. Closed doors are answers, too. Sometimes you just need the courage to knock.”
“It just seems like a big risk,” I argued, “Using all that courage to work your way up to the door, only to get it slammed in your face.”
“That’s true, too. But you know what? I think you lose even more from holding back.”
As I laid there, pondering this, she gestured to the picture tacked to my board.
“Is that your friend?”
“My best friend,” I confirmed.
“He has a great smile.”
I nodded. I loved his smile, too. For some reason, it always reminded me of the sun.
“I imagine you must miss him.”
I stared at the picture. “Every day.”
There were times I knew I’d bitten off more than I could chew. But I was still chewing out of sheer stubbornness.
“So what happened?”
“I left,” I admitted with a sad shrug. “Or, as he put it, I ran away. Don’t get me wrong—I wanted to come here. I did this for me. But these last few months… I’m not so sure anymore.” I thought I was putting myself first. But the truth was, I had put my fears first. Fear was what prevented me from telling him how I felt. Fear was what convinced me we were better off apart. Texas had been good for me, but suddenly, it felt like somebody else’s dream.
