by Kara Liane
Britney called me and insisted I see her. She came over to my condo. Gone was the anger and determination in her body language and face. Glinting in her eyes now was something entirely different. Satisfaction it was. This scared the shit out of me more than anything. She strolled through my front door with her nose stuck in the air, and she was dressed to kill—I hoped not literally.
“Okay, asshole. You win. I’m not fucking pregnant and never was,” she relayed in a syrupy manner.
I instantly felt sick. I braced myself on the back of the couch needing to grip something—her neck was not an option. I had a plethora of emotions whizzing through my body. Relief, for one thing that I wouldn’t be chained to this woman for the rest of my life. Sadness, that I started getting used to the idea of being a father, even if it meant it was with this witch bitch. And finally pure, unadulterated, contempt for this woman who fucking lied to me.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I yelled out, gritting my teeth to bite back more venom.
I gripped the couch so fucking hard. I couldn’t, and wouldn’t touch her, so this would have to do.
“Well lover, I was just signed to a top clothing label to model their fall-collection. I thought you’d have caved by now over the baby thing,” she said this and waved her hand indicating that it was no big deal.
My stomach further pitched and rolled.
She continued, “But we didn’t get back together. So I decided to move on. Claude Helms, the famous photographer from my last shoot, just broke up with his fiancé. So I’m moving on to bigger and better things. Good luck with your whores,” she spat.
She turned sharply in her designer fucking heels—that I loathed—and walked out the goddamn door without saying another word. I couldn’t even fire back with anything. I was paralyzed. She left my front door wide open, and I watched her walk down the hall to the elevators in triumph. I felt so betrayed. Four weeks of hell had only gotten worse. Relationships of any kind were not meant to be this way. Men had a bad reputation, but vicious bitches could do so much more damage. She was calculating, conniving, manipulative, and represented everything I feared in a relationship.
I knew on some level that Caylan wasn’t like that, but right now all I saw was red in my vision. I thought about the night my dad found out my mom was having an affair. The look of utter devastation and humiliation over her betrayal shown through his eyes, and I was now his mirror image. Fuck! I said I’d never be a fool like that. Not even stitches would fix this. Where was my fucking scotch?
***
Caylan
June 11, 2016
Untitled
When it’s right and it’s wrong,
And it’s deep and it’s true,
A variegated sea of tranquility is open unto you.
But when the light and the dark,
Bleed a dismal hue,
The glow is snuffed out,
And silence is anew.
So when it’s right and it’s wrong,
And it’s deep and it’s true,
The serrated edge veritably cuts through.
I put my pen down in the middle of my journal, and closed the book on the latest poem I had written. This was not therapeutic or satisfying in any way like it had previously been. But I was desperately trying to keep my head above water somehow…some way. It had been four weeks since I walked out of that lake house. I still felt the crushing weight of what had transpired. My parents and Meg helped me through the bouts of loneliness and despair over the days and weeks, but I wore the pain like an extra appendage. I hadn’t been sleeping well.
How I managed to make it through finals, I didn’t know. I got all A’s in my classes, thank God. Of course I was proud, but a part of me didn’t care. I had already begun my summer accelerated courses, so they were somewhat keeping my mind off of things. Any distraction was a welcome one. It had been so difficult the first week after he let me go. He had called me and texted me a few times. I couldn’t make heads or tails of his words. Like the sucker I am, I kept answering the phone. But at least I wouldn’t reply to his texts. He sounded drunk each time he phoned, and his texts were gibberish. He kept saying something about how he “shouldn’t have listened to her.” I didn’t know who the “her” was.
Did he mean me, or Britney, or someone else?
The hardest part was the picture message he sent me. It was a photo of me asleep on the bed at the lake house. I stared at it a long time. I was wearing the outfit I had changed into after my shower. So it became clear that he had been in the room with me at some point while I slept. At that, my arms ached—the phantom touches returned. He had been there! I put my hands to my face and cried for hours after seeing that picture. This was torture because on one hand he was telling me goodbye, and on the other hand he was telling me to stay. This was so frustrating, and it was excruciating to the core.
I am not a social media person. Alexi and I had only become Facebook friends that first night at dinner, that way he could message me in addition to texting and calling. So I felt like such a stalker when the second week I ventured onto Facebook and viewed his profile for the first time. I don’t even know what compelled me to want to look. I guess I thought I’d see pictures of him and Britney, or something more scandalous. Maybe my subconscious was further being a masochistic biotch. The only recent thing he had posted was dated from last week.
Once again, I found myself staring at that dang picture of me asleep on the bed. He tagged me in the post. Weird, I didn’t remember getting a notification. But there it was.
The caption read, “My Angle.”
He must have been drunk when he posted it since he misspelled his pet name for me. God, this hurt seeing evidence in color of his declaration to the world. His profile didn’t have privacy settings to the max like mine did. Which led me to wonder who might have access to his profile, and who might have already seen it? That thought was fleeting, and I shut the lid to my laptop and vowed not to log on again.
The third week wasn’t too bad compared to the others, but I was afraid something bad was still lurking around the corner. When the fourth week arrived, I wasn’t prepared for what I was now realizing was the inevitable. It was Saturday, exactly four weeks since Alexi and I had essentially broken up. I had gone out to the community mailbox to get the mail. After opening the compartment for my place, I sifted through all the letters.
One in particular caught my attention. The envelope was addressed to me, with no return address. I went back inside and sat on my bed. Something didn’t feel right about this. The innocuous, white envelope just stared back at me. After a few minutes, my curiosity got the best of me. I pulled out the letter that was typed in innocent black font on plain, white computer paper. I started reading it, and froze like a statue.
Dearest Caylan,
It has taken a long time for me to find you. But thanks to your new boyfriend, I finally did. So I see he’s a doctor. Well I hope he can fix his own pretty-boy face by the time I get done with him. I think about you every day. I still can’t believe you moved away from me. I forgive you, though. You’ve only made our love stronger and given me time to think about everything. I even forgive you for seeing this guy. I realize you’re probably lonely like I am. But rest assured, we’ll be together again soon. A love like ours only gets stronger with distance and time. I think about that night we were together every single day. Your beautiful body under mine was the most perfect thing in this world. You felt so good, and I can’t wait to be reunited. I love the picture of you asleep on the bed. I have it saved on my phone and always look at it. Think of me, as I’ll surely be thinking of you. We’ll be together soon. You’re MY ANGEL.
Love always.
He didn’t even sign his name. But Greg didn’t have to. Of course I knew who sent it, and chills and sheer panic reverberated through my very soul.
I wanted Alexi. I wanted Alexi to hold me. Jesus, I wanted to warn Alexi. I feared for his safety. It didn’t matter how big and badass
I knew Alexi could be. Greg was so crazy, and I didn’t know what he’d do. I wanted to believe he really wouldn’t come after me, but I honestly didn’t know. He was so deranged and had built up this whole fictitious courtship and relationship in his head. He must of found me because of that picture. I could no longer hold back the contents of my lunch, and vomited all over my bed.
***
After I cleaned myself off and the mess on my bed, I decided I would do the one thing I said I wouldn’t do. I had to reach out to Alexi. I was feeling so nauseated. It was probably due to the nerves over calling him, and the disgust from the letter I just got. I didn’t even want to tell my parents about the letter because it would only worry them to no end. I thought about seeing a physician because with all my stomachaches and queasiness lately, maybe I had an ulcer or something.
All this stress was probably catching up to me. I should be getting my period any day to top it all off. Ugh! Clearly I was trying to talk myself out of calling him through changing the subject. But in the end, I knew the only right thing to do was to take the plunge and call Alexi. There were a lot of unspoken matters between us that needed sorting out. Priority, though, was his safety. I hovered over his name on my favorites contact list, and finally hit the button to connect.
It rang several times and then he picked up, “Well if it isn’t the angel. Or is it devil?” he slurred out.
Oh my God! Was he drunk? I immediately felt bad for him, but also angry. I won’t even mention that I was reluctantly turned on. Just hearing his voice in any manner did that to me. But anyway, I was upset that he still seemed to be doing this to himself. How much alcohol had he consumed over the weeks? I was also angry because why was I the devil? It didn’t make sense. I had to focus to get to the matter at hand, his safety.
“Alexi…,” I breathed out, and he groaned. “I want to talk to you, but it sounds like now isn’t a good time. Please call me when you sober up. We have a lot to discuss,” I begged.
I knew I sounded desperate, but it was the overall nature of the situation.
He hiccupped and came back with, “Unless you want to ride my cock, I have nothing to talk about. Apparently all you bitches are good for is a fuck.” He emphasized the “ck” ending deliberately.
Normally his crude language was sexy and drugging, but this was something different. This was disgusting and vulgar. Tears immediately started to fall once again over this man. Would they ever stop falling? Maybe we were doomed. I had done nothing but cry to, about, and for this man since that day in the breakroom.
I sobbed out, “I don’t understand. How can you be so cruel?”
“I’m a bastard, baby. What can I say?” was his ridiculous reply.
“I hope you remember this conversation. I hope you remember each piece of my heart you broke…,” I started to say. I had to take a few calming breaths and then tried again. “While you’re breaking me, I’m trying to save you. I need to warn you about something. Call me when you finally sober up!” I yelled.
I just ended the call. I threw my cell phone on my bed, and it bounced back and hit me firmly on the arm. Jesus, I can’t do anything right. I fell over onto the bed and let my tears fall the rest of the night.
***
Alexi
Sunday morning sunshine greeted me with a splitting headache. I did not greet it back, the fucking cunt sun!
I had apparently fallen asleep on my kitchen floor in another drunken stupor, which made me realize I was no better off than I was a few weeks ago. I couldn’t keep doing this to myself. As much as my head pounded and felt like an axe was taken to it, I had to get up. I knew I smelled. When you can smell yourself, that’s pretty fucking bad. I was getting sick off my own nastiness, especially from the fumes.
I drug my sorry ass into the shower and that helped some. I donned some fresh clothes and then ate some toast to ensure I could keep something light in my stomach. Then I downed some Advil and chased it with coffee. My mood improved marginally from at least looking like I gave a flying fuck. On the inside though, I was still just a sloppy, drunken mess.
It was late afternoon now and after straightening my condo from Hurricane Alexi that ripped through it last night, I finally sat down to collect my thoughts for a minute. I found my phone earlier under the fridge. It must have skittered across the floor when I passed out. I was trying so hard to recall the events of last night. I feel like I talked to someone on the phone, but I couldn’t remember who. I still couldn’t believe what Britney did to me yesterday. She was such trash. I only prayed that her next victim could hold up better than I could. Good riddance to that bitch. She was the devil!
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
At that precise moment, I remembered calling Caylan a devil. I also finally managed to say her name again in my mind. Piece by piece, like watching an old-time film reel, I could make out clips of our conversation. She said something about saving me and warning me. Oh Christ, and I said something about her being good for just fucking. I closed my eyes and pounded my fists at each side of the couch. How could I be such a fucking piece-of-shit asshole? Twice now I shit on the only thing that really mattered, and that was my love for Caylan.
I couldn’t afford to fuck this up again. As much as I was still pissed about the Britney fiasco and how I felt I couldn’t trust women, it wasn’t right to pin that on Caylan. She was not like them. I pushed her away long enough, and now I had to make amends and atone for my sins. I didn’t want to waste another second without her.
I got up off the couch with a renewed purpose. I put on my shoes and grabbed my phone, keys, and wallet. I locked up and vowed that the next time I’d be walking through this door, Caylan would be right by my side. I had some groveling to do.
Chapter 17: Candy Graham
Caylan
It was Sunday afternoon, and I felt I had cried myself all out from the night before. I was so drained in every sense between lack of tears, and lack of energy.
Tea, I needed some tea. I went to the kitchen and was too lazy to properly steep a bag. So I just microwaved the bitch. Yup, I’m in a snarky mood today, I thought. I at least convinced myself to finally dress in something other than pajamas, so that was a start. I upgraded to a pair of black yoga pants, and a pink tank top. I am totally laughing right now at my version of an upgrade. I’m glad I can find humor in anything at this time, though.
I had already finished my homework on Friday night, so I was glad I could lounge about today. I wanted to be a slug, so slug it was. I earned it.
My parents left a little while ago to visit my brother. He was doing fantastic when I last talked to him. He had physical therapy three times a week now, and he’d be going back to work soon on light duty; it was promising all around that he’d be back to his old self soon. I should have gone with the ‘rents to see him, but Brent would have nagged me to death until I spilled. I was fragile at the moment. I probably would have slipped and told him about the horrid Greg story, and the sordid Alexi saga. It was best I kept my distance from my big brother for a while.
I took my steaming mug back to my room and decided to phone Meg. I cannot believe she wasn’t sick to death of me going on and on about Alexi, and all this crap for the last four weeks. She was a saint for listening. I thought I’d read her obituary in the paper claiming “death by overlistening.” Poor thing, I had talked the entire way home from the lake house about everything that happened. Okay, maybe not entirely talked, mostly cried too, but Meg was the best. She listened, didn’t judge, and lifted my spirits as best as she could. I would fill her in now on the letter and latest on the Alexi call last night. I knew if I told her not to tell my parents, she would never break her word. I dialed her cell and she picked up immediately.
“Hey girly, what ya doin?” she asked.
“Oh Meg. This can’t possibly be happening,” I replied.
I managed not to cry, thank God. I relayed the details of last night’s events starting with the letter. I read Greg’s words to her, and th
en reenacted the call with Alexi. Meg was terrified for me about Greg, and she hadn’t even responded yet about Alexi.
“We have to go to the cops,” she warned regarding the letter.
“I thought about that too. I think he’s still on probation, so surely this is a violation or something. I guess I’ll have to call down there and find out,” I sighed. I so did not want to deal with this.
“Well, I’ll help you any way I can sweetie. I’ll fucking kill the fucker if I have to! He’ll be sorry when I wrap my camera strap around his balls, and choke them out. I can also use my Canon to bash in his face,” she remarked menacingly.
I knew she was trying to cheer me up, and it worked slightly. Jeez, Meg was a scary thing sometimes with her devious plots to end people.
“Well, don’t forget to choke Alexi’s balls while you’re at it too,” I tried to joke.
Meg was silent. Here’s the thing, I knew she was silent for only two reasons. Either a) she passed gas and didn’t want to own up to it, or b) she was guilty of something and trying to hide it from me. Hmm, which one?
“Okay Megs. It’s confession time. I can’t smell through the phone, so spill it,” I threatened in an agitated tone.
She huffed and retorted, “For the record, I don’t fucking fart. And also for the record, I think you should cut Alexi some slack.” She sighed and that was totally an admission of her omission.
“Out with it!” I yelled.
“Err…umm. I sort of told Alexi to end things with you. But before…,” she started to say.
I didn’t even give her the chance to finish her sentence before I lost it on her. “You did what?” I screamed.
“I’m trying to tell you if you’d only just calm the fuck down,” she blasted back with.
I rolled my eyes and wanted to slap her. Ugh! I couldn’t imagine what excuse she could come up with.
