by Stella Noir
I lie there for ages, until I hear footsteps and Dylan sits down on the grass next to me. I want to tell him to get up, or he’ll get his jeans dirty, but it’s somewhat comforting having him close, even if he doesn’t say a word. Maybe even because he’s so quiet …
“Is the puppy okay?” I whisper after a few moments, my voice hoarse from all the tears I’m fighting to keep back.
“Yes,” Dylan nods. “I caught her in time, so she didn’t fall.”
I think of my selfish actions that almost hurt my dog, and that seems to be my breaking point – almost hurting an innocent animal. I turn on my side, shielding my face with my hands, and I let the tears flow.
Only they don’t.
Not a single tear falls from my eyes, because I am incapable of crying.
It has been this way since that night …
I refuse to let myself think of it, instead slamming a fist into the ground, frustrated.
“Calm down,” Dylan says sternly. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”
I get up abruptly and he does the same. We stare at each other awkwardly as we both realize this relationship is going nowhere. We’ve tried to rebuild what was had and then lost; yet it’s hopeless.
He wants more than I’ll ever be able to give him.
“I think I should go,” he says, fueled by the resolution he sees in my eyes.
I only nod, too weak to say a word.
I walk him back through the house and to the gate. He turns to face me awkwardly, and when he sees my face, his shoulders slump ever so slightly.
It breaks my heart all over again.
“Goodbye, Lola,” he says softly, raising a hand in the air.
“Goodbye …” I start, yet find myself unable to say his name. Like a coward, I look down into the grass, and I don’t raise my eyes until I can hear his steps leading him away from me.
I know he won’t be back unless I call him.
And I know what I’ve done is for the best.
But if that is so, why does it hurt so fucking much?
Chapter 12
The weeks start passing with impending doom, the wedding drawing nearer and nearer. Not that I’m dreading the exchanging of vows – I love Matt, and cannot wait to become his wife. The problem is the lead-up to it, along with all of the events and stress that accompany it.
I have a dress fitting today, and Matthew’s dearest mother has already told me she’s coming with me. I said told, because it wasn’t an option, she just informed me when she’d meet me at the bridal salon.
I get in the car with dread overcoming me. I have a driver today, as Matt said he didn’t want to stress me out even further. He smiles sympathetically at me as he opens my door, and I sit down with a heavy sigh.
The drive is way too short for my liking, and the driver is dropping me off in front of the salon in ten minutes flat. I wave a hesitant goodbye, then head for the double doors of the salon.
“You’re late,” an icy voice informs me as soon as I step into the pleasantly air-conditioned room. Unfortunately, the heavy scent of flowers from all of the bouquets in the room makes me think of funerals, making me queasy.
I swallow every last drop of my patience, closing my eyes in a prolonged wink. Finally, I turn towards the voice and grit my teeth when I offer a greeting. “Hello, Mrs. Roberts.”
“I’ve told you to call me Barbara,” she demands, but however much she says that, I never will. It would make her seem like an … actual human being, instead of the witch she is.
Ignoring her, I let the sales assistant take my trench coat. “Is my dress ready?” I ask impatiently, not meaning to be rude, but wanting to get things over with as soon as possible.
“Don’t be impolite, child,” my mother-in-law chastises me and I fight an inward urge to roll my eyes. “They’ve prepared a wardrobe for you.”
I follow the sales assistant, not before being pecked by the monster. She feels like she’s made of paper – frail, thin and strangely resilient. I resent her touch and move away as soon as possible.
I walk into the wardrobe, where a shy looking assistant is already waiting to help me get the dress on. The beautiful dress I chose is hanging in a garment bag and I motion for her to get it out.
But when she unwraps it, I don’t see the simple silk dress I chose. Instead, there is a princess cut dress with a heavily beaded bodice. My eyes bulge as I stare at it.
“It’s the wrong dress,” I tell the assistant tiredly, and for a second she looks like she’s just going to collapse on the spot. She doesn’t move, and I stare at her, hard. “Could you get the right one?” I enunciate.
“It is the right one.”
My mother-in-law marches in the room, a heavy scent of gardenias following in her trail. I look at her, feeling confused, and she waves a hand in the air dismissively.
“I didn’t like the dress you chose, I’ve told you time and time again,” she says with a sigh. “Too simple. This is a Southern wedding, and a Southern belle would never wear that kind of dress. So I picked you the one I liked initially.”
My jaw hangs open as she continues to talk, and I’m honestly in shock.
“You did … what?” I ask, shocked.
“Are you really so thick, dear?” she asks condescendingly, tsk-tsking.
Rage boils in me, but instead of unleashing my wrath on the older woman, I turn to the assistant, who looks white as a sheet of paper. I’m afraid she’ll just lose it if I make any more demands, but I’m not going to go through with this.
“Bring me the original dress,” I order her. “The silk one.”
“I can’t, Miss,” the assistant almost whispers, her voice weak and trembling. “It’s … it’s been sold.”
“Sold to who?” I ask incredulously, thinking of smacking some sense into both of them.
“To me,” Mrs. Roberts says nonchalantly. “I could use some new rags for the kitchen.”
I stare at her and stare hard. Did she really just say that?
I imagine my beautiful, simple dress being cut up and used as rags in her kitchen. It hurts beyond belief that she would go this far just to defy me and get her way. Because I don’t believe for one moment she’s doing this because she cares. All she wants is to spite me.
For the first time in years, I feel something burning in my eyes, like tears are going to fall down right now. I think of punching her straight in the face, but before I can react, my body thinks otherwise.
I rush out of the room, out of the salon, several women’s voices calling me back.
I ignore them all, running down the street, pushing everyone away, until I collide with a thud against a rock hard chest.
“Whoa, now,” a soothing voice tells me and it’s soft against the wound she just cut into me. I look up and see Dylan, because it seems like it always comes back to him. It’s always been him …
I want to ask him a thousand questions, most of all what he’s doing here, but before I can utter them, he crashes me against his chest once again, enveloping me in a hug. And he smells just like he used to, so I let myself get lost in memories just for a little while …
“Come on,” he says softly. “I’ll make you some coffee.”
He takes my hand and leads me to a nearby apartment building. Wordlessly, we take the elevator and arrive in his apartment in a few minutes. I’m shaking like a leaf as he leads me to his couch, making me sit down and making to go away.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Just … stay a little while. Don’t leave me.”
Without saying a word, he does what I ask him. He holds me as I whimper and shake, but I never shed a tear. He doesn’t ask questions, he just holds me as I lose it.
And within minutes, I already feel better.
“Thank you,” I say softly, and he presses such a soft kiss against my forehead it almost feels like nothing at all. “It … that helped,” I admit reluctantly.
Dylan gets up from the couch and walks to the kitchen, which is in the same space.
He puts a kettle on the stove and produces two mugs, then proceeds to make tea.
In the meantime, I look around to see what his apartment looks like, realizing he must have been near the salon because he lives in this part of town. It’s a good, upscale part, but his apartment is tiny.
It’s all one space, apart from a door, which probably leads to the bathroom. I presume the couch pulls out into a bed, and the kitchen is connected to the living space.
My eyes shoot up to Dylan, and I realize he’s living like this … Actually renting out a space, just so he can be near me. And I never once bothered to ask myself what his life has been like since what happened.
I’m guessing he isn’t well off, if he’s settled for such a small apartment.
The family Dylan comes from is wealthy just like Matt’s, and the Dylan I knew would be staying in the most luxurious suite of one of the more expensive hotels.
My heart aches for him.
I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his hips, pulling him closer.
The mug he’s holding rattles as he places it back on the counter, and he sighs heavily against my body, leaning into me, pulling my hands up to reach his mouth and kissing them softly.
“Lola,” he whispers. “Don’t do this, please … don’t do this to me.”
Confused, I move away and he grips the counter, all the muscles in his shoulders on edge and prominent. He begins pouring the tea.
“What is it?” I ask, feeling hurt. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”
He turns around abruptly, looking pained. “I can’t do it,” he groans. “I can’t have you this close and not … want things.”
“Want what?” I whisper, tormenting both of us.
He turns around me all of a sudden, glaring at me like I’ve made him angry. And I hate that it scares me when he’s like this, hate that I don’t trust him enough …
“Lola, I’m still in love with you,” he says roughly. “I never stopped, never, not for one second. Remember what I told you when we parted ways?”
I’m silent, looking at the floor.
He walks closer, raising my chin with both of his hands, the touch of his hands on my skin soft and scorching at the same time.
“Do you remember, Lola?” he asks me again, and I nod ever so lightly.
“Do you still feel the same?” he asks me hesitantly, and my answer hangs in the air, about to decide our fate. I know what the truth is.
Of course I love Dylan. I always have, and I always will. He holds a piece of my heart now and forever, the piece that broke off first.
But there is another truth, because one is not enough.
I also love Matthew Roberts. My husband-to-be, my savior. The man who pulled me from the darkness and placed me on a throne, cherished me, worshipped me.
I love them both.
But I can only have one.
“No,” I lie. “I don’t, Dylan. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
He breaks away as soon as the words are out of my mouth and I realize I’ve broken him with my false admission. I see him breaking right there, in front of my eyes, his shoulders shaking, his strong muscles contracting, like he can’t hold the weight of his own body.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I know it means nothing.
He doesn’t respond and I take that as my cue to go.
I don’t have anything holding me back.
Realizing I forgot my jacket in the salon, I head out to the hallway. I look at the hooks on the wall and I grab one of Dylan’s leather jackets, a spur of the moment decision.
I’ll let myself have this one thing. This one reminder of the past.
As I let myself out, I hear a cry from the kitchen, like the wail of a wounded animal. And even though my heart is screaming at me to stay, to make him better, the mind does what it wants.
With final resolution, I close the front door to Dylan’s apartment; raise my head and head back to the salon to face my mother-in-law.
In my mind, I’m congratulating myself on a sound decision.
But how can I be happy about it when my heart is bleeding?
*
I walk back to the salon, trying to retake the steps from memory. After a few tries, I find the place and I enter, my head held high.
My future mother-in-law is sitting in a plush armchair, the weighty fabric too heavy against her slight frame. She is sipping champagne and raises her eyes to meet mine when I walk in, then a triumphant smile crosses her lips.
I mimic her smile, pretending to be docile and a good little girl, just like she wants. She wants to mold me into the perfect wife, but I have another ace up my sleeve.
I let her dress me in the princess cut gown she’s chosen for me. I offer minimal input when we’re choosing the veil, the shoes, and the tiara. I don’t complain when she says my hair must be up, not down. Not with one word, even though my heart is beating with rebellion.
Finally, when we are done in a couple of hours, we walk to the front of the salon together, waiting for our drivers like two ladies of high society – which I guess we are.
“I’m glad you listened to me,” Mrs. Roberts says proudly, looking way too smug for my liking. “I knew I would convince you. The princess cut was the wisest choice.”
I’m quiet, waiting to deliver my final blow.
“You’ll see, Matthew will love you in that much more than in the simple silk,” she smirks, as if my choice of a wedding dress was nothing but laughable.
“Oh, I’m sure he will,” I say, my voice sweet like syrup. She looks at me questioningly. “Matt will love anything I wear, because I’ll be the one in it,” I explain. “He doesn’t care about appearances as much as you. All that matters is the bride wearing the dress.”
Her lips purse and she looks offended for some reason, but I’m not done yet.
“We’ve discussed moving away, too,” I say nonchalantly, talking about a conversation Matt and I had weeks ago.
He was asking me whether I would mind moving to Europe, since they’re opening a new franchise there, if only for a few years. Rome, no less. I was quick to agree, the fact that we would be away from his meddling mother only helping my decision.
“Rome sounds wonderful,” I gush, but out of the corner of my eye, my eyes are focused on the old witch. “I bet we’ll have an amazing time.”
She opens her mouth like a fish out of water, trying to respond, but not finding the words to do so. So now I’m ready to deliver the final blow. With a smile, I turn towards her and stare her down.
“You may think you have the upper hand, Barbara, but I know Matt well enough now, and let me be the one to tell you – he will always choose me over you. You’ve won a battle, but the war is already mine.”
With a sweet smile, I wave at her and smile at the driver who just pulled up and is opening my door at me. As soon as I’m seated I stare hard at Mrs. Roberts through the tinted windows, knowing full well she can’t see me through the darkness.
And I feel damn good for standing up to her.
Chapter 13
7 years ago
The summer is passing too quickly for my liking, and the end is drawing closer and closer. We still have a month to go, but when I realize we’ve reached the half of our vacation, I feel sad and terrified. This year, something is different. This year, I don’t want to leave Dylan. I want to stay with him, be with him all-year long.
I steal glances of him everyday; drinking in all those little details I know I’ll miss throughout the year. And as the days pass, my mood becomes worse and worse. I’m annoyed, snappy and sad all the time, and even Dylan’s cheerful presence does nothing to elevate my mood.
Dylan can tell something’s wrong, but he doesn’t ask me, and that drives me even crazier. Surely, an attentive boyfriend would want to make sure his girlfriend is okay?
But he doesn’t say a word, so I keep on sulking.
One day, I’m at his house again and we can’t go out because it’s pouring rain out
side. We’re bored, lying on his bed, my head resting on his stomach like usual.
He has his guitar in his hands and is playing a slow, soft song for me.
“Baby, you know I’ll do it all,” he sings softly, strumming the chords of the instrument. “All for you, it’s all for you. Kiss, kill, baby, kiss, kill.”
The lyrics upset me all of a sudden – they seem brutal, strange. I get up abruptly and slide towards the wall, leaning against it instead of Dylan.
He puts his guitar down and scoots closer on his bed, trying to take my hand, but I snatch it out of his reach. “What is it?” he asks worriedly.
I look away, refusing to answer, because I’m afraid what he’ll say if I tell him the truth.
“Please, Lola,” he says, reaching for me despite me trying to push him away. “What about if I do this?” His fingers connect with my body, tickling me relentlessly, and fury descends upon me. I stumble away and off of the bed, glaring at him.
“What is it?” he asks, looking adorably confused, but I shake my head to get rid of the thought.
“I don’t want to,” I say. “I want you to leave me alone for a while.”
Suddenly, Dylan’s face loses that carefree smile that is always painted on it. “Fine,” he says roughly, and I have to say I’m surprised. I want him to fight for me, ask me what’s wrong, but all he does is frown and take his stupid guitar back in his hands, murmuring lyrics under his breath.
Upset, I storm out of the room and slam the door behind me. I stand in the Rawlings’s hallway, thinking about my next move. I don’t want to leave – and can’t really, not with the pouring rain outside. Even the short way home would have me drenched within an inch of my skin.
Instead, I decide to head for the library. I don’t know why, but books have always been a great source of comfort for me, and I’ve always returned to their embrace when something went wrong.
I climb the stairs to the spacious room, where a small fire is burning. This is the only room in the house that gets incredibly cold as it is positioned to the north. It’s pleasant today, and the strumming of rain outside makes me feel cozy.
I slide a ladder to one of my favorite shelves and climb up, feeling like Belle out of Beast and Beauty. I smile silently to myself as I peruse the books on the shelves, but the smile is quickly interrupted by a sad frown, a longing for the boy who is currently clueless about my desperate state of mind.