by Brock, V. L.
Numbed by blissful memories, I let my purse drop to the floor while stepping out of my suede heeled pump and loosen the side tie upon my left hip of my wrap dress before slipping out of it. Unhooking my bra, I toss it to the floor with my dress. In just my panties, I guide my shaking body to the chaise lounge under my window, on the left-side of the bed––on Hayden’s side of the bed.
One of his white shirts lay on it, creased and disheveled. I was supposed to put it in the laundry, but it slipped my mind. I stand rooted as I remember him wearing it yesterday morning. I told him the black one worked better with his red and black tie…and he listened to me. A wistful smile passes fleetingly across my face as I seize the lone shirt, and bring it up to my face. Inhaling deeply, I shroud my senses with verification that he was real––the times we spent both good and bad, were real. The emotions which burn in me because of him were real. Hayden Wentworth wasn’t an imaginary knight out of some fairytale, he was the true knight in my life…he was my other, my soul-mate.
He was mine.
I close my eyes, and visualize the times I would unbutton his shirts, trail my hands over his strapping torso, feeling his muscles jarring beneath my touch as I skate my hands over his smooth, lightly-bronzed body, swirling around his navel. Feel his heart beating in his chest, as I pushed the material from his broadened, defined shoulders, and peel it down his arms. His words when we were in New York haunt my mind: It only beats for you, beautiful. It knows when you’re close, it knows your love, your kindness…it knows your soul.
Dark, inciting eyes bore into me as my deliberations deliver me to the countless times I watched him as he watched me, my hands and wavering eyes flittering as I inspected every valley, every dell between his muscles, the shy, secretive grin that kissed his lips and silently conveyed that his entirety was mine and mine alone. Countless times he bestowed me that gaze, countless times he fell under my appraisal, yet it wasn’t merely enough. The words I uttered the night we made love overshadows my deliberations: I could undress you every day for the rest of my life, and I would never tire of seeing what lays waiting for me beneath your clothing; for my eyes, and my hands only. If I only knew that the last time I felt Hayden’s body, would have been the last time…
I slip the shirt on, wrapping it against me, hugging the last reminiscence of Hayden around my despairing, broken-hearted body.
Flipping off the light switch, my room is once again governed by darkness, and crawl into Hayden’s side…I mean, the left side of the bed––where the pillow still holds the welcoming, seductive reminder of his cologne, and I relinquish myself to the pain, the loss, the grief and heartache that I am drowning in.
Yielding to the uncontrollable, heartrending sobs, I wail myself to sleep.
I feel an arm brush over my waist as I lay on my side. He presses his front to my back, moulding himself to the shape of my body as I lie in fetal position. His hand glides and caresses my growing belly. I feel and hear him inhale deeply, burying his nose in my hair.
In an act of pure instinct, I clutch his hand as he lingers over Rose and pull it up to my chest, resting it in my cleavage.
“I thought I lost you. That’s why I walked away,” I murmur sleepily. Even though my eyes are closed, they still sting with the formation of unshed tears.
“Hush, it’s, okay, beautiful. Nothing can keep me from you.” His voice is a whisper which holds so much sentiment, so much promise. “I told you that I will always be here to hold you.”
I open my eyes, and roll onto my back. I’m shielded by the length of his body, his hand stationed at either side of my head. His muscles and sinews strain and flex, his veins thickening in his forearms as he bears his weight. The sun chars through my bedroom window, defining the rich chocolate and caramel tones of his hair. That one single lock at the front of his hairline flops onto his brow in the way I love. It ends just above his eyebrow, and my focus is automatically drawn to his deep, dark, hypnotic eyes. They look like they are made up from premium velvet, their hues changing subtly as the light reflects into them at differing angles. They’re intense, and hold so many distinctive tiers of the man I know and love; confident yet paranoid, hopeful yet fearful, benevolent, altruistic, amorous.
With profound tenderness, I position my right hand on the side of his face, holding him still as I search his eyes, my focus flitting momentarily to his full, sculpted lips. He rolls his tongue over them, and slowly retracts it, but his lips remain parted.
“Am I dreaming?” I whisper, afraid and nervous of the untold answer which hangs between us. He lowers his head, seeking my lips and kisses me fervently, offering me more of what I had walked away from. My body crumples and my synapses spark and rejoice at the intensity of his ardor.
He’s here, he came back.
Lingering lips softly press against my own. He pushes his hand through my hair as he gradually pulls away from my mouth then traces the seam of my lower lip with his thumb.
“I will never give up on you, beautiful. I will never give up on us.”
The weight above me, pushing me into the mattress becomes all but a haze. I feel unrestricted by his form. My eyelids flutter open, and I am temporarily disorientated as I feel the indication of a great absence. The sun burns through my window, casting shadows on my wall, and I lay curled up on Hayden’s side of the bed.
It was all a dream.
Within three seconds of opening my eyes, I am reacquainted with the shattered and distraught feelings which carried me through the longest night of my life, the feelings which were responsible for the myriad of tears I gave myself over to.
I hoped that he couldn’t stay away. I hoped that he would come back.
You are the one that made the decision and walked away, my subconscious chides.
Gathering a handful of Hayden’s shirt which covers my chest, I nestle my nose into the material and inhale deeply. I last all of thirty-more seconds, before I familiarize myself with the sorrow and longing once again.
I burrow myself back under the comforter and cry until I have no more tears left to release.
There’s a faint tapping at my door, but I lack the emotional strength to answer.
Jessie pops her head around the door. “Sammy, you’re late for work.”
Freeing large, heartrending sobs, Jessie is instantly beside me, perched on the edge of my bed. She sets a cup of decaf on my bedside.
She lowers the comforter from my face. “What the Hell has happened, sweetie?” she asks, pushing my hair back, effectively freeing the tresses from being plastered against my tearstained face.
I shake my head and clutch at my heart. I just want the ache in my heart to stop; I can literally feel it breaking. I can’t breathe.
“What has happened?” she probes again, her voice a little more stern.
Half-heartedly, I sit myself up and reiterate the events of last night to her. She sits patiently, with my hand in her grasp, and rubs the back of my knuckles in upmost empathy.
“And you just walked away?” she questions incredulous.
“I was left with no choice, Jess. You didn’t see the look in his eyes. I barely coped with his attitude and snarky, disgusted looks when he was just having nightmares. This is reality, and his expression last night…it killed me. I couldn’t be the person to make him suffer like that.” As my sobs begin to cease, my best friend leans in and embraces me. Soothingly swaying my lifeless body from side-to-side, she endeavors to console me as only a best friend knows how.
“I’ll ring work for you and tell them you’re not feeling well.” I nod feebly while she pushes herself up from the bed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, sweetie,” she breathes. As she walks out of the door, she leaves it ajar just enough for me to hear her curse the father of my baby.
I wake to sizzling sounds and the smell of bacon. The earlier golden rays of the sun piercing through my window, now replaced with the dazzling, white corona of the moon. The light from the outer room seeps through the gap of my bedr
oom door, which had been left ajar.
Fighting through the soreness of my dried eyes, and the pressure headache forming just behind them, I glance at my clock on the bedside, 7:30 p.m. I have slept the day through; however, I’m left exhausted. When I believe for an ephemeral moment that I have no more tears to shed, I shock myself and start again.
The framed photograph of Hayden and I sat on the steps beside Vernal Falls captures my interest. I reach over the bedside unit. The frame is cold and weighted between my fingers as I hold it steadily, and allow myself to get lost in the retentions I hold dear. Hayden’s arms dangle from my shoulders as he sat on the step above, his thighs resting against my hips. Hayden pointing at two ravens, as they hopped back and forth just before the photo was taken.
Aren’t they a bad omen?
They can be…but they also mate for life, his words haunt me. As childish as it seems, I actually believed that we could be those ravens…a lifetime together…it seemed so perfect.
“Hi, Sam,” Matt greets me from his position on the left barstool and all I can think is, Get the fuck out of Hayden’s seat. I suddenly feel like I am in a parallel universe. Jessie and Matt sat at the breakfast bar, all smitten and in love, when it was usually Hayden and I.
My facial expression must have betrayed my silent musings, because Jessie is strolling towards me with arms open, ready to comfort me again.
“Hey, sweetie, come on. I have done you a bacon sandwich,” she steers me towards the bar.
“I’m not hungry, Jess,” I mumble.
“Hey, you got to eat, for the little one,” Matt looks at my belly pointedly while hacking into his sandwich. Tomato ketchup seeps from the bottom, splattering onto the plate below. The mishap gives life to many conversations Hayden and I shared about my lack of etiquette when it came to eating and dropping my food. The words following him dropping a slice of turkey on the plate below on Thanksgiving echo in my mind: At least it ends up on the correct surface and not in my cleavage.
I offer a sad smile as I attempt to eat, without dropping any food down Hayden’s shirt.
That night, I sit up in my bed, the comforter bunched around my hips and the sidelight emits a dim, gilded glow. I refuse to change out of Hayden’s shirt; his cologne embracing my raw, crestfallen body is the only thing that keeps me grounded.
Jessie knocks attentively on my door. Carefully pushing it open, she steps inside. “I thought you might have been asleep by now,” she murmurs.
It’s 10:30 p.m., and I’m exhausted, but I don’t want to sleep.
I gradually peek up at her as she strolls over to the foot of my bed, wearing her ice-cream cone pyjama shorts and pink camisole, her hair piled haphazardly on top of her head.
“I’m too scared to sleep, Jess,” I whisper, feeling my sinuses burn along with my eyes as new tears begin to assemble.
She lowers herself onto the edge of the bed, causing it to dip. Taking my hand and smoothing over my knuckles, she lowers her head, invading my line of sight.
“What do you mean, sweetie?”
“I dreamed he came back, last night,” I glance up to the ceiling, attempting to blink back tears that threaten anew. “And I woke up feeling hopeful, but then reality crashed down around me, and I remembered…” languishing, I shake my head and stare into my lap. “I want to sleep, because I can’t bear the pain when I’m awake. But I don’t want to sleep because I might see him in my dreams and when I wake up, I know I have to feel it all over again.”
Raking her free hand through my hair, she softly quietens me, calming me in a way that Jessie is renowned for. Finally, she mutters, “Okay, come on.” And before I can pose any questions into the suggestion behind her words, she releases my hand, and switches off the sidelight.
“What are you doing, Jess?” I ask as she flounders across the mattress like a teenage girl at a slumber party.
“Snuggle down,” she demands and I do as I am told. Curling up onto my left side, I get comfortable.
“Jess, you can’t do this; it’s not fair on, Matt.”
She encircles her arm around my waist, holding me like a parent comforting her child after a nightmare. “Don’t worry, he understands. Shush now, I’m here, I will always be here.” She kisses my hair and I lock my fingers between hers, while she splays it across my belly. “Go to sleep now, sweetie. Tomorrow is a new day.”
And with her words and her warm embrace, I surrender to my fears, and drift off to sleep.
I am woken up by an overgrown child bouncing up and down on my bed. I groan at the disruption to my sleep and roll over to face the window.
“Jess, leave me alone, please. I am not in the mood for this,” I grumble before sinking my head under the comforter, to avoid the glare of the sun penetrating my eyelids.
“It’s 11:00 a.m., time to get up,” she shakes my shoulder.
“It is also Saturday, God, you are worse than Hayden with getting me up early.” The words slip from my mouth, unbidden. I feel myself begin to fall, crashing down to earth like a bird soaring and having its wings clipped in mid-flight. Jessie clearly notices, because her unremitting bouncing ceases immediately.
Turning to face my friend, I fling the quilt off my face. She is already dressed in her black turtleneck and white denim pants. Her hair left loose and tumbles to her breasts, and a modest amount of makeup has been applied. She sits with her left leg bent, her foot tucked under the back of her right knee. She gazes remorsefully at me; her lips a thin, firm line.
“I’m sorry, Sammy. I just thought we could do something today, get you out, and get some fresh air in your lungs. It’s not good for the baby.”
“Her name is Rose.” Her eyes alight with joy and delight, her mouth agape, but slowly quirks into a full-blown beam. “Hayden worked out the date of conception; it was around the time we first made love. So, Rose is fitting.” I hang my head and frown into my lap as I briefly consider the fate of our daughter’s surname. I agreed to, Rose Wentworth––but now, Rose Kennedy? I don’t know.
I sigh at the thought.
“Well, you being held-up in doors all day, isn’t going to do, Rose any good. Come on, we’re having a picnic in Golden Gate Park,” she concludes with a smile, and I cannot subdue my brief sense of amusement. Only Jessie could decide on a picnic at the end of February.
“You have planned a picnic, in Golden Gate Park, at the end of February?” Dubious, I narrow my eyes; my tone betrays the nuance of humor I feel as it raises an octave.
“Yes,”––the proud nod of her head is overshadowed by the overstated tone of her approval. “So wrap up warm.” And she exits my room, leaving me to my own devices.
I rub my belly. “And that is your crazy, Aunt Jessie.”
With my shower having prepared me to take on day two, after Hayden, I search my walk-in-closet for something to wear. I browse my rails five, six, seven times and with each item I push aside, memories of a happier time I shared with Hayden begin to form. My taupe, wing-sleeved sweater and beige pants––I was wearing that Christmas Eve when he proposed. My black asymmetric dress––I wore that on our first date. Sighing heavily, I offer a silent prayer to a higher power to help give me strength to move on, or at the very least, make the pain subside.
As I push up onto the balls of my feet to peruse the upper-shelf, I discover my Nikon camera buried behind old shoe boxes. I hold it in my hands and observe it in a sudden state of reflection. It’s heavier than I remember with the lens attached. The unexpected reminder and sense of natural ability, the passion for a vocation that I haven’t wielded in so long, fills me with warmth. We never did take any photographs with my camera; I suppose it’s the only thing I own that isn’t tainted by mine and Hayden’s relationship. It’s something that is still entirely mine; it holds no memories of us.
My contemplation is a welcomed distraction.
Having been preoccupied with work and everything else in my life, I neglected immersing myself in what I used to love doing, being on the pr
oductive side of the lens. I cannot ignore the speculation that maybe this is a sign…or an approach coming from a higher power to offer me guidance. I exit the closet and place it in the center of my bed.
After much wavering, and stumbling upon clothing that can no longer hold my bump, I finally opt for my blue faded jeans and a black cashmere sweater with a draping neckline, a pair of black, heeled ankle boots, and a black leather jacket. The length of my body looks presentable, yet my eyes are still red and puffy. It’s fruitless in applying a full-face of makeup with my emotions up in the air and making me dizzy. However, a coat of waterproof mascara never fails to make you feel a teeny bit better. For the first time in thirty-six hours, I smile at the truth and knowledge behind my grandmother’s many words of wisdom.
Hauling my ass from my dresser stool, I retrieve the Nikon from my lilac throw. And with a piece of the creative, former me resting in my hands, I stalk out of my room on a mission: to fill my day with as much distraction as possible.
It would be a lie if I said I didn’t expect Matt to tag along with our day of distraction and fresh air. But, I suppose the disadvantage of being a music store manager, is having to work on a Saturday, what with it being the busiest day of the week.
From Fillmore Point Apartments, we head east and within fifteen minutes we arrive at Golden Gate Park––thankfully, in one piece. As much as I love Jessie, seeing her behind the wheel of my cherished Honda is a scary experience. Her natural laidback, thoughtful demeanor flees when she is behind the wheel, leaving a fiend that would make Satan himself quake in his boots. The amount of road rage the woman issues, is barbaric. I idly ponder if the unfortunate cyclist who befell to Jess’s terse words, while hanging out of the window, is okay. The movie ‘Carrie’ springs to the front of my mind. I giggle inwardly at the similarity.