Madness

by J. L. Vallance

  **

  Twinkling red and white lights illuminated the tasting room basking it in “Cupid’s Glow” or some other ridiculously nauseating thing Karleigh called it as she’d spent the morning stringing them. We were set to open in the early afternoon for our Valentine’s Tastings event. I fucking hate Valentine’s Day.

  I’ve hated it since I was a kid. I was always the awkward girl in school that no one really cared for—my oddness was not appealing at that stage. Don’t get me wrong, my card box was always full. It was just full of my own cards. When my mother asked me why I didn’t hand out cards to any of my friends, I’d scoff, “I gave a card to my friend, Karleigh. The rest of ’em are dicks.” I’d then get a very long lecture about how ladies should speak. Apparently, ‘dick’ wasn’t ever supposed to be in a lady’s vocabulary according to Margaret Winters.

  It’s a damn good thing I never banked all my hopes and dreams on being a lady.

  “Tell me again, Karls, what is the point of these crepe hearts?” I asked, taping them, as she demanded, to the wall.

  “What do you have against Valentine’s Day?”

  “It’s a stupid ‘holiday’,” I replied, making air quotes around the word holiday. “It’s a multi-million dollar industry forcing people to spend money on ridiculous things. And food and chocolates. . .”

  “And wine. Don’t forget, madam, you do profit from this ‘stupid holiday.’”

  “Begrudgingly.”

  “What do you have to be bitter about?” she asked, stepping down from the ladder. “At least you have a Valentine this year. Which, mark it on a fucking calendar because, it’s a first.”

  I shot her the bird and continued to tape hearts around the room. She was right, I did profit from the day. . . greatly.

  All the wineries in the area participated in a pub-crawl for wineries. We all banded together two years ago, right after I stepped in as owner of Winter’s Night and came up with the idea. Truthfully, it had been my plan. We provide shuttles, souvenir glasses, and food and wine pairings at each stop for a small fee. The first year had gone over better than expected, and this year, we started receiving calls for reservations in July.

  “Is he coming?” Karleigh asked from behind me as she handed me more hearts.

  “I think so,” I answered with a smirk. “He has been doing a lot of work at the shop—making up for lost time—but he told Max he wanted to take the evening off.”

  “Love looks good on you, Franks.”

  “Who says I am in love?”

  “Your face says it without your lips needing to,” she replied. “And you know, that’s okay. Run with it.”

  I had no response for her.

  None.

  She was spot on. I’d fallen in love with Rory. I couldn’t really discount the possibility that I’d been in love with him since the first night I’d slept with him. That night I’d gone to bed with him, I let myself give something that until then, I’d been unwilling to give. I gave him intimacy. When I kissed him, I kissed him. It was the kind of kissing that happens in movies—you know the good ones that take your breath and leave you wishing that you were the leading lady on the screen? It was that spectacular. I touched every piece of his skin, ran my fingers over it lightly, slowly. I locked onto his eyes, held their icy electricity within my own gaze as our bodies wove together.

  I’d been having sex with Lukas for two years and never once took it past mechanical. It was a means to an end; a physical act fulfilling a physical need. There was never passionate kissing, fevered touching, and absolutely no eye contact. The only connection was where our sex touched.

  I gave myself to Rory. I couldn’t even blame it on the goddamn tequila. It was just him.

  “Did you finish building the trays?” I asked, brushing past her into the kitchen.

  “Smooth subject change,” Karleigh snarked. “They are all ready, and I have the little cups stacked by the bar for the sample trays.”

  “So. . .” I drawled, smoothing my hands on the cool surface of the counter, “do you have a hot date lined up for tonight?”

  “Yeah, with a winery full of tipsy, lovey-dovey gomers,” she replied with a roll of her eyes. “And let’s not forget its ever sunshiny owner.”

  **

  The tasting room was stacked, front to back, with pub-crawlers and non-crawlers. The bells had been jingling non-stop on the door since we’d opened hours earlier. My dogs were barking, and the night was far from over.

  Karleigh called Lukas an hour in and begged him to come help us. We were drowning in the never ending waves of people. He came although he refused to wait tables. All we got was kitchen help. It was better than nothing.

  I’d attempted to call Rory a couple of times, sent him a few text messages. I’d heard nothing in return. I didn’t have time to be worried; in fact, I made the rash assumption that he was stuck at the shop. Assumption made, I moved on and focused on the endless parade of patrons coming through the winery.

  Nine o’clock came faster than I expected. I made my rounds, stopping at each table, a fake and professional smile plastered to my face as I offered refills and/or water.

  “Frankie Winters!” I smiled at the young woman I knew from high school.

  “Allison!” I feigned excitement and even returned the hug she offered. “How are you?”

  “Oh, you know, busy with work and a new husband!”

  No, no I don’t know. I failed at life, remember?

  “I know, life keeps us busy.” My words tasted bitter on my tongue. Ugh. I have worked on my social skills, my responses. I know what people expect and it’s not, “No, I don’t know. My life is ruled by madness and meds. Also, I spent time in a psychiatric facility. So. . .”

  “This is a great place you have here,” she continued. “Seriously, you should be proud!”

  “Thank you,” I smiled. That was something I did take pride in.

  “And you look stunning.”

  Okay, she could stop.

  “Oh,” I began, my words stopping in my throat at the jingle of bells. Not just jingling, but stumbling and falling and glasses crashing to the floor. My head snapped to the door. Rory rolled around on the tile. He laughed awkwardly. I smiled and turned back to Allison. “Excuse me.”

  He’d pushed up to a sitting position by the time I reached him, continuing to laugh. I could nearly see the booze plumes coming from him. The smell was noxious. Extreme disappointment settled over me.

  “Bubbles,” he slurred. “I missed ‘a you.”

  “Get up off the floor,” I hissed. “You are making a scene.”

  Rory tried to stand and failed miserably. I bent forward and helped him from the floor, supporting much of his weight as I steered him toward the kitchen. All eyes in the tasting room were on us. I gave an uncomfortable smile as we passed.

  “You smell so fucking good,” he murmured into my hair.

  I ignored him as we entered the kitchen. Lukas met me at the doorway with a disapproving look. He stepped back, shaking his head. I kept Rory moving, heading toward my office and the couch that waited inside.

  “Lukas,” Rory greeted, shooting him a weak wave.

  “Hey, O’Neill. You’re looking great this evening.”

  “Right, I bet you are soaking up every second of this,” Rory grumbled.

  “What, like you soaked up all the alcohol in the state?”

  “Get me a bottle of water and some bread, Luka,” I ordered. “Leave the side of sarcasm on the counter.”

  We finally reached the office, the couch ready for the stumbling mess that I led in the door. I nudged him the rest of the way and forced him to sit. I rolled the chair from my desk over to sit in front of him and thanked Lukas, who was reluctant to leave, after he brought the items I asked for. He was even more reluctant to shut the door behind him as asked, but did.

  “I can’t stand that guy,” Rory sighed.

  “I’m more than sure that feeling is mutual,” I snapped.

&nb
sp; “You’re mad,” Rory pointed out.

  “Not mad, disappointed. What is going on with you?” I asked, opening the water and handing it to him. He set it down on the floor without drinking. I held up the bread, and he turned that away as well.

  “Just a bad fucking day.”

  “I’m sorry, but that answer just isn’t going to cut it. Not this time,” I replied, crossing my arms over my chest. “If this is going to work, if we are going to be something, you have to talk to me—not hit the fucking bottle.”

  “Because that is what you did,” he snapped, standing. He swayed, like a tree in violent wind. I stood with him, my anger getting the better of me.

  “You are drunk, and you’re a sloppy drunk, O’Neill. Sleep it off. We’ll talk when you’re not being a dick.”

  “You think you are perfect and superior. But what did you do when life got too hard? You tried to take the pussy way out. You—”

  I slapped him. I pulled back and slapped him as hard as I could across the face. My hand stung from the impact but that sting wasn’t nearly as bad as the sting of his words or the sting of the tears burning my eyes.

  “How dare you?” I ground out, balling my hands into tight fists at my sides. “You don’t know a fucking thing about what I’ve lived with my illness.”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. And I can’t talk to you right now. Not after you said something so hurtful and not when you are like this,” I explained, turning from him. “I’ll call Max and tell him to come for you.”

  “Please, Frankie. . .”

  “Sleep it off, Rory.”

  “Letter, his letters,” he mumbled. “They were just lying in the box. . . I’m so sorry.”

  I walked out of the office, slamming the door behind me. Lukas watched me closely as I escaped out the back door, hands shaking, tears streaking my cheeks. I called Max, asked him to come for Rory. I didn’t need to say much, he knew the second he heard my voice that Rory was in trouble.

  The cold air was soothing against my bare skin, and I stayed outside until my fingers started to feel numb. It was a welcomed and needed feeling. Numb was a good place to be. Fuck, it was always my favorite place to be. Until I had met Rory. He made me feel entirely too much—good and bad. He forced me to run a gamut of emotions. Most of the time I enjoyed it. Tonight, I hated it.

  He had said one of the most awful, most hurtful things to me that he could ever say. How can I look past things like that? How can I love someone that would hurt me so easily? But how could I not love him? How could I not hurt for him and his damaging past?

  I reentered the winery, bypassed the kitchen, and took the stairs down into the cellar. I began moving crates of wine, looking to move bottles upstairs. It didn’t matter if we really needed them or not. I didn’t want to be upstairs when Max arrived. I couldn’t see Rory until I had time to cool down—to think.

  “Walk away now, Winters, before it’s too late.”

  I closed my eyes and blew out a shaking breath.

  “Too late for what? An aching back?” I joked, knowing full well Lukas was not speaking of the work I did in the cellar. He spoke of my relationship with Rory.

  “A broken heart.”

  “Don’t claim to know something about nothing, Pope.”

  “He’s stumbling drunk.”

  “It’s a party, Lukas,” I sighed, avoiding his angry glare.

  “Frankie, he stumbled through the door!” he slammed a palm into the door. “The frightening question that begs to be answered is how the fuck did he get here in the first place?”

  I finally turned, meeting his glare, holding my arms out at my sides. I was at a loss. For his anger, for Rory’s behavior. For all of it.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Does he always drink like this?” Yes.

  “No.”

  “You are a liar.”

  “This is, what, the second time you have seen him? You think you know him and his problems?”

  “We all have problems. Most of us choose not to drink them away. I’ve asked around about him, Frankie. He’s fucked up and not good for you and your condition.”

  My condition. It always comes back to my condition with everyone in my life. It would be flattering if it wasn’t so goddamn exhausting and condescending.

  “I appreciate you being my own P. I. when it comes to my boyfriend, but really, your services aren’t needed. “

  “I am simply an outsider looking in, noticing that your boyfriend is toxic. You can’t see—”

  “Why, why can’t I see? Is it because I am doomed to habitually make bad choices? Tell me, Lukas!” All of the anger and disappointment I’d been shoving down since Rory crashed through the door bubbled to the surface. It spewed out around me, leaving me with little control.

  “He is bad for you on a hundred and one different levels!”

  He was so angry. It was the kind of angry that only someone that truly cares for you can become with you. I wished so many times that I could love him in all the ways that mattered. It would have made all of our lives that much easier. But I didn’t, and I couldn’t. Most of that lay in the fact that he would always see me as a girl with an illness; someone he needed to protect from the world. I’d never be his equal or his partner; I’m too weak. He’d forever see me as lost, broken, of needing his protection.

  “You look at me and you see fourteen-year-old Frankie, the little brown-haired, freckle-faced girl you walked in on cutting herself in your guest bathroom. You see a weak and troubled girl that you need to protect from the world.” I sighed and shook my head. “You see all the things that are wrong with me; you see all the broken pieces.”

  “And Rory gets you?” The edge in his voice was thick.

  “He sees an equal. He knows the kind of pain that I have lived—that I still live. When he looks at me, he doesn’t see a fractured little girl,” I smiled even though my eyes filled with tears. Rory made me feel empowered—like I didn’t have to hide away from my scars. I could wear them proudly; they were badges of honor proving I was a survivor. “He sees a woman that’s not broken, but mended. He sees that I’m pieced back together with a little glue around the edges. There may be a few pieces still missing, but he accepts me the way I come. He’ll even help me look for those pieces if I want.”

  “That’s really poetic, Frankie,” he replied sarcastically. “But be realistic! He obviously has a problem.”

  “Thank you, Lukas. Thank you for being concerned, for thinking of me,” I said, walking away from him.

  “I know that tone—”

  “Lukas,” I warned, holding up a hand. “This is my life. Is it so hard for you to understand that I met someone that managed to reach me in a way that no one ever has? So he may have some demons of his own—who the fuck cares! That doesn’t make me love him any less!”

  I turned to face him, my voice echoing within the cellar. Pain. Pure, unfiltered pain flickered across his face. It made my stomach turn.

  “You love him?” he whispered.

  “He’s like me,” I cried.

  “He will break you, Frankie. I know his type. He’s fucking selfish and a fucking drunk,” he seethed, moving past me toward the door. “Don’t expect me to be waiting to pick up the pieces.”

  “Ouch,” I replied, staring at his back. “I let you go, Luka. I let you go so you wouldn’t be hurt, because I couldn’t give you what you deserved. This is how you react to all of that?”

  “No, Frankie,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper as he looked at me over his shoulder. “This is how I react to you making stupid fucking choices. If you want to run off and fall in love with someone that’s not me, at least make it someone worthy of you. Not that fucking dick.”

  He left me standing alone, staring after him. I wasn’t going to follow, and I couldn’t call after him.

  Rory was back to spiraling after nearly a month of. . . I couldn’t even say it was a month o
f being on an upswing. It had at least been better than where he was tonight. And while I may love him, I can’t live a lifetime of tonights.

  Chapter 23

  I fucked up.

  I fucked up on a scale of epic proportions. It’s now been three days since the last time I saw Frankie. She barely accepts my calls, and my guess is she only does that to make sure I’m not in immediate danger.

  All it took was coming across a letter. One. Simple. Letter. Seeing his words in his writing; his name signed by his hand. It sent me into a tailspin that I had no hope of pulling out of. I wanted to. More than any-fucking-thing. I knew that I was going to hurt her by showing up the way I did. But I needed her. I was fractured, hurting on a cellular level. Seeing her, touching her—that was the only thing I could see making it better.

  That didn’t happen.

  My few broken memories of the night included a slap to the cheek, and Max lifting me off the sofa in Frankie’s office. He pumped me full of coffee and an endless rant about how my actions and volatile decisions are going to get me dead one day. Blah, blah, fucking blah. I was more worried about them getting me single again.

  I drove to Frankie’s place the next day; she made me leave without even opening the door. But today she said she was coming to see me. She said we were going to talk. Fuck me. That statement is never a good sign in any relationship.

  I jumped when I heard the knock at the door.

  “Be right there,” I called, slipping a hoodie over my head. I looked out the window, my breath catching in my chest as I took in her tall, lithe frame. I opened the door for her, smiling as she walked in. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Frankie shrugged out of her coat and toed off her boots. “Can I make some tea?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I replied, leading her into the kitchen.

  I warmed up a mug of water for her, and she opened up a green tea bag, steeping it as the steam filtered around her face. She looked up at me through her lashes, her bright eyes burning a hole through me.

  “You been doing okay?” she asked.

  “As good as usual,” I answered, grabbing a beer from the fridge, not missing the slump of her shoulders. “Look, about the other night, I was going through some things, found some of Ryan’s letters, and it just. . . it pushed me over the edge I was tip-toeing on.”