Intentional

by MK Harkins

  Finally! I arrive back in Sedona right on schedule. I am so anxious to see Jeremy that I go straight to his house. I can buy medicine or whatever he needs after I do a little research on hangover remedies.

  I park the car and practically run to the front door. I’ve used my key a few times, but I always have trouble with the lock. I wiggle the key a bit, and the dead bolt slides open with a loud squeak. I push hard to swing the huge door open and make my way to his bedroom. The door is cracked open, and the lights are off. Jeremy never sleeps in; he must be really sick.

  My eyes are adjusting to the dark room, when I stop suddenly. No. No. No!

  As I take in the scene, the air sucks right out of my lungs. My heart has stopped. My body is numb. I think I’m still standing, but I can’t feel anything. Unfortunately, my eyes seem to be working just fine. I just can’t believe what I am seeing. Am I still alive? If so, I know for a fact that my life is over.

  How can this be? As I stand at the entrance to the bedroom door, the situation becomes clear. The love of my life, my dear sweet Jeremy, is looking at me. His eyes are sad. Guilty. Ashamed. Tangled up next to him in bed is a blonde, hiding under the sheets.

  My legs want to move. I have to get out of here. Maybe if I move fast enough I can convince myself that this is not happening, that my life hasn’t totally unraveled. I can’t, though. I have to know.

  I walk closer. Jeremy’s expression turns to panic. “Please, no. Please, Mattie. I’m so sorry!” I move closer. The blonde digs under the covers, trying desperately to cover herself. It seems like slow motion as I lift the sheets to reveal the destroyer of my life.

  I see another pair of panicked eyes. These eyes are more familiar to me than Jeremy’s. Sarah. I love her. I love Jeremy. This is not happening. I want this nightmare to be over. Please let me wake up.

  Chapter 13

  Two Months Later

  February

  Mattie

  I know this has to stop. Something has to give. A person cannot die of a broken heart. Believe me, I know. I’ve been waiting—and it’s just not happening.

  My days are a dreary routine, broken only by gut-wrenching sobs and the occasional bowl of cereal. I don’t know why I even bother with the cereal—it tastes like cardboard.

  I look around my kitchen. Sarah and I rented this house mainly because of its top-of-the-line appliances. I haven’t used them in months. I don’t have the energy to cook.

  All my energy has been taken up by survival, pure and simple. Why, though, I don’t know. Why do I bother? I know I’m in a deep depression, because my will to live has faded. Can I live without Jeremy? Do I want to live without him? I don’t even want to think about Sarah yet. Why would she do this? How could she do this? She knew how much I loved Jeremy.

  The pain and betrayal consume me. I am starting to doubt if I will ever feel better. It feels like I’ve been sucked under by wave after wave of grief and misery. I can barely breathe, let alone function. I thought I had experienced heartbreak before, but I was wrong. This is so much worst than anything I could have imagined. It’s been two months, and I haven’t improved, not even a little. I miss Jeremy so much. I want his arms around me; I want all of this to go away.

  Tears spring into my eyes once again. I know I’m wishing for something that will never be. Jeremy and I will never be together again. Here it comes: another bout of crying. I grab the tissues and prepare myself for another long day.

  I glance around my kitchen again. I used to love to cook. Cooking to me was an expression of love and creativity that I really enjoyed. Every week, I would search through my cookbooks, go online, or go through my mother’s recipe cards to find something new and exciting to prepare for Jeremy. He was the most appreciative, willing recipient.

  My memories of our lazy, happy, fun-filled cooking days stab through me like the proverbial knife. I look over at the stool where Jeremy would always sit. We would talk and laugh over a few glasses of wine while I cooked for him. It wasn’t so much about the product as about the process.

  We would talk about our day and the things that were most important to us. We had many deep conversations over pasta or whatever else I was cooking. I loved our spontaneous breaks during the evening. Jeremy would jump up off his stool and yell, “Break time!” then grab me and kiss me senseless.

  I look over at his empty stool. I’ve cried every day, almost nonstop, for two months. I will myself not to cry, but my body doesn’t listen. I didn’t think it was possible for the human body to manufacture this much fluid. I reach for the tissues once again.

  I think of my life in two parts: before “the Event” and after. I’m in the after—and it’s endless.

  It doesn’t help that my job allows me to stay in my house day in and day out. The job that once gave me so much pleasure is now allowing me to become a prisoner of my own volition. It’s the computer revolution-although, as of late, I can’t say I have done much work. My graphic-design business will be a thing of the past if I don’t bid out more projects. I love my job, but the thought of creating a web page or anything else isn’t doing it for me right now. I closed my office space last month. I don’t need it anymore. I don’t want to leave the house.

  I look down at my pajamas. The once-cute pink flannel bottoms (which are now more of a gray color) and matching pink T-shirt look and feel like I’ve been wearing them for months. In reality, it’s been twenty-three days.

  This would be about the time when my friends or family would step in to rescue me. There’s a problem with that scenario. I’m an only child, and my parents died seven years ago. I lost contact with my high school and college friends when I moved to Sedona. The two most important people in my world are gone—Jeremy and Sarah. I have no one.

  So who is going to rescue me? I’ve lost every person who is important to me. Now I understand the saying “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.” That is exactly what I did. I had the love of my life and my best friend. I had my great career. I thought I had it all. I did. I really did. Past tense.

  I look around at the beautiful town that I thought I loved. It looks back at me with emptiness. I have not built a life here. I’ve lived here, yet I am a virtual stranger. I went into the shops, cafés, and bookstores and got what I wanted from each, but not what I needed. Friendships. Connections. Hindsight. Yeah, I know.

  I am sitting in my disgusting pj’s, and I realize that I miss Sarah. A feeling of betrayal rips through me. I am ashamed of myself. How can I have these lingering feelings? Unwelcome memories flood back. I see a ten-year-old Sarah. She was my best friend and partner in crime. I think about middle school (oh, the hours of gossip) and high school (we both made the cheerleading squad). We were inseparable. We built our lives around how we would remain together. At one point we decided we would marry twins, live next door to each other, and figure out how we could get pregnant at the same time (we didn’t have a definite plan, but it seemed easy enough).

  After my parents died in the car accident, Sarah’s parents took me in. That’s when we really became sisters. Her parents helped soothe the gaping hole left by the sudden absence of the most important people in my world. They treated me like their own. Dan and Nancy Bailey—I will love and appreciate them always.

  I wish I could go to them now for comfort. I can’t. They would feel so horrible about the dissolution of my friendship with Sarah. I would never ask them to choose sides. I will leave them be.

  It has been almost two months post breakup. Shouldn’t I be feeling human again? Isn’t there a button somewhere that I can push to turn off the love?

  At some point, I am going to have to look in the mirror. I’m scared. I’m afraid I’m going to see the person I fear—twenty-four years old, alone, and bitter.

  Three Months Later: March

  I have stopped wishing for death. Is this an improvement? I know there are at least five stages of grief. I think I’m stuck at stage one. To grieve properly means to move forward. I’m not doing th
at. I have not accepted the loss yet.

  My heart yearns for Jeremy. I know I have to accept this, this new life, this life I have no interest in living.

  There is something inside me that is trying to come out. I know it’s my inner strength, but I don’t want to see or feel it yet. If I do, it will mean that everything is real. Right now, I’m living in a bubble of pain that promotes a false existence. It’s an existence where I can tell myself that none of this happened. I feel the pain and I cry, yet I am still in denial.

  I have run out of cereal and most everything else. It looks like I’m going to have to go out into the world once again. I force myself into the shower and decide that, yes, I will wash my hair. I stand and let the torrent of water wash over me. It’s almost scalding hot, but I don’t want to move just yet.

  I don’t know how much time has passed, but the water heater in our rental has just coughed up the last bits of hot water. I jump out and grab my clothes. It doesn’t matter what I wear—I don’t care how I look.

  I make my way to the local grocery store. This is the first time I’ve been back since Jeremy and I broke up. I realize why I haven’t come here for so long: this place holds so many memories.

  Jeremy loved to watch me cook, but he would also want to come with me when I shopped. When I asked him why, he’d just reply, “Any excuse I have to be with you, I’ll take!”

  I look down the aisles, remembering how Jeremy would toss produce right over his shoulder into the cart. It was a game to him, not always ending in a score. If he missed, he would sheepishly pick up the ruined apple, bananas, or whatever, place them in the cart, and buy them anyway.

  Jeremy was the most honest person I knew. That thought stings for a minute. I am going to have to readjust my thinking. What Jeremy did with Sarah was not honest. It’s called cheating for a reason. It went against everything I believed about him. I was with him for an entire year. How did I miss such a fundamental flaw in his character? Even after my experience with Evan, I didn’t doubt him at all. I don’t know what part Sarah played in all this, but I assume I missed something with her also. I feel so stupid.

  Before my parents died, they would always tell me what a great attitude I had. They said that I always saw the good in people. It was a compliment, but now I wish I had been more cautious with my friendship and love. I flung it out there, believing in the people who were most important to me. I don’t think I’ll ever let myself love anyone again.

  I am going down the cereal aisle. I think I’ve had one too many bowls of Cheerios. I move on. I’ve decided to upgrade to frozen meals; at least veggies are involved. I pile enough Lean Cuisines into my cart to last me for at least a month. I don’t want to come back here anytime soon. The ghost of Jeremy fills the aisles.

  I know I need to plan. I need a plan. I need to leave Sedona. I am constantly worried that I might see either Sarah or Jeremy. This town definitely will not fit all three of us.

  There has been a deafening silence from both of them since the Event. This is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, I would like to know what happened. Why? This question plagues my days and haunts my nights. Answers might bring me some semblance of peace.

  Where is the numbness? Isn’t it part of the grieving process? Somehow, I have skipped over that stage.

  Four Months Later: April

  Okay, I get it. I have to go on living (unless I want to contemplate my own demise, which I don’t—I’m too mad). I’m going to dust off the dirt of Sedona (no offense, Sedona—you were beautiful, but just a dream). I need to move, far, far away.

  I am going to pick a new city or town where I can learn how to function again. To be honest, I don’t really care where I go—as long as it doesn’t involve cacti, red rocks, or people with the name Jeremy or Sarah.

  I go on a rare outing to Small World Toys. It’s a baby and toy store I shopped at with Sarah about six months ago. She was planning to attend a baby shower for a coworker and needed to pick up a gift. We were both oohing and aahing over all of the adorable baby clothes that filled half the store. I held up the cutest outfit and exclaimed, “I can’t wait for our baby!” I already knew that Jeremy wanted a baby—and fast. Our plan was to try to conceive in the first year after we were married. He was so excited to be a dad. Stop! I am seriously torturing myself. I need to get in, get the map, and get out as quickly as possible.

  I get home in record time and unwrap the laminated map of the United States. I cut a big horseshoe out of the bottom portion (goodbye, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Florida).

  I find some tape and attach it to the wall in my living room. All I need now is a dart. I know I have one somewhere. I check through my junk drawer, and, lo and behold, a dart that’s been left behind from some long-lost board game sits beneath some yarn. I grab it and make my way back into the living room.

  I look at the map carefully. I ask myself, do I really want to do this? Have I totally lost it? Do I really care where I live? The answers are yes, I don’t think so, and no. I’m going for it.

  I take ten steps in the opposite direction and do a few circles so I won’t know where the dart will hit. Here goes. I close my eyes, turn around, and aim at the vicinity of the map, hoping I don’t hit a lamp or anything valuable.

  I hesitate. Should I say a prayer or something? Yes, I will. Dear God, please send me to a place that will bring me happiness and peace.

  I wind up and throw hard. It hits the target! It actually hits one of our fifty great states. An island—I’ve hit an island! That sounds peaceful. I hope it has Wi-Fi.

  As I look closer, I realize that I have indeed hit an island, but it is very close to civilization. The name is Mercer Island. It sits in the middle of a lake called Lake Washington. This makes sense, because Mercer Island is in the state of Washington, right outside the city of Seattle.

  What do I know about Seattle? It rains and it’s gray. My pulse starts to pick up. Gray! This is the first thing that excites me in four months. I am moving to a city that matches my mood. No more fake sunshine happiness. I can go and wallow. I guess that shouldn’t be my goal, but it sure sounds attractive right now.

  Before I leave, I need to make sure that Jeremy and Sarah can’t find me. If I’m really, truly going to start a new life, I need to make sure that neither one of them can interfere. One day, when I’ve recovered, I’ll come back and ask all the questions I need for closure.

  How do I disappear? I start my search on google: “how to disappear completely.” There are so many things I didn’t realize that I would need to do. I can do most of this stuff by myself, but it looks like I’ll need some help from a professional for some of the paperwork.

  I start the arduous task of closing bank and credit card accounts, selling my car, etc. Now I need someone for the not-so-legal stuff—a new identity.

  I make a few calls to some local private investigators. I find one who is willing to give me the name of an “associate.”

  It costs me a lot to obtain my new identity, but it’s worth it. Once I get this all wrapped up, I’ll be ready to go.

  Five Months Later: May

  I did it! I packed up everything and moved. Oh, I felt so free heading up I-5 toward my new adopted home. I felt a weight lifting inside my soul. Weird. I thought I would cry the entire way. I am leaving the people I loved behind. Hey, I think I’m getting better—I thought loved, in the past tense. I am starting the long process of healing.

  I decided to stay true to my dart—I am moving to Mercer Island, Washington. I could have chosen either Seattle or Bellevue—technically, it would have been okay; they are both within two miles of Mercer Island. But I love the idea of being on an island, even though a bridge connects it to land on two sides.

  So I am not going to be out in the wilds, foraging for food when I need it; Mercer Island has grocery stores, restaurants, four Starbucks, and a bookstore, Island Books. It will take me two minutes by car to get to Seattl
e. This might actually be fun.

  I was lucky to find an apartment right in the center of town on Mercer Island. The building is called the Mercer (appropriately). It has a workout room, a pool, and a Jacuzzi. The apartments are open and tasteful. I fell in love immediately with the sixteen-foot ceilings, the granite countertops, and the stainless-steel appliances. The floors are plank wood, and the cabinets are a lovely cherry wood. It feels classic and cozy at the same time. To top it off, it also has built-in Wi-Fi. I’m all set.

  Another plus is that a Starbucks sits right below my window. I can see the cars wind around the drive-through starting at 5:00 a.m. It smells heavenly. I couldn’t have picked a better location.

  It is now May, so the weather is actually pretty good. I’ve been here only a week, so I know the gray days are bound to appear eventually. It’s so beautiful here, I don’t really care about the weather at all. This feels like home. My new life is beginning.

  Chapter 14

  The Betrayal

  December

  Jeremy

  I can see a sliver of light through my consciousness. A sense of curiosity fills my mind. Why do I feel like my body is full of lead? I take the sheets off my head. I am sweating profusely. My stomach roils. What in the hell is going on? Shit. I feel like death. I never get sick. I open my eyes very slowly. I look around my dark bedroom. I see the sunlight starting to shine through a thin opening in the drapes. I need to see the time—I’m usually up way before sunrise. I turn to my clock—it’s 9:30 a.m. Whoa, no way! I try to sit up. I’m dizzy.

  Not today. I have too much to do. I promised Mattie I would make the final arrangements for our honeymoon. Mattie is in charge of all the wedding arrangements; my job is making all the travel plans for our dream vacation. Bali—I can’t wait.

  With that thought, I try to rise again. I feel something move next to me. What the hell? There is someone in my bed. My fuzzy brain tries to process what is happening. I look over. It’s Sarah. Every curse word I have heard throughout my entire life flips through my brain. “What the hell are you doing here?”