“Thanks,” she murmurs while staring at the pattern garnishing the floor of her entryway. I nudge her chin with my free hand. When she makes eye contact with me, I hand her the flowers and wine.
“For Thursday nights with Maura.”
“Thank you. How did you know she comes over for wine?” Insert foot in mouth.
Honesty. If I’ve learned nothing in the past year, it’s that honesty and facing shit head-on is the way to go. “I have a confession. The walls here . . . they’re very thin.” Her mouth gapes, and her eyes widen. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have eavesdropped.”
“Y-y-y-yo-you heard everything?”
“No, sometimes you don’t talk that loud.”
“Oh, God. I’m mortified. You should be ashamed of yourself for listening. I can only imagine what you heard. Shit, I’m so embarrassed. We should probably postpone. For eternity. Yeah, I don’t think this is going to work.” Her incessant rambling is cute as hell.
“Lisa, we aren’t cancelling. I should be ashamed, but I’m not. You aren’t exactly forthcoming when I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to get to know you. Nothing I heard should have you embarrassed, but I’m thinking your friend needs an intervention of sorts.”
“For what?”
“She’s funny, I’ll give her that, but she has no filter. That can’t be healthy.”
Her smile breaks through and then disappears. “You did not just insult my best friend and then ask me to go out with you. I don’t care how fucking hot you are, you can’t insult a girl’s best friend.”
Fiery. I like this side of her. “I didn’t exactly insult her, but you two are polar opposites. I’m sorry, can we start over?”
Her eyes close and she inhales, “Sounds like a plan. I have a few conditions.”
“Name them.”
“You don’t ever insult Maura again, and you act like everything you overheard didn’t happen.”
“Deal. But I guess the present I got you for the end of the night is out then.”
Her eyebrows rise, “Why?”
“It’s an industrial pack of D batteries.” Her face turns beet red as she bends over, laughing so hard tears stream down her face. “Kidding, but glad that ended all the awkward talk.”
“You got me good, but that’s your only mention of the conversations you never heard.”
“Got it.”
“Shall we go?”
“Your chariot awaits.” I take her arm, and once she looks up, I place my hand at the small of her back and lead her to my car.
“Where are we going?”
“Emeril’s.”
“Holy hell, Dakota Hyatt, you’re pulling out the big guns.”
“Well you’ve been kind of standoffish for a while, so I’m trying to impress you.”
“I’m really like that?”
“Lisa, I don’t even know what you’re in school for.”
“You never asked.” Hmmm. I thought I did. “You have this aloofness about you. Like look but don’t touch. Don’t get to close, or you’ll get burned.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a dick.”
“I didn’t say you were a dick. Although, the first day we met you were. I’m just saying maybe we’ve both been avoiding any depth for our own reasons.”
“So let’s end that tonight.”
“Nothing off the table?”
“I’m an open book.”
“Me too.”
Funny, we don’t speak a word the entire way to dinner, each silently building a list of questions to fire at one another. Or at least I am.
Once we order, I dive in. “So, what are you going to school for?”
“I’m actually going back to school. I have my nursing degree and practiced for a year in ICU. I’m going back for my nurse anesthetist license.”
“Your what?”
“Nurse anesthetist. Providing anesthesia. Knocking people out legally.” She laughs at my cluelessness.
“Wow. Impressive. How old are you?”
“I just turned twenty-four. You?”
“Just turned twenty-six, and you already know I’m a DEA agent.” I notice her smile dim a bit, “How much longer do you have in school?”
“I technically graduate in a month if I get all my certifications and intern hours. An informal one. Thank God. It’s been hell, but I’m excited about the new opportunities.”
“Sounds tough. Why’d you want to go into that field?”
“It sounds corny, but when I was seven, I broke my arm and had to have surgery. The woman delivering the anesthesia had no bedside manner, and I was terrified. I want to be able to help make a scary situation less traumatic, put people at ease, maybe make a small difference in someone’s day. Why’d you go into law enforcement?”
“Mine’s cornier. Justice. Right the wrongs. My sister was murdered in our driveway when I was fifteen, and it left an impression on me. Actually, she wasn’t my sister but my birth mother, although I only found that out a few years ago.”
“Wow. That’s a lot. How’d you deal with it all?”
“Not well. That’s kind of how I ended up here. A lot of misfortunes and bad decisions. I had to get away.”
“So you fucked up on the job, and this is your punishment.”
“No, I fucked up in life. I chose this.”
Silence. I’ve probably said too much and scared her away.
“Favorite color?”
“You’re just going to let all that go?”
“For right now. I’m hoping we have more time to get deep, but we’ve covered enough now.”
“I hope so, too.”
“One more heavy question?”
“Shoot. I told you earlier, I’m an open book.”
“This self imposed exile . . . what’s her name?”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure until just now.”
“Bianca.”
“And if Bianca called you this second, would we be sitting here?” I don’t answer her, mulling her question around. “Honesty, you promised me that.”
“I’m not sure.”
“I can live with that, I think. So let me guess, you’re a guy who embraces pink?”
“Hell no, I like black.”
“Of course you do.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Black is universal. Goes with everything. No muss. No fuss. What you see is what you get.”
“You’re observant.”
“Very.” So the evening continues with silly questions and debating the validity of our choices. I find myself wanting the night to continue when we get back to the complex, but I know I’m not fully available. Just touching on the heavy shit tonight made me remember.
Feel.
Miss her.
I think Lisa is great, but she isn’t Bianca. Nobody ever will be. Isn’t your first love supposed to be your strongest? In my case, she’s become my weakness, and in turn I made her fragile. Remembering her in the hospital bed puts me in a somber mood. I try to hide it from Lisa, but she’s perceptive and keeps up the idle chitchat until we reach her door. “I would tell you to call me when you get home, but I’ll just listen for the door to slam.”
“Shit, we haven’t even switched numbers.”
“True. But we can just tap out Morse code on the walls for emergencies.”
I laugh at her. She’s one of a kind. I hand her my cell, and she does the same. The awkward moment seems to last forever as we both stare at one another then my mind shuts off, and I just feel. Gripping her hand, I tug her closer to me and kiss her. I intend for it to be sweet and chaste, but feeling her lips under mine has something inside me doing the opposite. I pull away breathless and watch her eyes open; she stares at me dazed.
“Goodnight, Lisa.”
“Goodnight, Dakota.” I step away to my door. I see her back up to enter her apartment. I wait to hear the click of the lock. It doesn’t come, but instead she sticks her head back out. “Aft
er that kiss I’m kind of disappointed I didn’t get my end of the night present. I probably could put them to good use tonight.” I stand there stupefied until I hear the click of her lock before letting the chuckle escape. Shaking my head, I go inside.
Climbing in bed, I grab my phone to set my alarm and see notifications from Facebook. My breathing halts as I open the application.
Six months.
Empty.
Guilty.
Six months since I’ve seen that smile. On the night I make progress, she halts it all with one photo of her and Callie toasting each other with wine glasses. She’s gone incognito; she hasn’t posted once in six months until tonight. Surely this isn’t a sign - reminding me of what we had, what I wanted more than anything is right there and healing. In an instant, I’m more confused than I was six months ago. I click the like button and turn off my phone.
Repent.
Forgiveness.
Absolution.
It doesn’t come. It never does.
More questions. More doubts.
Visions of Bianca blurred with a blond hair scamp swirl until sleep claims me.
Chapter Eleven
Bianca
What if it is? A million dollar question swirling in my mind on constant loop. I don’t know what I’m afraid of.
Failure.
I failed him; therefore I failed myself in a way, and I can’t do it again. I have to be ready, complete before contacting him. Last week I joined the land of social media again. I was elated as I did it, until the notifications started coming in. That one “like” halted all of my progress.
‘Dakota Hyatt liked your photo.’
I deleted the app from my phone, again, and refused to talk about it. Now I’m sitting in Dr. Adams’s office zeroed in on the candy dish he replaced . . . with no Airheads. Fucking mints. He’s trying to piss me off. Who in their sane mind wants to suck on a fucking mint while purging their deepest, darkest secrets? I’m wondering who the crazy one is.
“What has you agitated today?”
“I’m not agitated.” I don’t think I was convincing with the rolling of my eyes and nasty tone, but I wasn’t trying to be.
“So sitting on my couch while emptying the contents of your purse, in complete silence, and clearly trying to yank your hair out isn’t agitation?”
“No, I’m fucking pissed. Not agitated. Not irritated. Not upset. Fucking. Pissed.”
“Okay. What caused this?”
“Your fucking mints. Where are my Airheads?”
“My candy choice doesn’t meet your standards. Noted. What else has you pissed?”
“Are you being condescending, Doc? Isn’t that Psychology 101? Thou shalt not condescend ones patients.”
“We don’t have commandments, Bianca. I’m not the Bible. I’m not the truth on all. Yes, I was being condescending showing you how ridiculous you are being over candy.”
“Candy is not something to joke about. You can’t take the choice of good candy and bad candy lightly. It’s a staple in the diet.”
“I’ll remedy that by your next appointment.”
I want to smack the smugness out of him. “You do that, and I’ll make sure to deduct the error of your ways from this session.” His lips turn up slightly, and now I am irate. “He liked my fucking picture on Facebook. I haven’t seen or heard from him in six months. Six months, Doc! I was strong enough to enter the world of social media again. Drinking wine with my best friend; laughing, truly laughing for the first time in months, and he liked my fucking picture.”
“Slow down. Breathe. Explain it to me.”
“I just did. Buy a clue because I’m ten seconds from catching a charge for bludgeoning my therapist in his office with a candy dish with motherfucking mints in it.”
“Let me rephrase this. Who liked your picture on Facebook?”
“Dakota.” I spit.
“Why does that make you angry?”
“Holy shit. I’m rethinking paying for this visit at all.”
“I have to say, in spite of your anger, it’s refreshing to see you with some fire in you. Why are you angry? Tell me, Bianca.”
“Because he started all this bullshit. He created a situation I couldn’t get over by sticking his dick in someone else, blaming me, then apologizing to me in the same breath. Refused to let me go. Everywhere I turned I was assaulted by memories of what we were, what we had, the potential to be and the utter failure of what we became. He pushed and pushed for us to be together, and I broke. He broke me and then left. Didn’t stick around to put me back together and hasn’t called once. But he found the time to like my picture. Who does that?”
I’m sure he is on the verge of calling for a straight jacket. I sound hysterical to myself, but I can’t get over this. “Your anger is justified, but I think it’s misplaced.”
“English, Doc.”
“I wasn’t aware I was speaking in a different language, Ms. Agosto.”
“You’re pissing me off today.”
“That’s been established. Your anger at him is warranted but not over liking a photo. That is your excuse for dealing with the suppressed rage towards him. Did you ever let him know how you felt?”
“Yes.”
“Did you feel guilty at the same time for making him upset or take blame?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Yes.”
“By absorbing the guilt over something you didn’t cause you weren’t able to process your feelings. Get angry, write him a letter, and confront him. Invite him to a session to work through it, but you have to acknowledge it.”
“So I’m overreacting about the picture?”
“And the mints, but that’s a topic for another day.”
“I can’t see him. I’m not ready for that.”
“What about talking to him. We can do it during your session.”
“No. I’ll write him a letter.”
“Okay. That’s good. Don’t worry about hurting his feelings, worry about expressing yours. You can send it to him, burn it, do whatever you want, but getting your feelings out, giving them a place to be acknowledged will free you from this burden.”
“Then we only have about a million more.”
“A million is better than a million and one.”
“Thanks, Doc. Don’t forget my Airheads next week.”
“I’ve already written it down in your file.”
“You’re going to miss me when I’m cured.”
“Bianca, feelings aren’t a disease. The sooner you realize that the sooner I can stop buying Airheads.” I roll my eyes and leave. Without paying. I make a short stop at the store and buy a notebook. I have a lot of pent-up rage and think this notebook may be a little small, but I can always buy a few more if needed. On the way to pay, I stop at the candy aisle and pick up three bags of Airheads. I’m mentally flicking off Dr. Adams while I pay for these purchases. Never underestimate the power of good candy. Male mistake numero uno right there.
I send a quick text to Lynsey.
ME: What is the most heart breaking, gut-wrenching, ugly-cry song you know?
LYNS: Do I need to worry?
ME: For your safety if you don’t just answer the question.
LYNS: Nice to see you back, Binks. Missed you. Breathe Me by Sia.
ME: TY.
LYNS: Anytime.
I situate myself on the couch and buy the song. I set it on repeat and put pen to paper.
Dakota,
So my ‘therapist’ (I’m debating if his degree is real. Some days I really like him, today not so much) told me to write this letter. Something to do with communicating my feelings. I wasn’t always bad at that.
I remember seeing you for the first time. I immediately tried to fix my hair and called Callie. I fell for you that day without knowing why. I was drawn to you, yet I pushed you away all the same. I own that. Maybe if I had opened up to you easier you wouldn’t have punished me instead of turning to me.
Shit! I’m doing it ag
ain. Blaming myself for your shortcomings. I own my shit, but you, you make excuses for your mistakes, and in turn placed some of the blame on me. Well, let me tell you it wasn’t my dick inside your roommate. Nope, that was all you. That was the first time I hated myself. That day you brought hatred in my life, and for that, I hate you. But I don’t hate you.
Bellissimo Rilascio (Beautiful Release): The Family Series #3 Page 7