The Ruining

by Anna Collomore

  “I’m just suggesting that maybe Owen serves an important place in your life. Maybe he’s your way of filling some sort of male void. You’ve been betrayed by men before, after all; maybe Owen is your subconscious’s way of seeking out something you crave.”

  “Or the universe’s way, I guess,” I said skeptically. “But really, Owen is the most genuinely caring person I’ve ever met. You don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Annie, I have to say, I’m pleased with your positive outlook. I think it bodes well for your recovery.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Clarkson,” I said, standing up. It was time for me to get my things together. I felt strangely reluctant to leave, in a way. A little dose of fear had wended its way through my extremities. But I could do it. I was stronger now, I was sure of it. I knew to trust my instincts when I felt something wasn’t entirely right.

  “Be well,” he said. “And keep in touch, if you’d like.”

  • • •

  I WALKED DOWN THE HALL after signing my discharge papers, and I couldn’t help noticing the faces that peered from their rooms as I passed through the stark hospital corridor. I was careful to take measured steps, not to seem too desperate. It was odd how now I had to focus on appearing especially normal, because what I’d become accustomed to, and where my instincts had led me for the past few months, were on the opposite end of the spectrum from that. I’d have to retrain myself. I realized then that the human brain is endlessly changing, its inner workings restructuring and recalibrating to form new systems of thought and feeling. Now I needed to realign myself with what was considered normal.

  I never wanted to be one of those gaping faces again, myself. The problem was, I felt perilously close to crazy. Like I was just one of the many walking the tightrope between normal and not. How long could I continue walking the rope without tumbling down?

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  IT’S SUNDAY MORNING. I wake up to Owen’s sleep-face next to mine, his arm draped around my waist. He likes me to face him, even though I fit better the other way. Even asleep, he holds me like he’ll never let me go. I trace his cheek stubble gently with my fingers. I love tracing his jaw, and I love when he feels it in his sleep and smiles just a little. His smile is my favorite thing. Waking up next to him will probably always feel like a miracle. Being safe will always feel like a gift, like something I don’t really deserve but am incredibly lucky to have.

  It’s taken me a long time to feel comfortable with Owen, to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. To know that I deserve happiness.

  He stirs under my fingertips. His eyelashes flutter open to reveal the depth of his startling green eyes as they look into mine. I run my hands through his hair softly, and he smiles his adorably crooked grin. He has one tooth that’s a little longer than the rest. He has a little bit of hair on his left shoulder. His earlobes are shaped slightly differently from each other. I take in all of these details because I can, because discovering the things about him that no one else sees is my favorite thing.

  “Hey gorgeous,” he says sleepily, leaning toward me for a kiss. He presses his lips against mine and pulls me close until I feel my naked skin pressing against the length of his. It’s been months and months and my heart has never stopped speeding up at the touch of him. He teases me a little, touching my bottom lip lightly with his, then moving away again, playing a game that leaves me hungry.

  We lie there for a while, kissing and talking, like we usually do on Sundays. It’s my favorite time with him: when the afternoon stretches ahead and we have nothing to do but touch each other’s bodies and look into each other’s eyes and laugh and talk about things that only matter to the two of us.

  Eventually we’ll go out to brunch, because that’s what we always do when our growling stomachs are painful enough to make us want to move from bed. We like to pick a different place each time. San Francisco has so many good places to eat. And today, I want Mexican food. I don’t want breakfast at all. I want a carne asada burrito from El Tonayense. I know if I ask him, Owen will laugh and say it’s okay with him. Everything that happened with Libby seems impossibly bleak now, and, contrasted with those six months, my new reality is heaven. I need to find my own place soon, but neither of us is in any particular rush.

  I like to wander outside Owen’s apartment without asking anyone’s permission. I like to go to the hiking trails that stretch through the outskirts of town. Sometimes Owen comes with me, but sometimes I wander the trails by myself, wade through the creeks and cross the fallen trees that serve as bridges, just like I did with Lissa when we were little kids.

  Once I finish getting dressed, we hop into his car, a sleek black convertible. Owen’s business has taken off in the past year. “After burritos, let’s go to Cups and Cakes,” Owen suggests. “After all, this is a celebration.” He reaches over and clasps my hand in his bigger, stronger one. I tense up despite myself at the word celebration. This morning, Libby was sentenced to life in prison for the murder of Adele Cohen. I guess it’s something to celebrate, but I don’t want to think about it at all.

  “I really want to see Zoe,” I tell Owen. All this time, he’s urged me to wait until Libby’s trial was wrapped up and things died down for Walker. But I’ve missed my little buddy. I hope she and Jackson are doing okay. She must be just about ready for preschool by now. Owen takes a left out of our neighborhood, and I realize we’re going the long way. I can’t help but smile slightly, despite my worry over the kids. I love driving past the townhouses that decorate the hills in little rows, and Owen knows it.

  “Soon,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll go visit. Let’s just give them a little time to get over the shock of the news, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agree. “Owen,” I add, “we have another thing to celebrate.”

  “What’s that?” He grins over at me, his green eyes sparkling as we speed down the highway, the San Francisco Bay flashing on our left, just the way I always imagined it would.

  “My course catalogs came today. I’m almost ready to register.” I’d taken the rest of the year off as I sought intensive therapy with a doctor Owen helped me find. I’m excited to go back to school. It will complete my transition to “normal.” And then I’ll visit Dr. Clarkson in person, let him see what a success story I am, how far I’ve come. How I’m not a victim anymore.

  “That’s great, babe,” he says, although I can see his brow creasing with worry. I know he’s concerned about what the pressures of school might do to me, now that I’ve just gotten back to a place that feels really safe. “Let’s look at it together later, okay?” I nod, a little annoyed, and he senses it.

  “I’m sorry, Annie,” he tells me, bringing my fingertips to his lips. “I’m just worried about you. But you’re right, we have so much to look forward to.” He turns and smiles at me, and I settle back into my seat, leaning my head against the headrest. He understands why it’s important for me to start over, why I need an entirely new life. He worries, but he knows. We’ll look through the courses together, he said, and I know we will. Owen never makes empty promises. But for now, I’ll just enjoy the drive until we get our burritos. Besides, I’m feeling a little tired, and I could stand to rest my eyes.

  I gaze at the sky, my head leaning against the warm leather of the seat cushion. I think about my second chance, the future I have to make for myself. I’m determined to have it this time. I know I can have the life I want, as long as I am strong. I think about this as I let Owen’s hand caress mine, let my eyelids droop closed. I am so profoundly exhausted that I miss my favorite part of the drive: watching the California coastline zip by. I always wanted to see the California coastline, I think dreamily. But I can’t seem to find the strength within myself to open my eyes just now. It doesn’t matter, I decide, giving in to the weight of my eyes. The California coastline can wait. It’ll be here, and I’ll be here too, no matter what.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

  THANK YOU TO MY FRIENDS, family, an
d colleagues. As I started writing these thank-yous, I realized exactly how lucky I’ve been to have all of you in my life.

  Caroline Donofrio: My editor, confidante, friend, and fellow troublemaker. You have been a gift whom I couldn’t do without. I have so much respect for you as an editor and human being. I’m so glad you came to Razorbill to guide me through this process as well as the process of daily life. You are another person who understands the value of living a good story.

  Jocelyn Davies: I didn’t know, when I received that first e-mail you sent me in India with all its clever quips, that it would be the first of thousands of such e-mails, phone calls, texts, and conversations that define the sort of friendship that lasts forever. You are responsible for the initial conception of this novel, and for so many other nuggets of brilliance (and melodrama) that have inspired me. I love you!

  Laura Bernier: I hope one day I can show you the friendship you’ve shown me. The year of writing The Ruining has been a turning point. Your constant support and guidance have been invaluable. You are a rare person whom I respect and value more than I can express.

  Ben Schrank: Thank you for choosing to publish this oft-weird novel, bearing with me during difficult times, and being generally hilarious and inspiring. I have learned a great deal from you.

  Josh and Tracey Adams: For caring about managing my career, but also for believing in me as a person.

  Louis Berger: For Z(Izzy) and canned sardines, and for being a wonderful first reader and friend. Happy Birthday!

  Jess Rothenberg: For letting me camp out on your sofa for (almost) forty-eight straight hours and providing me with a plethora of delicious treats while we both raced to meet deadlines. And for giving me the courage to be braver than I’d ever been (you know what I’m talking about) when I most needed it.

  Mom and Dad: Thanks for offering suggestions, tiny and large. I’m sorry for rejecting most of them in a huff. I lucked out in the parent department, and although I don’t often say it, I hope you intuit my gratitude from my very vague and subtle actions. You have surprised me (unfairly—I should never have been surprised) with your unwavering support. You never surprised me with your love, but I will no longer take it for granted.

  Mandi Dillinger: Indirectly, you inspired this novel. That’s because you’re the craziest lady I know. Just kidding. You’re one friend I’m certain of, because you rented a Zipcar and welcomed me and all my belongings and my dog into your home when I was homeless. And because you laugh at the stuff other people raise eyebrows at. And you’ve dealt with my mood swings, and you’ve poured low-budget wine into me when I lost my kitten, and you sat in the veterinarian’s office when it looked like my dog might need major surgery, and you met me in that sketchy park on Christopher Street and sold me drugs (for those who don’t know: this is grossly exaggerated). And you’ve sent me dozens of cards with your adorable backward y’s. You’ve been a better friend to me than I to you—and you’ve tolerated my months of absences due to writing deadlines—and I swear I’ll make every effort to make up for it. Knowing you, I’ll be constantly in your debt. You are most certainly my partner in crime (literal crime—Grey Goose incident of ’06).

  Kourtney Bitterly: I’ve canceled on you to hit writing deadlines, I missed L.A. because I was waiting on my next book check, I stopped contributing regularly to our blog because I couldn’t fit it in, I generally have been a pathetic, stick-in-the-mud friend—and yet you’ve stuck by me. Not only that, you’re one of the most adventuresome, creative, fun, and inspiring individuals I know. I think it was fate that brought us together in New York. Here’s to our California trip and many more.

  Jackie Resnick: I look forward to our writing dates at Building on Bond, and our writing dates in your backyard, and our wine-fueled confessionals, and everything else. Here’s to SMEF and margarita pong and staying in Brooklyn forever, preferably always within a short walk of one another.

  Margot, Samantha, Madeleine, Alexander, Sydney, and Reagan: I love you cutie-pies so much. You are brilliant delights. You were all inspiration for Zoe in one way or another (I did my very best), and you’re my favorite little readers. I’m the luckiest aunt. I can’t wait to continue to watch you grow up.

  Chris, David, and Alex: Because I want you to feel obligated to read my book, and I’m in a generous mood. Also: I love having brothers, and I love that they wound up being the three of you.

  Wendy, Adelaide, and Amy: The most supportive roommates I could have had while getting back on my feet in NYC. I will miss you so much! I will miss splitting wine and talking about men, I will miss swapping clothes, and I will miss shielding Amy from small children, old ladies, and delivery boys. This will be a sad parting, but not a permanent one. (Ad, I will come see you compete in the Olympics one day soon!)

  Mochi/Pumpkin-Butt/Cheeser: For chewing sticks like a good dog, and for loving me unconditionally despite my myriad of dog-mom, negligent faults. For snuggling after I return from bad dates, allowing me to style your toupee with hair gel, tripping over your own ears, and fighting other dogs when they threaten my personal space. And for grabbing that dishrag every morning.

  Pam McElroy: For agreeing to read/fact-check this novel upon seeing me for the first time in three years, then agreeing for the second time and doing such a good job of it. You were responsible for putting my mind completely at ease.

  Mike O’Reilley and Andrew Bartlett: For an accurate or semi-accurate description of San Francisco as you saw it. Thank you for providing me with essential world-building information the night before my draft was due, at Loki Lounge in Brooklyn, completely by surprise. The best developments are usually those that are unexpected.