Then I heard one of them mention Ryan's name.
"He called me a few months ago," Blonde Number One said. "I didn't call him back. I probably should have, but I didn't want to be too available for him."
Blonde Number Two, without lowering her voice, said, "I can't believe Ryan brought that fat woman as his date. I wonder if he has any standards anymore."
I reddened. This was not happening. This was not happening. Bitches. I did not understand the need for women—especially genetically gifted women—to bring other women down.
Just ignore them, I told myself. Their opinion didn’t matter. No one could make you feel inferior without your consent. Yeah, I was resorting to Eleanor Roosevelt.
"She looked old enough to be his mother."
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Blonde Number Three giggled, a hard, ugly giggle. "He probably used his 'I'm a sensualist' line on her." She continued, in a low, sexy imitation of a male voice, "'I'll show you pleasure and we'll experience the sensations of just being.' Or some shit like that. He's such a whore. Didn't he cheat on you too, Tiffany?"
For the second time that night, I was hit in the solar plexus. Was Ryan not sincere with me? Was his pleasure-sensualist-feeling bullshit just a line that he used on everyone?
And cheating? No. Not with me.
It felt so real, everything with him. He seemed so sincere.
But was I in denial? It fucking hurt to feel like just another one of his conquests. I mean, I figured he had experience, but to be faced with it, live and in person? This was a nightmare, and not the type that I could wake up from.
Despite the fact that I knew that I shouldn't go there, I shouldn't let them in, I shouldn't give their evil comments any validity, I went there. My thoughts dove straight to hell.
He could have anyone he wanted. Why would he need to cheat? Was he going to cheat on me? He knew my secrets. Was he going to use them against me? Was I going to get hurt worse than I already was?
So what should I do? I had already freaked out on him once tonight. He solved that with a very expensive fuck. Should I confront him about this? Should I just ignore it and let it go?
My brain, already the source of my depression and problems, started slipping into its old pattern of numbing things out. I tried to talk rationally to myself. Perhaps I was getting ahead of myself. We had not talked about our relationship, whatever it is. We had not agreed to be exclusive. We had not formalized anything. There was just his "you're with me" command in the hallway at Southwinds.
Had he ever taken any of them there?
Toxic thoughts, Amelia.
And then my thoughts went worse. Had he cooked for them? Knelt before them, worshiping them? Woke up with them?
I waited, quiet at the table, for Ryan to get back with my wine. I saw him waiting in an extremely long line and I wanted him back because I was so uncomfortable in my thoughts, and feeling very alone.
And then I saw him.
My ex, Jonathan.
This was the date from hell, no fault of mine, no fault of Ryan.
Shit, fuck, shit.
I needed to leave and I was trapped, at the front of a crowded ballroom, with bitches to the side of me and my rat bastard ex-husband by the doors. And I'd apparently been brought here by someone with quite a line.
I couldn't help but hum the song, "Stuck in the Middle with You." But I wasn't sure if I had Ryan at my side. I wasn't sure of anything.
Fuck.
Then, with my sick sense of humor, I remembered. That song was used in Quentin Tarantino's violent classic movie, Reservoir Dogs, when one of the characters was getting his ear cut off. It occurred to me that getting my ear cut off might be less painful than feeling what I was feeling at that time.
The depressive, dangerous, and suicidal thoughts bubbled up for the first time in weeks. This was what I got for letting myself feel, for letting myself be vulnerable and open: nothing but pain. Darkness. Dark thoughts. Fuck, not this again.
I had come so far and no, I couldn't control my brain any more. It wasn't working. It was like a record player needle had slipped into the groove in the vinyl and I couldn't get it out again.
I shouldn't be here.
I shouldn't exist.
There was nothing in this life for me.
I began to hyperventilate.
The room spun. My only thought became, I must leave.
Trying not to call attention to myself, I got up from the table, my hands trembling, my legs about to give way, my body shaking, and headed to the door, Jonathan be damned. I needed some fresh air. I needed to think. I needed to not think bad thoughts. All the blood rushed from my face and I felt like I was going to faint, yet again.
I pressed through the crowd, although no one seemed to really look at me. I made it out of the ballroom, and headed down the corridor to the bluff outside by the ocean. Lights from boats and oil derricks twinkled out in the evening over the water. The evening air woke me up a little bit, but I was starting to numb out. I stared at the ocean and the activity beyond, not processing, just looking. And then I heard—
"Amelia!"
It was Ryan. He was running, full bore, in a tuxedo, curly hair flopping, after me.
After me.
While I watched him run, a bit detached, my body reacted and I realized something: he made my heart beat faster. Every single time I saw him, he made my heart beat faster. And here, running after me? I didn't know if my heart could take it.
I spotted a bench and took it, sitting, grateful to have solid support for my body, and fresh air to breathe.
"Hey, are you okay?" he asked, barely breathing hard. Fit bastard.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I lied.
"No you're not. Talk to me. Do you want some water?"
I looked at him dazedly. I didn't know what I wanted.
"I'm getting you some water. Stay here."
He slipped away quickly and was back in two seconds with some ice water that he must have taken off of a table. I drank it gratefully. Sitting down next to me, he just studied my face, not taking my hand or touching me. Then he asked, quietly, "What happened in there?"
I didn't know how to respond to that question. After a while, I managed to say, "I can't go back in there."
"Why not?" he asked immediately. I came up with a ready excuse, among the many I could choose from.
"My ex-husband is in there." And there were gorgeous women verbally beating me up. And you may be lying to me about wanting to be with me. You might not mean what you say. You might be a philanderer. I might be just another woman you have had in bed, and I want to be more because you have shown me so much more, already. You have challenged me, you have worshiped me, you have held me, and you have cracked me open, and you've convinced me that there was something sweet and vulnerable inside me, and that it was safe for me to show it to you. You have woken me up and you have made my heart beat inside my body, which used to be a grey, empty shell. I was feeling alive with you.
And then I realized that the cruel words from the beautiful bitches hurt so much, because I was starting to have major feelings for Ryan, beyond just sexual feelings.
If I could admit it to myself, I could fall in love with him.
And having his sincerity questioned so flippantly, so teasingly, so recklessly hurt. It really, really hurt. Fucking brutal.
Especially since I had spent the past few years shutting myself off from feeling anything. With depression, I was too scared to feel anything, so I felt nothing. Recently, opening myself up, I was starting to feel all of the range of emotions, both good and bad. But now, these bad feelings? They felt like they were going to destroy me, eat me up from the inside and make me a hollow shell that would never feel again, ever.
I felt unsafe and utterly alone, even though his warmth was right by my side.
After a moment, I finished the water, and handed the glass back to Ryan, who put it down on the ground and looked at me hard.
"Your ex-husband is
here? Why?"
"Probably because he's a doctor."
To my surprise, Ryan grinned at me, a lopsided, cutie boy grin, and grabbed me with a "C'mere," putting his arms around my bare shoulders. What I wouldn't do for that grin. His warmth always made me feel better. His physical body heat, his hot kisses, his giving personality. It didn't solve anything, but it made me stop having this extreme, physical reaction to all that had just happened.
"Not looking forward to seeing him. So this night isn’t what either you or I had hoped," he said lightly.
Despite the panoply of dark thoughts I'd had in the last few moments, I laughed. "No, I suppose not. You're not who I thought you were. My ex-husband is here to torment me." There were beautiful bitches, with apparent carnal knowledge of you, cutting me with verbal knives.
"Do you want to go back in there, Movie Star, or do you want to stay out here?"
"Stay with me out here for now, and then I'll go back inside."
"Deal," he said immediately.
Then I backtracked. "I didn't mean to be so clingy, if you need to go inside—"
"You're my date, Amelia. I care about you. I'm not going to let you fend for yourself, especially not with an evil ex-husband on the loose."
He cared about me.
What did I do with that? Did I just accept it at face value? Did I read into it and over-analyze it, based on what the beautiful bitches said?
He smiled at me, his warm face lighting up, and drawing me in. He sat with me for a long time, my head in the nook of his arm, holding me.
Then, once I had calmed my breathing and relaxed, he stood, held out his hand, and clasped mine, confidently, walking hand in hand back to the swanky party.
To recap the evening:
I learned that my crush slash sort-of boyfriend was actually an heir to a major fortune.
I had the life-altering realization that I was a complete and total bitch for thinking anything about him at all, except for who he was for real—not a surf bum or a coffee shop guy or a mogul, but just Ryan, down-to-earth, mellow, and sensuous. I knew now that whether he had money, or whether he did not have money, he was hot, thoughtful, and sexy, and got my pulse going. I didn't need to judge him any other way, and I needed to get the voice in my head that said otherwise to just shut the fuck up.
My ex-husband made an appearance. Asshole.
I didn't know what to think about those bitches who said that Ryan was insincere and a cheater. That made me question whether I really knew him at all, even if I had finally understood that his money—whether he had it or didn't have it—didn't matter.
And, finally, I needed to think about the fact that I might just be falling in love with my surfer.
I was so confused and had been hurt too many times that evening. I had been hurt too many fucking times in my life. I didn't know what to think or believe anymore. It was overwhelming. Everything I had thought was wrong. I needed to make up my own mind on what to believe, but I had no idea what the right way was to do that. So what did I do?
I drank.
A lot.
A Drunk Amelia is a Funny Amelia
First glass of wine
RYAN WALKED ME OVER to the table, pulled out my chair for me, and pushed me in, acting now very gentleman-like and formal in his tuxedo, after he had unceremoniously fucked me, and then ran after me in it. Still, he somehow managed to look unflappable. That was a little annoying, really. He handed me my glass of wine and gave me a big kiss on the mouth, before he sat himself next to me.
I could hear the tittering of the females next to me. A new determination came over me, however, and I was heartened by the public kiss.
Tough, bitches. He was mine.
Maybe.
The seat beside me was unoccupied, and while Ryan talked animatedly with the couple next to him, after polite introductions, I nursed my glass and had time to think.
This was the most uncomfortable public event ever. I looked like a fucked up mess. My fancy dress didn't hide the recent orgasm or my multiple freak outs this evening. I had cleaned up in the posh bathroom a little bit, but still, I was sure that the reapplication of makeup did not hide my flushed face or my unnaturally bright eyes.
I felt so strange, so many different emotions at once. Too many for a depressive to handle. I downed my wine with a gulp and Ryan refilled it with a bottle on the table.
Second glass of wine
Ryan was some sort of multi-millionaire. As in hundred millions or something like that—Fielding Pharmaceuticals had developed several potentially successful cancer treatments, and had been sold to a larger drug company years ago. It continued to operate as a research and development division of that corporation. And I don't know why this made such a difference, but it did. There was something about having that much money. He could do whatever he wanted. And it gave him some power. So I needed to rearrange my thinking about our relationship.
Regardless, there was no bitch-snob anymore. I was not going to let there be one. And, feeling the second glass of wine, I grabbed Ryan by the lapel and whispered in his ear, "There is no more bitch-snob, Ryan."
He looked at me with amusement. "Good." He bopped my nose, looked me in the eyes for another beat, and then went back to the conversation with the muckety-muck on his side.
"Do you see how he is with her?" I heard one of the blondes say.
I hitched up the bodice of my dress and gulped another sip of my wine. I don't think Ryan heard her because he was monopolized by the grand marshal of the event.
I poured myself another glass of wine. The food should probably start to come soon.
Third glass of wine
I made it through a discussion with the keynote speaker, who was sitting next to me, asking me about my law practice. I made it through watching the keynote speaker get up and talk. I wasn’t totally sure what was said, however, and probably wouldn’t have paid attention even if I were sober.
Fourth glass of wine
Ryan, glorious and handsome, stood up at the podium, thanking everyone for coming, and imploring them to open up their wallets for the Foundation. As he spoke, he caught my eye, and he looked at me intently, a grin on his face in front of everyone.
Fifth glass of wine
I don't remember what happened, sorry.
Next bottle of wine
I stumbled out to the hallway, looking for the restroom, teetering on my heels. Lights overhead spun, and the walls moved. Or maybe it was me who was moving. With tunnel vision—in a hallway like a tunnel—I made it to the bathroom and came back. As I went to go into the ballroom again, there was Jonathan, my handsome, but now slightly gone-to-pot ex-football player ex-husband.
"Amelia," he said, grabbing the tops of my arms, as I almost fell into him.
"Zzzshjonathan," I slurred.
"Wow," he said, getting a look at me. "How drunk are you?"
"None of your bizzz-nezzz," I retorted, weaving a little bit to shrug out of his grasp.
He raised his eyebrows, as if to say oooooh-kay, and turned to leave. One of the blonde society bitches from the table next to us, who had been trashing everyone all night long, came up to him. "Jonathan," she purred. "I wanted to talk with you." Ugh. They hadn't been sitting together. Apparently he knew her.
He turned to go with her, and then looked at me, shaking his head. "I wondered what happened to you," he said. "Now I know. Get ahold of yourself, you're an embarrassment."
And in my drunken stupor, I lunged at him, making a fist and slamming it into his cheekbone.
Fuck, that hurt.
He looked at me, squinting his eyes, and hissed, "Get help."
Second shot of tequila
And I remembered no more.
Later
"All patients need to be strip-searched. It's protocol."
"But I'm an attorney. I'm a professional."
"No exceptions."
"But I thought I could check out at any time. This is voluntary. There's no 5150 hold on me. I d
on't have anything with me."
"We need you to remove all of your clothes, and place them on the bed. While you are here, you cannot have any shoelaces, drawstrings, or underwire in your bra. Do you understand?"
"But I don't want to take off my clothes."
"This is procedure. A female nurse will be in here to do your assessment. She will be looking for cuts and other markings on you. You can wear this gown, but leave the ties open."
The brusque male nurse left.
I stood, locked in a room that defined the term "institutional." It was straight out of a movie about the loony bin. There's nothing in it but a wooden bed with a mattress that had a sheet on it. No electric plugs, no furniture, no pictures, there was nothing else in this room except the fluorescent light overhead and a large door with a window. The door locked on the outside, but not on the inside. I'd never been in a room with nothing else in it, except when moving into or out of a home. It was so, so eerie.
I could not leave this room. If I wanted to go crazy and climb the walls, I could. If I wanted to scream, this was the place to do it. If I wanted to pitch a fit and show them that I really belonged in a mental institution, now was the time to do it. Something about the bare walls made me feel like I could hear the echoes of past mental patients' screaming embedded in them.
I did not like this room. At all.
But I needed to get help.
I needed to stop thinking about killing myself. I needed to stop planning to kill myself. I needed help.
I needed to take a deep breath and get on with it.
I looked in the adjacent bathroom. If I was being facetious, I would call it an "en suite." There were no locks. There were no door handles. The door could not close shut.
I had never been in a bathroom with a door that intentionally never closed.
The Sun and the Moon (Giving You ... #1) Page 11