Shaking away the shivers of despair, I squeeze the gearshift into reverse, check behind me to make sure it’s safe while attempting to avoid looking at the back seat and make my way to the restaurant.
THE BISTRO’S OVERFLOWING with people. Wait staff are darting around desperately, trying to keep up with the congestion. I have to weave my way through bumping bodies and haphazardly laid tables and chairs to find the right group. It’s difficult, but eventually I notice them tucked away in a far corner near the indoor play area. I plaster a smile on my face, adjust my dress, brush off a smudge of dust and clutch the living daylights out of my handbag.
There are about ten or so of our closest friends chatting, laughing and eating entrées. Passing around bottles of wine, feeding children, wiping up spills. I step to the side and take in the scene, shyly waiting for someone to notice me. When nobody does, I decide to search for an empty seat at the table, thinking to sit would be a better option, an easier way to blend into the mix, but don’t find one. Unsure, I’m about to take a tentative half step into an opening when someone surprises a yelp out of me by taking hold of my elbow.
“Maggie?” Isaac, one of Brendan’s old school friends says, sounding shocked. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” he says, pulling me into a hug. My arms automatically wrap around his waist. “Lauren, look who’s here,” he calls over the ruckus, releasing his hold and leading me to the head of the table of gawking dumbstruck faces. “Let’s find you a chair,” he smiles, blushing scarlet, before darting away.
My head starts to shake in the negative as my mind scrambles for words.
They didn’t know I was coming. They forgot I was invited.
I’m embarrassed beyond belief. I start to step away, holding my hands up to let them know I’m sorry for intruding.
“It’s fine… I’m actually here…” Twisting and pointing at a random table of people, “we’re in the other room and I saw you…” I shrug instead of finish my lie to a chorus of strained hellos and averting eyes. “I can’t stay… they’re waiting for me,” I fake giggle, shrugging again. My head starts pounding fit to explode, and my stomach bubbles acid up my throat, causing me to hold back a gag.
I swallow down hard and expand the fib. “I told them I was going to the bathroom and they want to order…”
I lift a hand to wave, then turn to make my escape, bumping into Isaac on my way out. I catch the look in his brown eyes and cower under the pressure of the pity I see, then run without stopping until I get to my car. My arms flailing, I desperately try to untangle my handbag from my waist, only to tangle myself more. The clip sticks at the top until my thick fingers manage to unhook it and search frantically for my keys.
I’m about to press the fob when I notice the car seat’s secured in the back. I feel the sting of tears and the knife edge turning in my heart, and take a step backwards, clutching my chest, gasping short dry pants without exhaling. My pounding head spins as I hear people approaching. I’m about to make a run for it when I realise it’s a young and very pregnant couple holding hands, smiling and happy. They instantly remind me of my overwhelming heartache. The accident explodes into my mind, the girls bloody and broken, Brendan not blinking, not kissing me back. All of it comes rushing in. All that I had, all that I’ve lost.
A sharp pain in my palm nags at my inner turmoil. I open my hand and stare blankly, then turn my gaze to the back seat of my car to see another reminder. Taking a calming breath, I step up to the young couple while they unlock their out-dated sedan and pass them the key. I open my bag to retrieve the spare, then pass that over too.
“You look like you need it more than I do,” is all I offer in explanation. “All the paperwork’s in the glove box, just fill it out and mail me anything you need me to sign.”
“You’re giving us your car?” The young guy spatters in shock.
“Yep.”
“Why?” The young woman asks, just as dumbfounded.
I shrug. “I don’t want it anymore.”
Don’t want another constant reminder of what happy felt like. Of what sad feels like.
“This has got to be a joke right? You’re not going to report it stolen or something the minute we drive away?”
“Nope. It’s all yours.” I call with my back to them, making my way to the curb to flag down a taxi.
I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want any of it anymore.
I WALK INTO the kitchen and find it empty. I hate that it’s not cluttered with life. I kick the chair Luke normally sits in so it slams back dinting the floor boards. I hate that I hate the kitchen empty, that Luke’s not here.
He promised he’d be back, but it’s been weeks of nothing but me trapped all alone in this stinking house with ghosts and memories that I don’t want.
He’s a liar.
Just like Brendan.
Our friends don’t want to remember me. You’d think hit and run accident is contagious by the way they all stared at the restaurant. They promised to keep in touch, to be here, only to forget.
They’re all liars too.
Not bothering to right the chair I fold my arms under my breasts, digging my nails into the tender flesh of my palms and stride into the living room.
Living room - as in, Room for the living.
Guess that rules me out.
Turning on the spot, I throw my glare at the staircase. Punching an arm chair with the side of my clenched fist, I march purposely, climb my way up two steps at a time and barge into Brendan’s home office. Everything’s still the same.
Same stupid desk, same stupid chair, same stupid freaking computer mocking me. Same fucking pictures hanging on the same fucking four walls.
I hate this room. I fucking hate how everything sits so perfectly. I hate that it’s so fucking painfully empty. Worst of all, I hate Brendan.
Right now, right here, I hate Brendan so fucking much it makes me crazy. I hate him for growing up with me, for always looking out for me, protecting me. I hate him for wanting me, for kissing me first and last, for loving me more than life, then not being here to live his, for giving me everything I could possibly ever want, then taking it all away. For leaving me and never being able to come back when he promised to always be by my side.
I love him so much, my entire being is bereaved without him. I love him and hate him. I don’t know how to do any of this without him.
I don’t know if I want to.
With blinding rage coursing through me, I grab the black computer monitor off his desk and throw it as hard as I can across the room, watching it break against the painted plaster wall.
It’s doesn’t help.
I take the desk lamp and throw it in the same direction as the monitor, hearing the sound of glass shattering as I take the stupid fucking ergonomic chair and throw it awkwardly, not moving my leg when it nearly lands on my foot. I watch it coldly as it topples onto its side.
Next I’m at the book shelf. Pulling frantically, one hand after the other at everything I can lay my fingers on, reference books, novels, awards, photos – everything, sending it all flying in random directions. I’d tip the entire case over if I could, but Brendan secured it to the wall on the off chance the girls decided to climb on it.
Fat lot of good that did.
When I manage to upset the desk, I storm out of the study and directly into our – my – bedroom.
I throw open the door so hard the handle pounds into the plaster and leaves a dint before slamming back into my arm. This pisses me off to no end so I turn and kick and kick it, over and over again until my foot is throbbing and the handle is wedged tight in the drywall. Striding into the wardrobe, I start ripping coat hangers off the railing, tearing shirts and pants and jeans and jackets, red hot tears blinding me in my madness.
“WHY?” I scream, gurgling out the words through the claggy liquid caught in my throat. “WHY ME? WHY DOES EVERYONE HAVE TO LEAVE ME?” I sound manic, even to my own ears. I’m far from caring.
I sna
rl at the bed I haven’t been able to sleep in since the day they left me and pull hysterically at the covers, hearing fabric tear as I rip and wrench and twist at the cotton to rid him from my senses. To try to get him out of my life once and for all.
It doesn’t work. Nothing works.
I spin in a circle faster and faster, taking in the disarray in a blur. My feet tangle in the discarded fabrics, my mind’s a mess, and my tantrum slowly fades with my energy. I fall in a limp heap and cry deep, gut-wrenching sobs for my children, for my husband and, finally… for myself.
MY PHONE RINGING and vibrating in my pocket wakes me from a restless sleep. I have to repeatedly blink my dry eyes to focus on the dark night sky. The torn curtains offer me a perfect view of an almost full moon encased in sparkling blue-black.
My phone stops ringing.
I glance around the room, unable to find the digital alarm clock that once sat on Brendan’s bedside table. Sighing, I begrudgingly start to untangle my limbs when the phone ringing again. I want to ignore it. I’m really not in the mood to talk.
The phone stops, then starts up again almost immediately.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I mumble to no-one because that’s all there is for me, fall back on the pile, slide the mobile out of my pocket and look the screen to see Luke’s name.
Great.
I press the go button and place it to my ear, “Hey.” My voice is scratchy and comes out sounding hoarse.
“Hey, you okay there, Maggie Mae?”
Christ, I don’t answer his call straight away and he starts with the third degree, really?
“I’m fine, Luke, just sleeping. Is there something you wanted?”
“No, just to hear your voice. Wish I was there Maggie, I hate being away-”
“Why?” I cut him off abruptly, not interested in more of the same BS he’s been spruiking since he left. If he’s that hung up about it, don’t be there, be here.
“Sorry? Why what?”
“You heard me. Why? Why everything?”
“What’s going on, Maggie?” His tone is sharper. I can imagine him sitting up in his seat the way he does when he’s paying closer attention to something.
“Nothing Luke, you woke me that’s all.”
There’s a long pause filled with noisy breathing. Neither of us are brave enough to fill the void with the words we’re really thinking.
“I should go-”
“I’ll be home soon.”
“Aren’t you home already Luke?” I hang up and turn off the phone before he has a chance to answer. I couldn’t bare it if he told me that he is.
Then I close my sore eyes and let the silent tears flow freely. I don’t even have the energy to make a sound when I cry anymore. I’m so sick of myself. So sick and tired of being me.
Eventually I lift the tightly clutched phone to inspect the blacked out screen and absently glide my thumb over it, pressing it to the side of the casing and turn it on. It chimes countless times indicating missed calls and incoming texts. They’re mostly from Luke, a few from Jon as well. He’s overseas on location, so I know he can’t come barging into my house uninvited for the next few weeks at least, and I like that. I like that they can’t jump back into my life and take over now that they’ve left me.
I don’t bother with the voicemails or reading the messages. I just scroll though my contacts list repeating the word “no” out loud every time I stop on a name, tagging the person who once told me they were here for me and are now not, until I come across one I completely forgot about. Honestly, I didn’t know it was in there.
Thinking of him reminds me that I’m allowed to drink and that I think I want to, so why the hell not? I untangle my legs, tripping as I leave the bedroom; run my hands through my bird’s nest of hair to loosen the clumps and head to the liquor cabinet. It’s in the living room so maybe I need to start living after all.
I wrap my fingers around the first bottle of clear liquid I see and take a sparkling clean glass from the cupboard above my head. I have to reach up on my toes, and it hurts. One feels like it could be broken.
I pour a good slosh, filling the glass half way and tip it down my throat without a seconds thought. It burns like a bitch and makes me recoil, releasing a strangled gasp. I do it again and again. Ha, maybe I should do it in lots of three, three quick drinks, take a breather, then three more drinks. It works for Joe right? So I do. But I’m not sure if it’s working, I’m getting pretty drunk, pretty freaking fast.
I swallow the last of my countless thirds when I notice my mobile resting on the shiny black surface. I pick up the phone and swipe my thumb to the right, put it on loud speaker and listen to it ring.
I’m about to hang up when a male voice carries through the small speaker. “Well fuck me six ways ‘til Sunday, I never thought I would see your name flash across my screen, sweetheart.”
I laugh at his opener. “Me neither, my friend. You are still my friend, right?”
“Fuck yeah. I’m your best friend sweetheart. What you up to?”
“I was going to ask you the very same thing Red.” I’m slurring as I speak, but I don’t care.
“I’m working at the bar for another couple hours. Why don’t you swing by so we can pick up where we left off?”
I look down at my clothes and wipe a hand down my front. The wrinkles aren’t that bad. “Sounds like a plan. Give me thirty?”
“I’ll give you as long as you need, sweetheart,” Red says oozing sex before hanging up on me.
God, did he miss his calling as a voice over guy. Hell I’d buy whatever he’s selling.
Tossing the phone to the counter, I down three more shots then run/stumble upstairs, holding onto the banister for balance, then trip my way to the bathroom. I run my fingers through my hair and apply more makeup, adding extra to cover my freckles and blacken my lashes until my green eyes pop.
I cab it to The Pub Bar, getting there a little over an hour late, and take a seat at the bar waiting to see if Red will recognise me. Seconds later I start to panic. What if he doesn’t? What if I’m about to make another colossal arse of myself?
“Hey there sweetheart, glad you could make it,” Red purrs, passing me a glass of wine and holding up a shot glass. Smiling in relief, I go to take it from him but he moves it out of my reach smirking. “You look beautiful, Maggie.”
“Thank you,” I reply, glad that he remembers me, becoming increasingly self-conscious under his intense inspection. He makes me feel naked and vulnerable. It’s incredibly unnerving and I start to think I’ve made a mistake in coming here.
He holds the shot glass to my mouth and pinches down the corners of his full lips, holding back a smile.
“Remember what to do sweetheart?” Red asks just as he tips the glass so the liquid pours past my parted lips and burns its way down my throat. He bites into a lemon wedge, piercing the flesh and allowing some juice to dribble down his chin. He takes it in his fingers and glides it over my mouth before sliding it between my teeth, clenching his jaw as I bite down and gently suck, swallowing the tang.
“Fuck that’s hot,” he breathes watching my mouth as I lick my lips. “I’ve got about forty minutes left on my shift but I’ll try to cut early, kay?” He rests his elbows on the bar and leans in close. I pick up my wine and smile in reply, taking a decent sip while he’s still watching.
“I’m definitely cutting out early.”
Twenty minutes and two glasses of wine later, Red has his hand resting on my waist, leading me out the front door of the bar. I’m well and truly pickled, so it doesn’t occur to me to care about where his hands are. He told me of another bar a few blocks over that has a live band playing. He doesn’t work there, so it sits better with him. I’m feeling so darn good we could prop down on the curb and it would be fine with me.
“So, no boyfriend tonight?” Red asks, pulling a smoke out of his pocket while we walk the few blocks to the other pub. His question confuses my already muddled brain.
; “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
He lights up before saying anything else. Drawing in a few short inhales of his cigarette, Red holds the smoke in his lungs for as long as he can, then exhales. The expelled smoke drifts my way, only it doesn’t smell like any cigarette I’ve smelt before. Red offers it to me. I shake my head in decline.
“No husband either? Or yes to husband but looking for a bit on the side?” This comment stops me in my tracks. “What, sweetheart?” Red asks, stepping back to me, blowing smoke into my face before lifting up my hand to show me my wedding and engagement rings. “You’re not the first married woman to want to hook up with me,” he says matter-a-fact with a shrug, like it’s no big deal.
“Just so you know Red, I would never in a million years cheat on my husband, if I still had one.”
Implying the loss of Brendan sends my stomach plunging, dragging my heart along for the ride. This is so wrong. I can’t believe I thought it would be okay even for a moment.
“Sorry, I think I’ve made a mistake.”
“Separated then,” he states like he has me all figured out.
I’m such an idiot. I called him, got in a taxi and came to him, this arrogant foul-mouthed conceited… whatever he is, he’s not a fraction of the man Brendan is.
Was.
“Nope,” I call over my shoulder, walking away.
He catches up to me easily. “Come on Maggie. You’ve gotta give me something here.”
“Why?”
“Why the fuck not?” he counters, stopping me with his hand on my arm. When I don’t say anything, Red steps in front of me and tilts my chin so he can look into my eyes. I don’t know what he sees in them, but it makes him frown.
He takes another pull on his cigarette, holds it in and cups my jaw, carefully blowing the smoke over my mouth and nose so I have to swallow it down. It burns my sinuses and makes my eyes water and makes me to cough.
Maggie's Five ...the first in a LOVE story Page 8