I’m not one of those daughters who calls her mother every time something doesn’t go her way. Bastain and I have had plenty of arguments, and I have never called my mom for advice. I’d rather wear my mask and pretend everything is just fine and dandy than call unwanted attention to our relationship. I’m a walking Facebook status- lying to the world, pretending to be happy when behind the screen I’m a complete mess. It’s easier this way. I don’t have to talk about things I’d rather not talk about, or confront feelings I’d rather not feel. But lately it’s getting harder and harder to breathe beneath all the secrets I’ve kept hidden. I’m fighting for air. I need to find my lifeline before it’s too late.
“I don’t think I love him anymore.”
There. I said it. Out loud. And I immediately wish I could rewind the clock and take the words back. I hate myself for saying them, for feeling them. I want to love Bastian. I want that more than anything. Maybe if I give it some time the feelings will come back. Maybe he’ll realize he made a mistake the night he hurt me at the party, and he’ll change. What if he doesn’t? What then?
“Then it’s time to let him go,” she says, matter of fact, in that insightful way only she knows how.
“I need your help. I can’t do it alone.”
“Yes, you can, dear. I promise you can. I raised a confident, strong young woman. You may think you’ve lost her, but I know different. I hear more than just the words you speak. I know. A mother always knows. I know why you’ve stayed there all these years. I know why you feel obligated to him. And if you think that doesn’t take strength, you’re sadly mistaken. You’re stronger than you know, Emma. Now, you’re a smart woman. You know what you need to do. I’ll pray you find the will to do it.”
“What if I can’t?”
“You can. You will. You’re not doing either one of you any good by pretending. I know you think you’re helping him, but you’re not.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not helping him. Maybe all I’m doing is reminding him.
After I got off the phone with my mother, I went to a local real estate agency. My mom told me if I found the will to leave, she and my father would help me financially until I got on my feet. Cameron Inc. offered me the position I interviewed for, starting immediately, so getting on my feet shouldn’t take long. I asked Cameron to give me a week to make the decision, giving me time to come up with something to tell Bastain- if I decide not to leave.
Unfortunately, it takes more than a signed check from your parents to lease an apartment these days. You need references, a solid employment history, and a verified salary of three times the monthly rental rate. I don’t have any of those. So, it’s back to square one.
Emma
I haven’t been to yoga in over a month, so I am like a kid at Christmas when Kylee rings the doorbell to pick me up for today’s class. Santana left for Houston on Monday. I met her and Kylee at the airport to say my goodbyes and wish her luck. She’s going to do great things with her talent. I just know it. She doesn’t know how to fail.
I lay my mat down and place my block. We start off today’s class with Sun Salutations. My mind leaves all the stress of the past behind, letting the soft melody of the background music wash it all away.
“I know you can’t help it, but I miss you so much,” Kylee confesses as she reaches her arms high for a crescent pose.
“I’ve missed you too. But, I’m here now. Everything’s back to normal.” I add false enthusiasm to my tone, hoping she doesn’t notice. I hate lying to my friend. I wish I could confide in her, tell her all that’s happened over the past month. I wish I could trust someone other than Dr. Owen with my secrets. Instead, I keep everything locked up tight inside the confines of my own mind where it’s free from judgement and safe from inquiring minds.
She looks up from her pose and meets my eyes. “No, Em. I mean, I miss you. You’re gone. You’ve been gone for quite a while.”
I guess I’m not as good an actress as I thought. First my mother figures me out, now Kylee.
“What do you mean? I’m right here.”
She folds her body forward, bringing her ear to her knees as she turns her head to face me. “When are you going to let yourself be happy again?”
“What are you talking about? I am happy. What makes you think I’m not happy?” Although, every time I repeat the word happy, it sounds more angry than cheerful.
“I don’t mean the kind of happy you show the world, Em. I mean when you’re alone. Right before you go to sleep at night. And you smile to yourself and think, “What a great day.”
I haven’t been that kind of happy in a long time.
Alex
Emma.
The angel has a name.
Of course, the first thing Nick did when I got back in the coffee shop that day was ask, “Who’s the blonde that has you by the dick?”
I laughed it off, because as history has shown, I’m not one to run off at the mouth about my personal life. I simply explained she’s someone I met during coffee, and I am eager to learn more about her. He just shook his head and told me he’s seen this look before. Though, I’m not sure he has. I’ve looked at a lot of women. I’ve even cared for one or two. But, I’ve never met anyone like Emma. She’s got me by more than just my dick, although that’s not a bad place to start.
I slide the blade out of its hiding place inside the box cutter and slice open the clear packing tape. If it weren’t for the labels on these boxes I wouldn’t even remember what’s inside them. Every night when I come home from the gym, I toss my bag on the floor next to the closet, leaving behind a trail of clothes as I strip on my way to the bathroom. I usually grab a bite from a local deli on the way home, which would explain why I’m currently unpacking a set of unused dinner plates from a cardboard box stacked in my living room.
After my shower, I typically pull on a pair of lounge pants, prop my feet on the leather ottoman, and watch television until I can’t keep my eyes open. Lather, rinse, and repeat. Every day for the past year and a half. I’ve never had any reason to settle in. This place has never felt like home. Other than my job, I’ve never had anything keeping me from loading those boxes back on a Uhaul and heading back to New Orleans.
Six Mondays ago, in a coffee shop, all that changed.
You’re jumping the gun here, Alex. Who says she’s ever going to see the inside of this place?
Who says she isn’t?
Now I sound like a crazy person, talking to myself. No, not talking, arguing, with myself. That’s a whole new level of insanity. Three hours later, my kitchen cabinets are full, and there’s art on my walls and books on my shelves. I look around the open floorplan and smile to myself. A sense of relief washes over me, and I feel… hopeful, for the first time in a long while.
Emma
Normally, I sit at the coffee shop and wait for the groomer to finish with Gatsby, but today she has three other dogs before him. So, she told me it would be more than an hour this time around. If I had a good book and no one waiting at home, nothing could keep me away from the little cafe in Brickell. I’d sit at the table in the corner next to the window and let myself fall deep into a world of romance only found in books. Then right around chapter four, my mystery person would show up. He’d have left the suit and tie behind today, since it’s Saturday, wearing those jeans that make his ass look just right and a fitted black t-shirt. He’d smile the minute he saw me and I’d smile back. The kind of smile that says everything there aren’t enough words to say. He’d kiss my forehead and we’d talk about the weather.
I drive past the cafe, shooting a hopeful glance in the window as I pass. He’s not there. I probably wouldn’t stop even if he were. Instead, I take the time to run some errands. I drive by Cameron Inc. and wonder what it would be like to walk in through the revolving glass doors of the skyscraper downtown and press the arrow next to the elevator. To wave good morning to the security guard as I walk past with my cup of coffee. To relax behind my desk and che
ck unheard messages. I miss it. I miss being that woman, the confident one. Maybe in another life...
I finish my errands and snap out of my daydreams then go pick up Gatsby. Bastain hasn’t called once since I’ve been gone. That’s odd. He’s probably too caught up watching football to notice the time. I didn’t realize until now, but the silence of my phone has made for a peaceful afternoon.
Emma
The house is quiet when I walk in. Too quiet. Bastain’s car is in the garage. Why isn’t he watching football? He always has the game on. Normally Saturday afternoons are a combination of curse words and snack breaks. It’s never quiet like this. I have a bad feeling about it. An eerie sensation creeps up my spine, causing the hair on my arms to stand on end. Fear and worry begin to fester deep in the pit of my stomach.
I walk through the kitchen, and as soon as I round the island and head toward the living room I see him. He’s sitting in the recliner, staring into the distance. There’s something on his lap and something else beneath his hand that lies on the armrest. His eyes meet mine when I enter the room. They’re bright red, like he’s been crying. He picks up the object off his right thigh and tosses it across the room in my direction. My heart stops. It’s my journal.
“Is this how you really feel about me?” he shouts, though his voice is hoarse from crying.
No!
Yes...
I don’t know.
So many thoughts and emotions are swarming through my head right now, I can’t keep up. I’m angry that he invaded my privacy. I’m devastated that I’ve hurt him. I’m worried that he’s so upset. And I’m afraid of what he might do. I want to climb on his lap and hold his head against my chest and tell him I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean any of it. But I did. I meant all of it. And we can’t keep putting bandaids on open wounds. It’s time to face the truth, no matter how cold it might be.
I walk toward him, forcing one foot in front of the other. I don’t even glance down at the notebook as I step over it. I don’t ask how he found it. At this point, that’s irrelevant. I just need to know how we move forward from here. I take a deep breath and swallow the lump in my throat. I’m surprised at my own strength and the fact that I haven’t shed a single tear so far. Another step forward. He just sits and watches. Unmoved.
Then I see it. A gun. That’s what he’s holding beneath his palm. A handgun.
Fight or flight instincts kick in and I start to panic. The sound of my own pulse throbs in my ear. Thump thump. Thump thump. Faster and faster until it feels like I might explode. I clench my fists to find my palms sweaty. His eyes follow mine to the arm of the chair where the weapon rests. When he looks up again, he’s starting to smile. Like my fear satisfies him. Think, Emma, think. He’s in a dark, dark place. Anger and pain brought him there. I need to bring him back.
“It will take more than a few paragraphs scribbled in a notebook to describe how I feel about you, Bastain.” Come back to me. Let me talk to you. Please. God, tell me I haven’t lost him.
He tightens his fist around the handle of the gun. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Stay calm. Be strong. He’s stuck in the darkness. Be the light that guides him out. We’ve been here before. After the accident, Bastain was stuck in this same cloud of despair. He wanted to give up, to give in, to end it all. That’s what brought me to him to begin with. I wanted to save him from himself. There was no way I was letting anything happen to him then, and there’s no way I’m letting it happen now.
I’m close to him now, close enough to climb onto his lap and cup his face in my hands. I tilt his jaw, forcing him to look me in the eyes. His pupils are dark and barely visible. “You’re not that guy, babe. You don’t want to hurt me. You don’t want to hurt yourself. This isn’t you.”
He clenches the gun again, and I silently pray his finger stays steady and away from the trigger.
“Maybe I am that guy. Maybe I’m just like my father.”
“No. You’re stronger than your father. You’re different. You’re just lost right now. But we’re gonna find you. We’re gonna bring you back. You’ll see. It’ll be just like it was- me and you. I’m here. I’m going to help you.” Days like this are exactly the reason I can’t leave.
He lifts his hand, bringing the gun with it, and holds the steel barrel against his temple. No. Please, God. With his face still cradled in my hands, I plead with him with my eyes. Tears spill from beneath my lashes as I clench them shut while I search for the right words to say. I’m smothered in the memory of this exact moment five years ago when he was so desperate to take his own life. The pain of knowing I’ve done this to him wraps around me like a vice, tightening my chest until I can hardly breathe. I bring my forehead to rest on his. My nose lightly brushes against his, staining his face with my tears as they fall. I couldn’t live with myself if he hurt himself because of me. No, if he’s doing this, he’s not doing it alone.
Gatsby whines from somewhere in the background. Bastain has stopped breathing. I no longer feel his warm breath on my face. My eyes pop open to search his. I see nothing. No anger, no love, no hope. I only see tiny black pupils lost in a sea of dark blue. I lift my head and he moves the gun from his temple to mine. He exhales slowly, sending a chill through my veins.
“You’re all I have left, Em. I’m alone without you.”
Breathe. Inhale, Exhale. He’s hurt. He’s angry. But, he’s not going to shoot me. I have to believe that. Be strong. Be brave. I did this to him. I took his family. He’s alone because I made it so. Now, I have to make it right. The realist in me is shouting, “Emma, there is a mentally unstable man pointing a gun at your head. Think. What would Liam Neeson do? Go for the throat.” But the hopeful part of me is telling me the good guy is still in there somewhere. I just have to find him and bring him back.
“I can’t let you leave,” he says, his voice steady yet uncertain.
I stay completely still, waiting for him to make the next move. I’m terrified, but I can’t let it show. He’s in control here. He needs to know that. He also needs more help than I can give. I should have seen this coming. I should have made him talk to Dr. Owen a long time ago. I’m not Liam Neeson. I’m not even Michelangelo from the Ninja Turtles. I don’t know the first thing about self-defense or how to talk someone out of pointing a gun at your head. So, as usual, I go with the hopeful me. Maybe I can reach him. Maybe.
“I’m sorry I hurt you.” My apology doesn’t just cover the journal. Knowing I’ve caused him so much pain, that I’ve made him this man- kills me inside.
“Do you even know how it feels?”
Pain? Yes. I live through the pain of my mistakes every single day. He glides the gun from my temple, tracing it down the side of my face and along my jawline, letting the hard metal linger against my flesh. I can finally breathe again. Just put the gun down, baby. We can talk about it. We can start to heal. Let. me. help. you.
“Do you remember that night, Em?” Every day for the past five years. I don’t answer. The question was rhetorical anyway. He knows I remember. He’s seen the effects of the nightmares. “I lost everything, everyone I cared about, in the blink of an eye. Now, I want you to know what it feels like to lose.”
To lose? To lose what? Him? My life? My sanity? I try to think of the right thing to say, but words fail me. This is it. He’s gone off the deep end. With a concrete block tied around his ankles. There’s no coming back. This isn’t verbal abuse, or a covert physical assault. That stuff was just the prelude. This moment, the one he’s been sitting here all afternoon plotting in his head, this is the conclusion. No matter what happens now, we can’t go back. The veins of hatred have twined around his heart like vines of ivy creeping up an old brick house. He wants me to hurt like he’s been hurting. He wants me to lose. I close my eyes and hold my breath, waiting for whatever may be coming next, bracing myself for the worst. It’s okay. I’m ready for it. Maybe this will give him the closure he seeks. Maybe I’ll be able to help him after all, even if it costs me my life. The gun s
hoots and the explosion shatters the air, thunderous and deafening. The bullet pierces the silence as it tears across the room. The swift gust of air from the recoil sweeps across my cheek. I let out the breath I’d been holding and open my eyes. Bastain is staring out into the open space, his chest heaving as his mouth falls open.
He didn’t shoot me. Maybe there is hope. I let my head fall back as I thank God and catch my breath. The air leaves my lungs in long, hard spurts. He’s still speechless and staring. I turn to see what’s captured his attention, thinking perhaps the bullet hit something valuable and caused more damage than he intended.
My pain is immediate, like a lightning bolt to the chest. No. No, no, nooooooo. Gatsby. Not my baby. I jump off his lap and run over to the tiny lifeless Yorkie. The adrenaline of the last five minutes turns to despair as I fall to my knees.
“I want you to know what it feels like to lose.” Bastain’s words play over again in my head. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to walk over to that chair and bash him in the head with the butt of his gun. This life, this precious, innocent life… has been yanked from me in an instant. The love that filled my void, a void he created by not wanting children, is gone. Stolen. Ripped from the safety of my heart and shattered into a million pieces. Eyes that used to sparkle when I’d rub his fur are now dull and cold. I take his paw in my hand, running my fingers back and forth over it one last time. He doesn’t wag his tail energetically when I touch his little belly. He just lies there, unmoving. I will him to wake up, to be okay. Even though I know he won’t. Please, Gatsby. I need you. We’re partners, remember?
My eyes fill with tears as I realize he’ll never greet me at the door, or wake me with wet kisses. He won’t yap at the UPS man, or stand on two legs for a bacon treat. This little guy, this huge piece of my world, is gone now.
The Perfect Gentleman Page 7