by K. S. Thomas
I sniff, the side effects of crying for hours still lingering. “I know this wasn’t your doing, Bodhi,” I say, my voice oddly calm as if my body has resigned itself to doing what must be done, even if my heart has not. “But it doesn’t change what’s done.”
“It can,” he insists. “I can. My lawyers are already on it. We should have retractions and public apologies by morning.”
I drop my gaze, unable to look him in the eye when they’re filled with so much pain and worry. Worry for me. Worry for us. “It won’t matter, Bodhi. Their stories are already out there.”
“I know,” he says, and the helplessness in his voice is enough to make the tears start all over again. “But they’re just stupid stories. No legitimate magazine even touched them. After tomorrow, people will laugh it all off, talking about how ridiculous the headlines were and how obviously fake.”
“No, they won’t.” I shake my head, biting my lip until it goes numb. “Not around here anyway.”
“Why do you people keep acting like there’s truth to any of this?” He steps back and begins to pace, running his hands over his scalp repeatedly as it helps him try to make sense of it all. “First Hannah, now you.” He stops. “What don’t I know here? What really happened with your ex-husband?”
I swallow, and the lump in my throat is so big, it hurts. Everything hurts. “What do you already know? What did Hannah tell you? I know she told you things. Back then.”
He throws his hands up in frustration. “Things. Not much.” He stops pacing. “I know you were married. I know it ended badly, that he wasn’t good for you. And that at the end of it all, he wound up dead in a car accident one night, leaving you to raise Mona completely on your own.”
I nod. It’s about what I’d have expected from Hannah. She’s always been good at knowing which parts of the story she could share and which weren’t hers to pass on. Even to people she trusted. Even now. To him.
“Marc and me, we got married young. Too young, maybe.” I turn away, moving back to the swing to sit down. This is going to be hard to tell, and frankly, I don’t think my legs are up for it. “But we were happy.” I smile, despite the heartache. Because there were good times, too. And I keep those to shield me from the bad ones. “Marc was always happy. It’s just who he was,” I explain, watching Bodhi take one slow step after another as if he’s hesitant about getting too close. “He was always laughing, always up for a good time. Wasn’t until I was living life beside him that I started to see why.” Bodhi’s reached the porch, but he stops at the pillar, resting his shoulder against it, listening to my tale with every bit of patience I’ve come to love in him. “The beers after work. The parties on the weekend. The drinks with Sunday football. Marc wasn’t just the life of the party, he treated every waking hour like it was one.” I shrug. Looking back, everything always seems so obvious. “But, I was young, and in love, and I refused to see what was right in front of me.” I gulp down the anger that still swells in my throat every time I’m forced to admit this. “My husband was an alcoholic. A dangerous one.”
“Lilan.” Bodhi almost starts for me.
“Dangerous. Not violent,” I assure him, and he settles back into his spot to listen. “I was seven months pregnant. I’d spent the evening at Kaleaha’s, having pizza and eating ice cream and watching every horrible holiday movie ever made. But, when I went to leave, my car wouldn’t start. So, of course, I called Marc. When he showed up to take me home, I just got in the passenger seat without thinking. That’s how oblivious I was. How delusional and naïve.” I still hate myself every day for being so stupid that night. “We were already on the road again before I noticed. He was hammered. Just, completely wasted. Could barely stay in his lane, let alone maintain a steady speed. I begged him to pull over and let me drive, but he refused. We started to fight. I was yelling for him to stop the car – just pull over and let me out, but he wouldn’t listen. We were only ten minutes from Kaleaha’s when he went off the road and nearly ran us straight into a powerline. Missed it, but flipped the car going into a ditch.” My emotions feel a lot like that car did. Out of control, making my head spin and flipping every feeling over until I feel nauseous and can barely see through the tears. And it’s not even the memory of that night unleashing it all, it’s realizing the nightmare of it never ended. I’m still stuck, in that car, in that ditch, with that drunk, unable to free myself.
This time, nothing stops him from being at my side. He’s on the swing, arms wrapped around me, pressing me to this chest, whispering, “Holy shit” as if he’s suddenly realizing how close he came to never knowing me at all.
As much as I want to stay here, wrapped in the safety of his arms, I can’t. The story doesn’t end here. In some ways, it’s just beginning. “I had Mona that night.” I go on, pulling myself away from him, words just spilling out now. “Nearly two months early. And we nearly lost her.”
“Did it change things?’ His hands are still on me. One on my thigh, the other moving from one place to the next. Wiping my cheek. Tucking a stray hair. Gently stroking my arm. Anything he can think to offer me some comfort.
“Yes.” It changed everything. And it changed nothing. “And no. It changed me. I wasn’t going to risk something like that happening ever again. And I made him swear to get sober. And he did. For a few days. And then things went right back to how they’d been before. It was the beginning of the end. A two-year cycle of empty promises and endless lies.” I laugh harshly, it was a non-stop show of bullshit and I showed up to take it in, day after day. “And it wasn’t just the drinking. We were fighting all the time. I’d accuse him of falling off the wagon, he’d say I was nagging and controlling and there was nothing wrong with having a beer after work with the boys. That he could control himself. That I needed to trust him. When he proved time and again that I couldn’t, I tried to get him help. Counselors. Programs. AA. Rehab. I tried it all, and every time he’d be furious, claiming I was attacking him, that I didn’t believe in him, thought he was too weak to handle his own problems.”
“What did you do?” he asks, every bit the strong and kind tone I’m used to from him. No more traces of worry. He’s just here. Present. For me.
“What could I do? I had a daughter. I couldn’t continue to put him first anymore. I had to think of her, make decisions that would be best for her. And if I couldn’t give her a whole family, at least I would give her a healthy one, one she could depend on and feel safe with. So, I left him.”
“And that’s why...the accident?” It’s like guilt drags him to hell just saying the words. But I don’t blame him for reaching this point, questioning the order of things, what lead to what. All things considered, after the stories the media told, it’s the kindest version of the day.
“Our divorce was finalized that day,” I explain, tears ebbing off for the part I’ve learned to go numb for. “And while I went home to Mona and my mother and tried to put on a strong face for my family even though my heart was broken, he went and did what he always did. Sat at his favorite bar and got completely wasted. Spent all night trash talking me, telling everyone I stole his daughter from him, that I lied to the judge and made him out to be a monster. That I ruined his life and left him with no reason to live. Then, come two a.m., he wandered out into the parking lot, got into his car and turned the key. An hour later the cops were at my door and he was gone.”
“Damn.” It’s about as much as I’d expect anyone to say in response to what I’ve just shared.
“It was easy for people to decide it was my fault. Easy to claim that I pushed him too far by taking Mona and leaving. But the truth is, everyone who saw him leave that night will tell you he could barely walk without falling over his own two feet. That he’d been slurring his words for a good hour or two before closing, and that he kept clutching his forehead and closing his eyes, like he was dizzy and his blurred vision was making it worse. They blame me, because it’s easier than blaming themselves for not stopping him from driving off tha
t night. And they can, because we’ll never know if he drove into that tree intentionally or just couldn’t fucking see straight anymore.”
He looks at me, searching my face, and I know the question he wants to ask, but is afraid to.
I nod, giving the okay.
“Do you believe it was suicide?”
“I used to.” It was hard not to believe when it was the only conclusion anyone was ever willing to come to. “Only seemed right to take responsibility for his death. Whole town certainly wanted me to. Now, I just accept that he’s gone. And regardless of how upset he was, he would have been able to think clearly and think of Mona, if he hadn’t been drunk. The alcohol killed him. No matter how you spin it. It was his addiction. Not me.” I turn out to face the snow again. Between the tears and the snowflakes, everything looks glittery, reminding me just how bittersweet my life always seems to be. “You know the most tragic part of all? I left the courthouse that day thinking, maybe that was it. Maybe the divorce would finally be the thing that made him get sober. Maybe losing us, would be the motivation he needed to get his life straight and win us back.”
“You still loved him,” he says, not even a hint of surprise.
“I did.” I nod and I can feel his hand seek mine, twining our fingers together, and holding it tight. “In some ways, I still do.” I turn back to face him. “You know, when I’m not busy hating him for dying on us.”
Bodhi
I GET IT NOW. GET IT in ways I almost wish I didn’t. Why she was the talk of the town. Why attention haunts her like a bad dream. And why the headlines from today weren’t nearly far-fetched enough. Worst of all, I get why I can’t undo what’s been done. It’s not a new story. Today just swept through like a breath of fresh air and now, with the added twist of me in the mix, there’s no telling the things people will find to talk about when they mention her name around here.
The only part that somehow doesn’t bother me at all, is realizing how much she loved her husband. Even in the midst of his shortcomings, his most tragic mistakes, she loved him.
If I’d thought that sort of revelation would conjure of feelings of jealousy or being left out of their special bond, I wouldn’t have been farther from the truth. If anything, I feel lucky. Lucky, that someone capable of that sort of love has fallen for me. And I know she has. Neither of us has put it into words, but I can feel it. I’ve never heard love more loudly or clearly in anyone else’s silence.
“Come to L.A. with me,” I blurt out the first logical sentence I come up with.
Judging by her face, Lilan seems less aware of how logical my suggestion is. “What? Are you crazy? I can’t just go to L.A.”
“I’m not saying forever,” I reason. “Just for now. While everything blows over. Give everyone time to rehash old gossip before the memories fade again. No one says you have to stick around to endure it all. Certainly not now, when I can swoop you away.” I make a swooping motion with my hand, trying to lighten the tension, but it’s not working.
“I can’t just pick up and leave, Bodhi,” she says, frowning. “My whole life is here. Mama. My business. Not to mention, Mona has school. She has her Christmas dance recital coming up, and we’re all supposed to be helping with the high school’s Christmas show. No. Running away is not an option.”
“Okay.” I try to regroup. “So, we’ll stick it out until the show. We’ll be here for the dance recital. Then, once school is out, we’ll pack up Mona, your mama and Jax, and you can put a closed for the holidays sign across your booth at the marketplace. We won’t run away. We’ll go on vacation. Anywhere you want.”
“Bodhi.” Her eyes drop and lids seem heavy and I feel like she’s drifting off somehow. “I love that you want to find a way to make this better.”
“So, let me.” I take both her hands in mine, hoping it will bring her focus back to me, to us. “Let me fix this. I’m the reason your past has been churned up and plastered all over the present, let me get you through this, to the future. To our future.”
She sighs, and I can almost feel the ache of it in my own chest. “That’s the thing.”
“What?” Even as I’m asking, I’m silently begging her not to answer.
“I don’t think we can have a future.”
“Don’t say that.”
Her eyes meet mine, lids still heavy, the green barely even visible. “I have to.” She weakly moves her head up and down. “What happened today...it’s like that accident Marc caused with us in the car. It’s a reality check. And I have to decide moving forward, which risks I can afford to take, and which I can’t.”
“Lilan, it’s one story. I know it’ll be hard, really hard, but it’ll pass. The shitty things people say will fade away, and soon, our world will be blissfully quiet again, free of their ugliness and accusations.”
She shakes her head, and I notice her no is far more adamant than her yes was. “It’s not just one story, Bodhi. It one story in print. Put into words. Spread all over the internet. It will never die. Never. And now, for as long as I live, I have to wait for the moment that Mona stumbles across one of those articles and reads all the harsh words I thought she was finally safe from.” Her lips press together until they’re nothing but a thin line cutting across her face. “And the truth is, you don’t know that it won’t happen again.”
“I can fight it,” I insist. “I’ll have my lawyers bankrupt everyone. No one will dare publish anything about me ever again.”
“I think we both know that will never happen,” she says, a softness returning. “But I love that you would try.”
“No.” I stand up, aching to pace, but not wanting to break away from her to do it. “This can’t be the end of us.”
“It has to be.” She gets to her feet as well. This time, she’s the one who takes my hands and holds them to her heart. She smiles, even as tears are rolling down her red, wind burned cheeks. “You have to know how hard this is for me. How much I wanted to believe that I could really have this, have you.”
“You can.” I press my forehead to hers. “You do. You have me. And no amount of telling me it’s over is going to change that.”
She squeezes her eyes shut. “Please don’t be so goddamned wonderful right now,” she whispers. “Don’t you know it’s killing me to let you go.”
“Don’t let me go.” I’m begging. I’m prepared to drop to my knees to do it. “Let me stay. Let me stay and fight this with you. Please.”
“I can’t.” She gasps, taking a step back and breaking our contact. “If you’re here, they’ll keep having reasons to come after me.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.” She slides her hands into her coat pockets, and I don’t know if it’s to keep her or me from reaching out again. “You make me happy. You’re this beautiful, wonderful thing that happened to me, like straight out of a freaking fairy tale. And compared to what Marc got, it’s enough to make everyone who hates me because of his death see to it I don’t get to keep it.”
“So, that’s it? You’re just going to let them win?” I’m stunned. Why are we surrendering to the worst sort people? “They’re not right, you know? You do deserve to be happy. You deserve every last amazing thing I want to give you, every day for as long I live. You deserve it. No matter what anyone else thinks or says.”
“I know you think that.” She starts backing up and I know she’s headed for the door. “But you weren’t there. You don’t really know.” Her hand clasps the handle and I can hear the click of it as she pushes it down. “And at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter if they’re right or not. Because it feels like they are.” She’s slipping away, even her words are barely audible on her breath. “Bodhi, I feel like they’re right.”
Then she’s gone. The door closed. And I’m left to fend for myself in another wreckage Marc left in his wake. I take two steps before my legs give out and my knees hit the hardwood of the porch. The boards are frozen, and there’s zero give under the weight of my fall, but I
can’t even feel the pain of landing because I’m too consumed with the pain of losing the only woman I’ve ever just been able to be myself with. No nerves. No celebrity. No good looks. Just me. And her. And everything that came to life between us. If this is really the death of it, I don’t know what I’ll do.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LILAN
I barely made it inside the house before I crumpled into a pathetic pile onto the floor. My hand is still clasping the door handle as if it’s a life raft somehow able to save me from drowning in my own misery. It won’t. Nothing will. Not until I’m ready to do it myself. I know. I’ve been here before. In this very spot, wishing the same desperate wish.
“You sent him away,” Mama says softly, her shadow emerging from the dark hall before she does. “Why?”
I release my iron clad grip on the handle and turn myself around to face her, leaning my back against the door, tipping my head toward the ceiling and squeezing my eyes shut as if it will somehow make everything around me disappear. “Because it was time.” My voice is scratchy and broken. A pretty fair representation of how I feel all over.
“Are you sure that was it?” she asks, lowering herself down to the floor across from me.
“Don’t” I beg, “Please. I know you mean well, but please, don’t.”
She sighs and her mouth begins to twitch the way it does when she’s trying to hold back tears. She’s my mama and my closest friend in the whole world, and I can still count the times I’ve seen her cry on one hand. Always the strong one, she is. My rock. Therefore, it’s hard to bear the truth of this crossroads in my life and the choice I’ve made, when I see her eyes begin to glisten despite her every effort. “I just loved seeing you so happy so much,” she whispers, voice hoarse with emotion.
I reach out to squeeze her hand. “I know, Mama. I know.”
Neither of us says anything else. She stays with me, on the floor, holding my hand until I finally find the strength to peel myself up and go upstairs to collapse in my bed. And all I can think, the whole time she’s with me, is how she’d think nothing of it, because to her, it’s simply Lilan Love.