COTTON
December 03
Dear Shiloh,
Ialmost pulled the plug today.
I know this is going to piss you off, and I despise myself for even thinking about it. But I have to be honest, both with you and myself.
Otherwise, this is pointless.
It’s Thursday night, a couple hours after duty, and I’m taking a bath. Glass of wine sitting on the toilet beside the tub, a mellow playlist on my Bluetooth.
My phone’s in my hand and I’m scrolling Facebook, trying to get back to normal. It’s been a good two weeks since The Incident, and the bruises have faded, and I need to move on.
So I’m sitting there on Facebook, Hallelujah playing in the background, and suddenly I come across this post.
You remember Krystal? That chick hated us. She thought you were hot for Sean in high school and that was all she wrote, so to speak.
There was this picture of her and some guy I didn’t know, and they were holding up an ultrasound photo. They were smiling these huge, shit-eating grins at each other, and it was obvious—they were so fucking happy.
I clicked out of Facebook and just stared at the black screen of my phone. It wasn’t fair. I used to let myself feel this sense of superiority toward her—purely because she was a bitch, mind you—for working at Karli’s. For not doing anything with her life.
And here she was, knocked up and thrilled about it, and I was so jealous I could die.
I realized in that moment that the job didn’t matter. She had everything I’ve ever wanted. Someone who loves me. A baby on the way.
I don’t think I ever really told you how much the idea of those things in some distant future held me together as a kid. It wasn’t something I conceptualized, even for myself. And yet it was always there, this yearning to be loved in a way I never had been. To love another the way I should have been.
I know it’s only been a couple of weeks. Theoretically, I understand the process of healing is going to take some time. Michael told me all of this. But at that moment, looking at that photo, all I understood was emptiness. The chances of me having that one day, of being able to trust a man enough to let him in... slim to nonexistent, Shy.
And so I held my phone in my hand, and just for a minute or two, allowed myself to wonder what would happen if I dropped it in the water. It was connected to my charger, you see, which was plugged into an outlet. Would it kill me?
Would it hurt?
Did it matter?
I’m ashamed to say I pondered this for way longer than I should have, and finally decided electrocution would be unnecessarily painful. I threw the phone across the bathroom, took a sip of wine, and then slid beneath the surface of the water. My ceiling was blue, and through the water it looked like the sky.
Closing my eyes, I imagined free falling from a plane. It was peaceful, the muffled roar of water in my ears akin to the wind from my descent.Holding my breath, I held myself there until my heart pounded in my chest and my lungs cried for air.
Then I pulled the cord, and allowed myself to float.
I couldn’t do it. Not yet, anyway.
MY FEET POUNDED IN RHYTHMICTHUMPTHUMPTEMPO, SLAPPING AGAINST THE TREADMILL AT SIX POINT TWO MILES PER HOUR.The sweat rolling down my spine was a reminder that it had been nearly ten weeks since I’d last run. That, and the air I was sucking, breath after torturous breath.
Everything burned. Breath, muscles, that stitch in my side. But I wouldn’t stop.
Upstairs, Brodie was reading my journals, delving into my secret shame. Soon, he would know the thing about myself I most wanted to forget. The thing I most wanted to erase, as though it had never happened. What would he think? Would he care? Would he treat me differently, maybe regret the shower interlude? Maybe he would be disgusted.
See me as weak. Unworthy.
Despite the sweat, a shiver rolled through me. I focused on my feet, the charcoal-colored strip blurring beneath them.thumpTHUMP.
The idea that he might regret touching me, kissing me made my chest tighten. It had been amazing on so many levels. Ever since, I’d found myself comparing the skill of his mouth, the strength of his hands, the authority in the way he handled me to my few past interludes. They fell short. Way short. And to be able to make me fly the way he had when I was carrying the baggage I was…it was nothing short of miraculous. He’d made me feel normal again.
I was halfway hoping for another miracle later today, but not at the expense of my dignity. If reading my journal turned his attraction to me into pity, or turned it off altogether…I wasn’t sure how I’d handle it.
