It's a special occasion kind of place.
Oh no.
Why didn't I think of this, realize this, or see it coming?
I have seen it coming. I knew it was coming. We're living together. We've been living together under a promise that we'd get engaged within a year. It was the only way Dad would be okay with us living together.
I'm not ready.
I don't want to get married.
I don't want to be someone's fiancé with an accent mark.
I don't want to wear expensive dresses from Paris. I never have, and I probably never will. That’s just not me.
I pass by a glass window looking into the kitchen, but once again, all I see is the reflection of my red lipstick, reminding me of a time so long ago...seven years, the night my life changed, and the real Haven was no longer allowed to exist.
"Bennett, I want to go home." I don't want to go home. It's not my home. It's his home, but I need to get out of here.
Maryanne and Roger eye me warily but continue ahead of us, following the host to our table. Bennett takes my hand and looks me lovingly in the eyes. Heartbreakingly.He says he loves me.But I know better. I've told him a thousand times how much I love him, that I've wanted this more than anything. And I lied. Apparently lying is in my DNA. Maybe I’m not as different from my father as I think I am.
The glow from the hanging candles creates a shimmer on Bennett’s forehead, and his lips struggle to hold the smile he didn't have to force seconds earlier. "Darling, please, I wanted to bring you here for a reason tonight," he says with a hint of uncertainty.No. Please don't. I'm not ready. I never will be."Haven—" he kneels on one knee, right here in the middle of this damn, dimly lit walkway.
I look in every direction, forgetting where I'm standing, and how I came into this restaurant. All I can think about is how the hell I'm going to get out of here. When I see the front door open and close, I run.
I run out the door, through the parking lot, down the street, and I keep going until my feet begin to throb from the four inch Louboutin heels I'm wearing.
Shit. Shit. Shit. What am I doing? Where the heck am I supposed to go? Grown women don't run away like this, especially from marriage proposals. A normal woman would blush, swoon, and maybe even flail her arms around to make sure everyone in the close vicinity knew a man had asked for her hand in marriage. Most women wouldn't feel like vomiting on their man's shoes or running out of the restaurant in their five-thousand dollar dresses from Paris.
My phone is buzzing compulsively in my clutch. This is why I despise cell phones. I can imagine it's Bennett and Maryanne wondering where I went or what I'm thinking. Since I don't have an answer to either of those questions, I can't answer them, just like I couldn't answer them when they were yelling them from the restaurant parking lot. All I know is, I can't go back. I can't ever go back.
Now that I've gotten far enough away to know they aren't following me or can't find me, I step into the shallow part of the woods alongside the road and take my heels off, seeing a red tinge swell across my feet. Damn shoes. I continue barefoot, unconcerned with the dirt coating the soles of my feet. It’s the most real thing I’ve felt all evening. I'm sick of caring and worrying about my appearance and the way I present myself. I never wanted to be this person, and yet it happened. I fell into the life I fought so hard against for the sake of my morals, but depression and heartbreak made me weak and moldable. I turned into this person I'm wearing like a second skin.
Passing through the dark, tree-shadowed grounds, I continue along parallel to the road. When I reach the street light on the corner, I stop and rest for a moment. I relax against the cool metal and slide down until my lavish, heather gray dress rests in a pile of loose dirt. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes, allowing the feeling of loss and loneliness to fill my soul like a thick smoke. I haven't felt this way in a very long time, but I haven't felt much at all in a very long time. The pain is like a comforting memory.
A car flies by, kicking up dusty gravel that coats my legs with a layer of dirt, and I pull myself upright, fearful it may have been Bennett or Maryanne. Could I be so lucky as to blend in with the darkness at this moment? I look down the empty road, seeing the small park off to one side. I used to go there all the time when I was younger, but living on the outskirts of this town, I haven't been in this area for so long, I almost forgot the park was there.
I hear more cars in the distance, and I know I'm in a path Bennett could drive down, seeing as this one-lane road connects Cascade and Sutter. If he sees me, I don't know if I'll have the restraint to keep my thoughts to myself as I just did in the restaurant. I need time to collect my thoughts and feelings.
I pull myself back up and loop my finger through the strap of my shoes, letting them dangle by my side. I take a step off the curb just as another car flies past me. I hold my breath until the car is out of sight, before breathing a sigh of relief that it wasn’t Bennett.
When the taillights melt into the darkness, I sprint across the road and through the park's opening, which is dark and lit only by the dull glow of the moon. I walk to where the tall grass meets the water and sit down beside a cluster of small, yellow flowers.
God help me. Marriage?I don't think I'll ever be ready for that. The thought of being someone's property and "keeping" a household for a living doesn't feel like an aspiration any woman my age should have, and it certainly doesn’t appeal to me. I should run away and finally get out of this life-sucking, tiny town. I've wanted nothing more than that since I was a teenager.
A sneeze in the near vicinity startles and scares the ever-living crap out of me, forcing me to whip my head around in search of the nightmare I was flirting with here in the dark. This is what I get. There's a man sleeping on the bench in front of the nearby trees, and it takes a moment to realize that his eyes are blazing in my direction as if I've invaded his privacy. Maybe I did.
"No," he growls. Is he homeless? We haven't had a homeless person living in this town for years. This community is damn proud of that fact. Children are free to roam the streets at night and play ball under the stars. We leave front doors wide open and unlocked. It's all thanks to Dad and the sheriffs who do their best to keep this place clean of anything other than the model-like families and high-class residents whom the middle- and lower-class strive to live up to. It's quite sad the way they corrupted this town.
"I beg your pardon, but I didn't ask you a question," I reply, not stopping to consider that it may not be wise to engage in a conversation with a homeless person. In my current situation, I’m not exactly thinking clearly.
"Get the hell away from me," he says.
"Do you own this park or something?" I argue, standing up and placing my hands over my hips, disregarding a thought that says I may be flirting with danger.
"Fine,I'llleave." The man sits up and his dark boots fall heavily to the ground. When he stands, rising to his six-foot-plus height, the moon's glow shines over his face.
I squint, wondering if my eyes are playing tricks on me, but they most certainly aren't. I knew he was out. I knew he had to be around somewhere. But why here of all places, in the dark, where he'd probably want to kill me for what happened? "Raine?"
"I don't want you anywhere near me. Not now. Not ever," he says calmly. He's changed, physically. He's large, and from what I can see in the dark, covered in more tattoos than I've ever seen any person in this town have. His jaw is square, not like I remember it, and his hair is short, no longer falling into his eyes. He's most definitely still sickeningly beautiful, but now in a more prominent, mature way.
He told me to leave, and yet I'm still standing here. He has every right and reason to tell me to leave.
"Raine, I am so sorry," I say, cowardly and quietly, while leaning down to grab my shoes.
"You should be," he mutters. I wait for a minute, dying for him to say something, anything besides "leave."
He drops his hands into his pockets and walks toward the road. I wanted to say more. I should have said more thanI’m sorry.I can't just apologize for causing him a seven-year prison sentence and expect that to make everything okay. I need to explain everything.
I run after Raine, knowing I'll likely regret doing so, but I've anticipated this moment of opportunity since that night in my parents’ house—that horrifically ending night.
