“Picking at her cuticles,” I interject.
Skye doesn’t complete her story, suddenly softening her gaze toward me, seeming to fully embrace what I’ve told her more than once since she arrived — I’m in love with Alis, and I would never intentionally hurt her.
“You really do love her,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I exhale. I’m done with this conversation; I need to see Alis.
“And now, I’m going to go see her. You are going to drive back to your apartment and you are not going to call her to give her any warning that I’m with you. I will follow you. You will let me into the building and into your apartment, and then you will leave.”
My tone warrants no pushback, and thankfully, Skye’s fury has temporarily subsided — at least, I believe so.
“Sure. Yeah. Whatever.” Skye walks over to her cracked phone and picks it up off the floor, mumbling “fucking Jonathan Ryan” under her breath as she walks past me and out the front door to her car.
“Are you going to at least give me a heads up about what happened between the two of them?” I ask, unlocking my Range Rover and opening the driver-side door.
“I told you,” Skye says, lowering her sunglasses over her eyes. “It’s not my story to tell. But she won’t talk to me, and she’s ignoring you. Tori’s going through too much of her own shit to drive down here and pry the truth from her. I’ve never been in this situation with Alis before — her being so shaken up by something that she won’t talk to me. But I’ve seen her with you these last few months. She’s happy — really, truly happy for the first time since before the accident — so I figure what the hell. Let’s see if you can bring her back to life again.”
With that revelation, Skye sinks into her driver’s seat, pulls her door shut, and backs out of my driveway.
THIRTY
Alis
There'sa reason why I don't put myself out there; a reason I don't make a habit of connecting with people. I'm not bitter; I'm not broken. I'm just ... lost, right now. My reason for not connecting with people isn't just because, until recently, I lacked the opportunity. It's mainly because I've never met anyone who understands me the way Belle always did, and I knew at my core that trying to find that connection with anyone else would be lackluster.
I didn't realize I was refusing to let go of her. Honestly, I never understood why so many people write about letting go of the people they lost. Why would I ever let her go? It's not like my holding her memory close to my heart is affecting anyone else. It's not like my needing her has hindered her from passing on or resting in peace.
Holding onto Belle has kept me steady. Grounded. I wouldn't have had the courage to go back to school if I hadn't been holding onto her.
I used to talk to her. Used to ask for her advice and conjure up in my mind what she would say. Draw courage from her influence. I could practically hear her voice in my head sometimes, and it gaveme peace, courage, and whatever else I lacked. She was so… so… everything to me.
I thought the worst pain I'd ever felt in my life was the day she died — I was wrong. The worst pain I've ever felt in my life was last Saturday when, after fleeing that God-awful dinner party, taking a giant dose of melatonin, and driving home to Moraine in record time, I went to my sister's grave to talk to her after having not been to see her since August and realized I cannot remember the sound of her voice.
Since moving to Grand River, going back to school, and meeting Dexter, I've found myself talking to her less and less frequently. I would randomly think to myself that I hadn't sought Belle's advice in a while, but the complete and utter loneliness I felt sitting at her grave, not able to feel her or hear her, was debilitating. Had I let her go and not realized it? If so, when did it happen? Did she leave, or did I push her out of my mind, my thoughts?
Thinking back over the last few months, I realized I would talk about Belle to Dexter in lieu of talking to Belle inside myself. I know on an intellectual level that no longer talking to my dead sister in my mind isn't an act of betrayal, but it doesn't change how I feel.
Alone. Terrified. Unsure. When I would talk to her and could feel her, hear her in my heart, it didn't matter that I ever felt any of those things because Belle balanced them out. She made me feel less alone. She gave me courage. She gave me confidence.
And now — now I'm a thirty-year-old woman who recently came face-to-face with the two people whom I have successfully avoided for nearly a decade. I am now having to confront the truth that I buried Hurricane Margaret deep in a mental file labeled 'nothing happened', treated it as such, and went about my life grieving my sister and raising her daughter, only to have the 'nothing' reveal itself to be 'something'.
If nothing happened, then I had nothing to work through. If nothing happened, then I didn't have to think about it ever again. If nothing happened, I didn't need to talk to anyone about the details of the day Margaret Ryan walked into her husband's office and accusedme of trying to seduce him, all the while her husband, my mentor, and who I considered a close confidant and friend, stood by and did absolutely nothing to protect me.
Something did happen. In the midst of losing my sister and my brother-in-law, in the midst of finding out I was now the legal guardian of an infant — something else, something not as earth-shattering as losing Belle but still heartbreaking and painful, happened. I was falsely accused of lying, manipulating, and having adulterous intentions by an obviously mentally unstable woman. I was betrayed by a man I trusted, respected, and dedicated more than five years of my life to following.
I didn't just lose my sister and brother-in-law that week. I lost a substantial piece of myself. I was wounded, personally, and I let that wound fester for nine years. I can't say it was intentional avoidance; it was simply overshadowed by a bigger loss — a lifelong love and connection with another person that was more important to me than my own hopes and dreams.
I'm lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, when a knock sounds on my bedroom door. I've been so lost in my thoughts that I didn't hear Skye return from wherever she stormed off to earlier when I refused to let her into my room, claiming a migraine. Sunny is staying the night with a friend again for their last night of break, and I couldn't be happier to have the apartment to myself. I need space. I need the quiet. I need Skye to stop knocking on my bedroom door.
My door is locked, so I'm not worried about her coming in. I can pretend to be asleep, and she'll go back to minding her own business. At least, I think that's how this will play out until I hear a click and watch the door handle turn.
What the hell?
I throw my arm over my eyes and groan, "I still have a headache. Go away." I don't know how she unlocked my door, but I'll find out later when I'm done sulking. If I'm ever done sulking.
The mattress dips and I feel her start to climb into bed beside me. I'm not in the mood, and I'm about to, once again, tell her to leave, when strong arms envelop me and I'm rolled and pulled into a firmchest. Strong, not very feminine arms and a firm, definitely not female chest.
I know this smell. I know these arms. Suddenly, I no longer feel alone. I'm no longer afraid. I feel… calm. Warm. Home.
