Page 16 of Rockland

Tess

I know I’m spiraling.

All the Beauties have come by, tried to entice me to go out. Promises of shopping, dining, dancing—all things I loved to do… before. I politely decline each invitation.

I can’t help it. I just want to stay in. Avoid seeing people. Drink until I can’t remember the pain.

As the days pass, Brett’s memory becomes cloudier, fuzzier. Now it’s two years since he’s gone and I can’t even remember his face unless I look at a picture. Which only serves to add guilt to grief.

It’s not even that I miss him so much anymore. It’s just that I haven’t been able to figure out how I fit in here in the Village. Husbandless. The lone widow. It’s isolating.

There’s been whispers of enacting the hierarchy again. Not just for a day, this time. For good. Or at least until I’m back on my feet. As far as I know, it would be a first for the Village—having a guardian move in with a widow.

The Bachman men have another think coming if they think for one second I’ll let Rockland take control of me.

Sure, the day of the burial, I needed him here. And the memorial, his guidance, his discipline—he kept me sane.

It makes sense… on paper. But when there’s real people and feelings involved, the hierarchy is nothing but bullshit. In the Bachman family, once you’re a Bachman, you’re a Bachman for life.

And the two of us get along about as well as oil and water. I should have been concerned when I learned of the hierarchy—of what could happen. But I’d never worried about it before, because nothing was ever supposed to happen to Brett.

He wasn’t supposed to die. He wasn’t supposed to leave me.

One year ago, the night of Brett’s memorial, Rockland had brought me home. He’d given me wine, let me take a pill to calm myself. Then he’d helped me out of my clothes, dressed me for sleep, and tucked me into my bed. I may have been dreaming but it felt as if he stroked my hair for hours, kissing me gently on the cheek before I felt his weight leave my side.

In the morning, he was gone.

The only evidence of his stay was the blush pink still on my ass.

He left, as he should have. He flew off to his little deserted island to manage his natives. It must have been a result of my heightened emotional state, but when I walked through my house—strangely absent of him—I found myself missing him. There was a tugging in my chest, remembering his protective hand weighing on my shoulder.

My bottom was still sore.

And that kiss.

My lips tingle every time that kiss crosses my mind. Which it does more often than appropriate.

But that was a year ago. I’ve got to stop dwelling on it. It’s kind of hard now, though, with the second of the three annual memorials scheduled for this weekend.

He’ll be arriving any day now.

I shake the thought from my mind. It’s been a long day. I’ve begun to work from home, no longer bothering to go into the office. It’s strange—without the distraction of people, I can get a month’s worth of numbers accounted for in half the time it used to take me. Which has resulted in me procrastinating till the last minute and doing all the math in one hardcore session.

That day was today. I’ve just hit send and shot the final tally off to Bronson. I tidy up the items on my desktop. I push myself back in the rolling desk chair. I stand, stretching my aching muscles. I putter down the stairs from my office. Go into my spotless kitchen—I can’t remember the last time I’ve used it to cook. I’m opening a bottle of wine. There’s a knock on my door.

A heavy sigh escapes me—I’m in no shape to deal with people.

But I must be polite. They are all family, after all. Wine bottle in hand, I putter down the hall, not bothering to smooth down my tangled hair or change out of my sweatpants. Sloshing a bit of the wine on my wrist as I move, I open the door.

Sasha is standing on my stoop, wearing… pink. A shocking change from her usual black spandex workout gear. Her little pearl white teeth are sinking into her bottom lip. Her hand goes to the end of her long, gorgeous dark ponytail and she gives it a nervous tug.

A trembling smile crosses her lips as she says hello. But she looks as if she wants to run in the other direction. Her gaze skates over my ensemble.

Am I that scary?

Is it Sasha’s tepidness—so unusual for her—or maybe her rosy cheeks and blush-colored clothing that are suddenly making me long for the Beauties? Loneliness tugs at my cold, dark heart—maybe I do need human connection. I plaster a wide, fake smile on my face and make a large welcoming gesture with my hand, saying, “Come in! Come in!”

She flinches backwards as if I will accidentally clock her with my vessel. Her face is clouded with uncertainty as if she’s not sure it’s safe to enter my home.