Taking Mine (31 page)

The entire living room is torn apart. The couch is overturned, cushions cut wide open with the padding strewn about. The windows are bare, curtains stripped from their brackets, morning light flooding the room. Every piece of furniture is taken apart in one way or another. It doesn't take me long to deduce that there's no way the television is operational, face down on the ground with the back paneling removed. Already knowing what I'm going to see, I check the kitchen to find it in the exact same condition. All the cupboards are hanging open and every item is lying on the floor, mostly broken.

“Lilly.” Justin's voice is soft behind me.

There's an ache in my heart. It's deep, resounding through every part of me. It hurts. It simply is such a deep pain that my brain can't keep up. Maybe that's what shock is. I'm in shock. I swallow the buildup in my throat and clench my teeth. I face Justin standing on the doorstep, watching me with weary eyes.

I don't say anything as I walk the few feet to the door and shut it.

I AWAKE WITH A HANGOVER
—or what feels like one—and force my eyes open, blinking against the sleep. It's still daylight. The sun is seeping through the sheet I hung over the window before crawling into bed. Sleeping on a mattress that's been stripped open tends to be a bit uncomfortable. I sit, groaning as the springs dig into my back.

I left my phone in Kaley’s car and it’s impossible to locate a working clock, so I walk to the window and peer outside, trying to determine the amount of daylight left. Discovering the sun is still high in the sky, it can’t be much later than noon. Five hours of sleep is manageable. I decide a shower is in order. Sitting in jail doesn’t bode well in the sanitary department, and I was too tired to do anything about it when I got home.

My chest constricts. Pulling the window cover back, I spot Justin parked out front, window down and smoking. There's no way he's not exhausted. I watch him even though I tell myself to quit, and it's like he feels my eyes on him as he looks at my window. I drop the sheet back. It's an old school cop-out, but I'd still like to pretend he didn't see me.

So I take a shower, eternally grateful that the team of home assassins left me shampoo and conditioner. The house is in shambles. I've seen pictures of homes after natural disasters, and my house can rival those. I cut the water off and pick up a towel off the floor, using it whether clean or dirty. It's hard to tell and I don’t care.

Remarkably, I find a mug shoved into the back of one of the kitchen cabinets. I guess whoever was on kitchen duty figured if there wasn't anything wrong with the first fifteen then the last one stood a chance. The coffee maker is broken, so I pour the hottest water I can through a filter with some grounds I scooped off the counter. The saying ‘no stone left unturned’ comes to mind.

It'll never be the same. We may never have lived lavishly, or even mediocre, but it's home. And I can barely see it through the mountain of destruction. I sip my coffee in the kitchen entryway and scan the home I once knew, trying to force a semblance of energy into my bones. Not an ounce of desire to do a damn thing flows through me, but I can't live like this, and Kip would be upset if he saw it in this condition.

Kip, who's sitting in jail right now, doing God knows what with God knows who, and it’s so unfair of me to mope when I still have my freedom. A freedom that I don't deserve when I'm basically the person who put him there.

I start by draping all the windows, either by using salvageable curtains I find on the floor or spare sheets, trying to grant some sense of privacy, even though that went out the door with yesterday’s revelations. Then I begin picking up everything that belongs in the trash, placing it in a big pile by the door until I can locate some way to dispose of it.

And I don't stop. It takes me the rest of the day to go through every room and dig through the keep items and the throw-away items. It's not until I've amassed more than half the living room's space that I realize the sun is setting. I’ve effectively distracted myself for the better half of the day, but the sense of accomplishment that I was looking forward to isn’t there.

A sheen of sweat covers every inch of my body despite the draft from the windows, and I stare at the pile. My stomach is hollow, having not bothered to eat due to the lack of groceries, and because there’s no more room inside me other than the parsimonious weight of hurt. It takes up every square inch of my capacity. I fall back onto the couch, sinking low into its re-stuffed cushions, unable to stand from the force of my gut. The resounding ache that I’ve been avoiding all day flares. It’s deep and pulsing. It gives little reprieve.

The glare of headlights beams through the kitchen window. Lance exits an SUV and walks toward Justin’s open driver’s side window. He leans his arm against the door with his back to me, and I catch Justin shaking his head before rubbing his eyes. They don’t convene for long before Justin starts his vehicle and leaves. The pulse in my chest intensifies.

He gets to leave. He gets to check out, forget about the mess my life has become, and go on about his like there has been no collateral damage caused by his hands. But there has.

Oh, there so has.

It’s left my heart beating angrily in my chest and it doesn’t let up. I
trusted
him. He asked me to, and I skipped into him like the naïve girl that I am. My body, my heart, my future, I handed to him on a silver platter. It’s a used and vile feeling.

I let my ache unfurl, letting the suffocation sneak in and take all the air out of my chest. Wetness drips from my face onto the hands that I have braced against the counter as my only support. A sob rips from my throat, but it only makes it worse, and that’s the scariest part.

There’s a plate within my reach, and I chuck it at the wall like a disc. It shatters against the wall, and it does nothing for the pressure, so I do it again with another. And I keep doing it, over and over, knowing with each broken plate that nothing I do will make me feel better. But I don’t want to feel better. I don’t deserve to. What I really want is to not feel at all. I run out of plates the second Lance kicks in the door, eyes wide as he searches for the commotion.

There’s no point in hiding my tears as I look at him. He’s concerned, but I ignore him as I walk to the bathroom. My reflection tells me why. The left side of my face has darkened, yellow branching out from the center, swelling all the way to my temple. If I saw me on the street, I’d call the local hospital and ask them if they had a mental patient escape. I turn on the shower, hoping this pushes Lance back outside, not wanting him to stick around to hear my cries. My back hits the wall and I slowly fall to the floor, letting out everything I’ve avoided.

These tears are different from the ones from yesterday. Those were born out of anger and frustration. These are born from true, unfiltered pain. It’s an anguish I haven’t felt before. With Justin I felt worthy, and loved, and capable of so much. Looking back, knowing what I know now, I realize that he never saw any of those things in me. He knew my insecurities and used them in his favor, not caring about the repercussions.

And Dan. For his children, for Melanie, and the life that was taken without warrant. It was callous and cruel and he didn’t deserve it. Every night his children will go to sleep fatherless, like Kip and I did, and they’ll too never find retribution. His daughter will cry herself to sleep, wondering why she never got a chance to say goodbye, and his son will ask himself what he could have done to change it. Melanie will struggle to make ends meet. They barely made rent as it was.

Footsteps thunder down the hallway and I force myself to stand, wiping my eyes, and trying to clean up whatever snot has escaped. The last thing I want is Lance trying to comfort me. The door opens and whatever tears I stopped come roaring back at the sight of Justin. His eyes are bloodshot and apprehensive.

“No,” I say as I back away from him. “Get out.”

I must do a poor job of looking intimidating, because he pulls me toward him. I struggle to push away, banging my fists on his chest, and when that proves futile, I start kicking.

“Lilly,” he says. “Stop.”

I refuse.

He turns me around, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. With nothing left to put my energy into, my sobs return and I can’t hear anything but the sound of them.

“Shh,” he repeats, falling to the floor with me, never releasing his hold.

And I let him, because I’m weak.

I SNAP AWAKE
. I’m in Justin’s lap, but my eyes are trained on Lance trying to quietly take a step back from the doorway. His eyes lock on mine. Justin’s still sleeping, his head braced against the wall with his mouth hanging open. Carefully, I extract myself from his arms. I’m surprised this doesn’t wake him, but he’s still sound asleep. Fearing that the click of the door closing will wake him, I leave a gap as I follow Lance back to the kitchen.

“Everything okay?” He’s sweet enough to pretend he’s not really asking me that question directly.

I clear my throat. “Yeah.” My voice is hoarse.

He nods. “Okay. Tell him to come get me when he wakes up. Hey, Lilly,” he says, stopping once he gets to the door. “Justin is the most stand-up guy I know. Before you write him off completely, listen to what he has to say, okay?”

He leaves and I’m left standing in the same spot I was last night when he found me wreaking havoc on the dinnerware, which brings my attention to the mess I still have to clean up. I tip-toe around the broken shards and grab the broom. Justin comes barreling into the kitchen, trying to blink through the haze of sleep in his eyes. His shoulders fall when he sees me.

He scrubs his hands down his face. “Good morning.”

Despite the ugliest storm hanging over us, there’s a sense of liberation in the air. Last night did good for us. For me.

I continue sweeping. “Sleep okay,” I ask.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Could have been worse.”

“Lance is waiting for you outside.”

Justin looks in Lance’s direction but doesn’t move. “We should talk.”

“I’m not ready,” I say, keeping my eyes trained on the broken pieces of glass.

“Lilly, you have to know that it was real for me.”

In the middle of my bathroom meltdown last night with his arms around me, I was reminded of what I already knew…how much his touch spoke to me. He cradled my head to his chest and brushed my hair back as I cried, not letting up until I fell asleep despite his own exhaustion. I needed that. I needed him. He’s the calm in my storm. Too bad it’s a hurricane and he’s the eye.

At some point during his time with me, undercover or whatever you want to call it, I do believe he developed some kind of feelings. Call it protective or a strange attraction, but something happened. But it can’t be love, because you don’t lie, and deceive, and use the people you love.

That’s what makes what I’m about to say all the easier.

“Okay,” I say.

He opens his mouth to continue arguing when my words register.

“But it doesn’t matter.”

His face contorts. “How can you say that?”

I finish sweeping and prop the broom up against the wall. “Because the fact of the matter is, Dan is dead, and my brother’s going to prison for a very long time,” I say, meeting his eyes. “And you’re the one who put him there.”

“If you just let me explain.”

I hold my hand up. “I told you I’m not ready.”

“But—”

“I don’t need another revelation to break me like it did last night. Let me live in ignorance for a little bit longer. I just need to feel like I can survive for a few days.”

He’s frustrated by my refusal to hear him out. “You promise that you’ll come to me when you’re ready?” he asks, at a loss for what he can do.

“Yes.” Accepting my answer, he runs his hands over his hair, trying to figure out what to do next. “Go. I’m sure Lance is tired.”

He looks at me, waiting for me to look at him. But I don’t. Because as high as Justin can build me up, he can bring me down just as low.