The Letters (Carnage #4) (4 page)

Georgia

I’ve got this thing about looking at the moon lately. It makes me feel connected to you. Because I know, with one hundred percent certainty, that during your lifetime, you’ve looked at that same moon. It’s all I’ve got right now, G. The moon, the stars, and the sun. Even the air that I breathe, I take in great gulps and wonder if there’s even a remote chance that it’s maybe air, that at some stage, you’ve breathed. Is that even scientifically possible I wonder?

I know I don’t bother to post these letters to you anymore, but still, I continue to write them. They help me sort shit out in my head. You could always help me sort shit out, you always gave me a different perspective, a different way of looking at things. I’m an over thinker, and I analyse everything. But you, G, just go with your gut. You react on your first instinct, all guns blazing. I hope that hasn’t changed. I hope you’re still the Gia that loved me so passionately. Is it loved or love? Do you think of me at all? I could ask your brothers and Jimmie but it still hurts so much G. I’ve tried to move on but there’s nothing there, there’s no connection, not like we had. It makes me panic sometimes, makes me doubt that the way I remember things is just my imagination prettying it up. Did we really love each other that intensely? We were so young, was it even possible to feel the way I think we did at such a young age?

I wish you were here to answer all of these questions. Perhaps if I had answers, it would give me some closure. It’s been almost three years. Are we different people now? Has too much time passed, has too much life happened to make what we had ever work again for us? Coz I do believe that, G. It will happen. I don’t know when or how, but I just know that our time will come. We will talk, we will work things out, and we will live, laugh, and love the way we used to. So, whatever tense you might be using, I’ll stick with the present. I love you, Gia, and until the day you come back to me, until then, I’ll keep looking at our moon and breathing in our air.

Sean and Georgia. Georgia and Sean. The way it’s meant to be.

I’m sitting on the floor of my office with a cup of tea in one hand and this letter from Sean in my other. I spent all of Saturday afternoon trying to organise everything into piles. I’ve worked out which are songs and poems, and I’ve messaged my brother to come over and look through them with me. There’s a pile of VCR tapes, but I’ve no clue what’s on them; some have labels and some don’t. It doesn’t matter because I don’t have anything to play them on anyway. There are some notebooks and diaries, a few photos, and then there are the letters.

When I had this crate shipped to me in Australia, I put what I could in sequential order according to the post office date stamps. Somehow, they got messed up, so I had to just go through them as I got to them. Because most were never posted, there weren’t any date stamps, and if Sean hadn’t written the date, then I tried to work it out by the things he wrote about.

I’ve read five letters today, but this is the first to make me cry—the first to break me. I think the thing that did it was the similarities in our thought process. I would often look at the moon and think along the same lines. Were we ever looking into the sky at the same time and thinking of each other?

Cam puts his head around my office door, which I’ve kept closed as I don’t want the kids seeing me upset, especially over a man that’s not their dad. His warm smile is gone the instant he sees the tears on my face. He comes in and closes the door behind him.

“What happened?” he asks, while squatting down in front of where I’m sitting, legs crossed, Indian style.

“Words,” I reply.

He smooths some stray hair that’s escaped from my messy bun and tucks it behind my ear.

“Well, words were his thing, babe. He wrote songs for a living, bloody good ones.”

I sniff and nod my head. “I know. I know that …” I trail off and blow my nose on the tissue that Cam passes to me.

It’s all suddenly too overwhelming. Why the fuck am I doing this to myself? To us?

“I’m so sorry, Cam. I can’t imagine how this is making you feel.” He leans his back against the my pop art wall, stretches his long legs out in front of him, and then pulls me into his lap. He remains silent as he does this.

“Does it bother you? Be honest with me, does it bother you that I still cry for him after all these years?”

I turn and sit myself so I can see his face, his eyes dart all over mine and he lets out a long breath.

“Georgia, I’m only human, of course it bothers me to a certain extent, but at the same time, I’m one hundred percent certain of your love for me—”

“Good,” I interrupt him.

“What we have ... Shit, I don’t know how to explain this. Our relationship is unique. It probably wouldn’t work for a lot of people, but it works for us, and it’s worked for us for a lot of years now, baby. You were married to someone you loved deeply, that you’ll always love. He died, and well, here I am. I’ve every confidence that you love me just as much as you loved or love him. That’s just the way it is. I knew this when we got back together, and I’ve been fully aware of it throughout our marriage. It is what it is, Kitten. He’s dead, I’m here. What’s the point in me getting pissed off over your tears?”

I don’t really know how to respond to his answer. He actually sounds a little bit angry.

“So is that a yes or a no?”

“For fuck’s sake, Georgia, you’re my wife and I love you. Of course it fucking bothers me. He’s been dead for sixteen years, build a bridge and get the fuck over it. Is that what you wanna hear from me?”

I’m stunned into silence for a few seconds. Then I try to scramble to get out of his lap and away from him, but he holds me in place by my waist.

“You asked me a question; now listen to the answer.” I stare at him, wide eyed and still too shocked to speak or attempt to move again.

“Part of what makes you the person you are, the woman I’ve loved for so long, is your passion. If you didn’t still feel the way you do, or if you didn’t react to his words the way you are now, then it wouldn’t be you, not the version of you I love. I love you, and part of loving you is accepting that you still hurt deeply over the death of your first husband and the loss of your babies. I try not to feel jealous. I try really fucking hard, but I’m only human. So yeah, to some degree, it does bother me, but do you know what bothers me more?”

I shake my head, terrified of attempting speech in case I choke on the tears silently running down my cheeks.

“What bothers me more is seeing you so conflicted, watching you being eaten alive by the guilt you feel
because
you cry,
because
of how you feel. He was your husband, Kitten, and this is the first time you’ve seen these letters. Just like I’m human and feel jealous of a dead bloke, you’re human and can’t help but still being in love with that dead bloke. I accepted it and came to terms with it a very long time ago. You really do need to do the same, babe.”

Wow.

I have no words. Everything he said is true. I’ve been in love with two men for around thirty years. I was in love with Sean while I was with Cam and then I got back with Sean, but either unknowingly or unwillingly, I remained in love with Cam. Sean died and just a year later, I was back with Cam, and now, here we are, over sixteen years after Sean’s death and I’m still in love with both of them.

I rest my forehead on Cam’s chest and sob. “But it hurts so much. It hurts that he’s dead and it hurts that I’m crying for him and hurting you.” I gulp in air and end up giving myself the hiccups.

“Why does it have to be so painful? I don’t want him to be dead, and I don’t want you to hurt. I don’t wanna cry. I love him, I love you, and I love the kids. If he hadn’t died, they wouldn’t even exist, maybe, or would they? Would we have still happened? I don’t know. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. I’m a grown up, I’m supposed know this shit, and I don’t.”

He kisses the top of my head and my tear-streaked face, while holding me close. My heart and my thoughts racing.

“Oh, Georgia. My biggest worry was that you’d react like this to what you’d find in that box.”

“I’m sorry, Cam. I’m so, so sorry.”

I feel him stand with me still in his arms and walk through my office door. I thank Dr. Dre and his Beats for the fact that my children will hopefully remain unaware of their mother’s monumental meltdown and burry my face in Cam’s chest as he carries me upstairs to our bedroom.

These letters and the emotions that they’ve stirred up have hit me hard. So much harder than I was expecting them to.

He lies down with me on our bed and spoons in behind me. I feel drained. Mentally, physically, and emotionally wrung out, and it takes no time at all for my eyes to feel as heavy as my heart and for sleep to claim me.

Cameron

I turn and look over my shoulder as the church quietens.

“You ready for this?” Robbie asks from beside me.

“No,” I reply through gritted teeth, trying not to move my lips.

I watch as Chantelle, wearing a big white puffy dress and holding onto a frail looking Colin’s arm, walks up the aisle. Her eyes are on me, and they shine. She loves me, she’s in love with me, and I feel … nothing. Not a thing.

“If you don’t wanna do this, bro, then you need to pull the plug now. Put a stop to this and just both move on.”

“It’s too late,” I whisper as an overwhelming sense of panic rises from my toes to my chest.

“It’s never too late, Cam. Run. Run now. I’ll make up some bullshit excuse for you.”

I look my brother squarely in the eyes.

“Run, Cameron. Run now while you still can.”

I turn my head, looking from my bride-to-be and her dad, who are rapidly approaching, and then to my brother, who’s pointing at the doorway behind us that the vicar came through a few minutes before.

I give my brother a quick nod and move to make my escape through the small arched exit, but my legs feel like lead weights. I actually grab my left thigh in both my hands and lift it, I do the same with my right, but it’s no good, not fast enough.

“I love you so much, Cameron. We’re going to be so happy together.” I can hear Chantelle calling from behind me.

I throw myself on the floor and attempt to crawl towards the door, but there are hands everywhere, grabbing at me.

“Come back, Cam! You promised.” I hear Chantelle’s voice above all of the others that are calling my name.

“Cam, baby, wake up.”

I sit up, nearly headbutting Georgia as I do.

“Jesus. Shit. Fuck,” I get out between gasps of air.

Georgia comes into focus, kneeling beside me and holding my right hand between both of hers. I drag the fingers of my left hand through my hair. Her eyes are wide and her mouth’s slightly open as she watches.

“You all right?” she asks quietly.

“I was dreaming.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I gathered that much, babe. Was it bad?”

I slide my hand from between hers and scratch my head whilst yawning. Georgia remains staring at where I just removed my hand from her hold.

Her head slowly rises, and her eyes meet mine. They’re still wide, but now, they’re also shining with unshed tears.

What the fuck is she getting upset for?

“Was it bad, your dream? A nightmare?”

She watches my throat as I swallow, and despite still feeling a little shaky and disoriented, my dick stirs to life when she licks her lips.

“C’mere.” I gesture with my head and hold out my arms. Now, it’s my turn to watch as
her
throat moves when
she
swallows. My erection not giving a shit about the inappropriateness of his appearance.

“Are you pissed off with me?” she asks quietly without making an attempt to move towards my open arms and waiting lap. Which doesn’t make me in the least bit happy.

“Why the fuck am I pissed off with you, Kitten?” My voice sounds croaky from sleep. I watch as she laces her fingers together and sets them on top of her knees, rolling her thumbs around and around each other.

Georgia looks nervous. Georgia doesn’t do nervous. I’ve no clue what could be going through that complicatedly beautiful mind of hers.

“My meltdown at lunch time. You’ve stayed up here all day. You’ve not even seen much of the kids.”

I feel like I’m living in a parallel universe. I must still be foggy from sleep because I feel like I’m missing something.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” My question comes out harsher than I intend, but I’m baffled.

“You were pissed off with me earlier when I had my meltdown of Georgia proportions. You carried me up here, and we must’ve fallen asleep. Harry came in and woke me up because he was starving. We promised the kids TGI’s tonight, remember? I woke you up, and you said you were coming, but you went back to sleep. I ended up taking them on my own.”

“Wha, wait, wait, wait. What time is it?”

“Just after twelve.”

“At night?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck. I’m so sorry. I don’t even remember saying that I was getting up.” She’s still kneeling next to me, looking all wide eyed and sorry for herself.

“Come the fuck over here, Kitten. I won’t tell you again.” She silently slides herself into my waiting lap, and her scent is all it takes to calm my racing heart. I kiss the top of her head.

“I thought I’d finally fucked things right up this time,” she says into my neck. I feel like a complete prick.

“The jetlag must’ve hit me and then kicked my arse. I’d never stand you and the kids up, babe. I’m surprised you would even think for a minute that I would.”

I move her legs to either side of my hips and pull her in close so I can look into her face.

“You really think I’d do that?” I ask her. She shrugs her shoulders and lets out a long breath.

“I thought I’d driven you to do that.” She blinks repeatedly, but it doesn’t keep her tears at bay. They hang from her dark lashes, and my gut twists at the thought of her feeling shitty the whole night.

“I’m so sorry about earlier, Cam. It was so unfair of me to behave like that. You’d just come home and I laid all that shit on ya.”

I don’t think I can remember a time when I’ve seen Georgia so emotional. Opening this bloody box has had a bigger impact on her emotions than I think even she was expecting.

I’ve never known her to be insecure, especially about us. Not that she’s ever let on to me and I’m pretty good at reading my wife.

“Baby, please don’t cry. Of course I didn’t stay up here on purpose. There’s nothing you could say or do that would keep me away from you. Not even a meltdown of Georgia proportions.”

She finally smiles and her blue eyes sparkle. She rakes her fingers through my messy bed hair, which is badly in need of a cut.

“I don’t deserve you,” she says while kissing my neck.

“Well, you’ve got me regardless. I need to shower and clean my teeth, baby. I want those little shorts and that vest gone by the time I get back. I need to taste you, and then I need to fuck you.” I’ve already lifted her out of my lap and am headed to the bathroom like a man on a mission as I speak.

“Then will you tell me what your dream was about?” she calls out, stopping me dead in my tracks. I turn back to look at her. She’s sitting in the middle of the bed with her legs crossed, looking as young as she did on the night I met her.

I love the fuck out of this woman. Have done for almost thirty years. Will do till the day I day. And if there’s any way for it to be possible, I will keep on loving her after that.

“Yes, Kitten. Then I’ll tell you about my dream.”

We don’t really ever talk about Chantelle. I don’t think it’s a deliberate thing, it’s just the way that it is. I have a small box in my safe with a few keepsakes from our relationship in it, including our wedding rings. I haven’t kept them for any sentimental reasons, I just don’t really know what to do with them.

After Chantelle died, I asked her sister if she’d like her jewellery. She told me to poke it up my arse. That wasn’t an option, so I put it in my safe and that’s where it’s stayed, mostly forgotten.

Simone Price was Chantelle’s half-sister; same mum, but different dads. I’ve no idea who her biological father is, but Colin, Chantelle’s dad, always looked after her right. Colin and I were joint owners of a club. When he died, Elle inherited her dad’s share. I assumed after Elle’s death, it would go to me, but she left it to her sister. I can only assume she did it because it was the only thing she had that was solely in her name. I also don’t suppose for a minute she expected to die so young.

I let the heat from the jets of water penetrate my skin and sooth my muscles as I think about how ironic it was that Simone eventually sold Elle’s share of the club to the Layton’s. Entwining mine and Georgia’s lives before we even realised it.

I would never forget the first time I noticed her walk into my wine bar. I’d spent the hot August day on the golf course, getting my arse whipped by Robbie. After, I’d gone back to my flat to shower and change, and as I came down the stairs and into the bar, I saw her.

She was tall, taller than the two girls she was with, and my eyes were drawn to her as she flicked her long dark hair over her shoulder. I moved through the bar without taking my eyes off her, desperate for a good look at her face.

I reached my brother and a couple of mates he was standing with at the bar, and he passed me a bourbon. I nodded a thank you and took my eyes from her, to meet his for a split second. When I looked over to where she was standing, she’d turned her back to me, but I positioned myself at the bar so I could watch her. I didn’t have a clue what the draw was; I just needed to see that face.

I chatted mindless shit with Rob, Tony, and Gary at the bar, but all the while, I took in her long legs and the fitted black dress she was wearing. She was skinny, a lot skinnier than most birds I’d been with … well, the ones I could remember anyway. I got this weird uncomfortable feeling in my gut at that moment, like, I don’t know. It just felt wrong to be thinking about other birds while I was looking at her.

My life was just getting back on track after the chaos that ensued after the death of my wife. If I were being totally honest, things had been spiralling out of control for some time before that. The drink, the coke, the women—I sampled them all to excess, and then after my marriage, the excesses became something of an addiction.

I’d married Elle out of a sense of duty and for the good of the family. Robbie was already engaged to Teresa, Josh just too young and irresponsible, and so it was left to me. I had felt the pressure to do right by the family business and marry Colin Turner’s only surviving heir and strengthen the King name by tying all of his businesses to ours.

Robbie was happy, we had strength in numbers and money coming in from all over the country. We kept our noses clean and our pockets lined. We didn’t step on anyone’s toes and didn’t encroach on anyone else’s manor. We didn’t need to. Life was sweet. But I was miserable. Chantelle had been around for most of my life. Our parents were friends, and so she was just there. Holidays, daytrips, family gatherings, she was there. She was pale and blonde and never wanted to join in any of our rough “boy” games when we were kids.

I didn’t like or dislike her as we were growing up. I just didn’t think much about her to have an opinion either way. As we got older and hormones started to play a part, things changed a little. She got boobs, so yeah, I noticed her more. She was still quiet and never wanted to sneak outside for a cigarette when we were together at parties and the grownups were drunk. She never wanted to get involved when we stuffed potatoes into the exhaust pipes of all the cars in her dad’s driveway during Sunday afternoon BBQs. She would never swim in the ocean when our families went to Spain together for holidays, opting to lie back on the beach alone and watch the rest of us from a distance instead.

She was a nice enough girl, but she just had nothing about her. No spark. No sense of adventure. Nothing. And yet, I still married her.

I regret that decision every single day of my life. If I had stood my ground and said no, she’d probably still be alive today. And this guilt I feel is exactly the reason why I understand the anguish in Georgia’s eyes when she cries over Sean. I totally get it.

I love my life. I love my wife and my kids and everything we’ve built together. I wouldn’t change it for the world. Does that mean I’m glad that Elle died? If she hadn’t, the life I have now wouldn’t exist. I couldn’t have this life without the death of another, and although I don’t wear my emotions on the outside like Georgia does, the guilt is still something I struggle with on a daily basis.

I didn’t love Chantelle, but I still think about her death and the death of my son every single day, so I can only imagine what Georgia goes through while battling her demons over losing Sean.

They died, we didn’t. It’s pointless beating ourselves up over it. It won’t change anything. I love her, and she loves me. We’ve been blessed with four amazing children, and since I’m not a religious person, I thank modern science, the wank bank, and my sisters-in-law for that.