I tried to catch her as she got into her car, but...
But.
After she left, I sent Whit and Pace away. I stood by the door with Truman, slammed by the thought of never seeing Cleo again. God, it hurt. It hurt so much it made me shake. But... no choices.
Robert says he’ll be here tomorrow morning. If I book a flight out of Atlanta, he’ll know. He told me he’s been monitoring my cards. It’s how he knows what I have—or rather haven’t—been doing. I can’t book a plane ticket with cash, and I don’t know if I could make the long drive home.
This is how terrible choices are made. It all comes down to lack of options. I should know that, shouldn’t I? I should be an old pro at this. And yet... it doesn’t get easier. It never gets easier. In fact, if time is any indicator, decisions like mine only get harder.
Because of Cleo... this is so much harder than it might have been.
I lean against the railing of the balcony and try to think. If I hadn’t met her. If I only ever knew ‘Sloth.’ If I hadn’t fucked her tight cunt. If I hadn’t hidden my face in her soft hair. If I hadn’t watched her leave that tube of lipstick on her sister’s headstone. If I hadn’t felt the warmth of her chest against my back, the firm squeeze of her arms around me.
“You seem sad. I like hugging you... I’m a hugger.”
If I didn’t know that, maybe this would seem more like the right choice. It’s the only choice—but I don’t crave it like I used to. Back when my need for control of my own fate outweighed fear or regret.
Now it’s... different. Like I’m opening my mouth and swallowing water, when what I really need is air.
I walk downstairs. I get a postcard and my damaged fountain pen and press the card against my thigh. I close my eyes. Inhale. I open them and steady my hand.
I reach for the drawer where I keep my Post-It notes, then draw my hand back. I need to walk this to the mailbox myself; Manning might not send it, even if I leave it with a note. I get a stamp from one of the kitchen drawers, hold the front door open for Truman, and take my time trekking down my long, dirt drive.
I note the curve of the moon. I used to have a thing about the moon, when I was very young. I would ask Ly if it could see us. He would tell me “no” and I would argue for the moon’s sentience. When Mom died, we decided one night that that’s where she was. Up there, dancing in the glow.
I stop at the mailbox and look up and down the road in front of me. It should look different. More. The metal of the mailbox should feel colder on my hand. Truman flounces through the field in front of the house, chasing mice—like always.
My footsteps are the same as I turn back. My left knee still aches where I busted it up that first game of my junior year in high school. I feel the rise and fall of my chest. It’s nothing special. I’m endowed with nothing but the weight of my own ego. Pretty soon, that will be gone.
I go inside and I stop looking for some fucking sign. I drift around the rooms upstairs, trying to smell Cleo in the air. I go into my little room and take a second patch out of the cabinet. Put it in the old spot, on the back of my shoulder. Right beside the one I put on when I woke up by Cleo earlier.
Then I step out onto the balcony and smoke a bowl of Silent Stalker. I try to calm myself. To focus on the dark treeline; the stars. Their brightness hurts.
I go downstairs and get the Snow Queen out and chug. A few more pulls—until I’m warmer and the hard edges are fuzzed.
Truman sniffs around my legs like he can smell it on me—dark intent. I laugh. Somewhere in me, there is an inferno—but I can’t feel it anymore.
I tip my head back and drain the vodka bottle.
I blink a few times, slow and bleary, and there is Truman, sitting on the kitchen floor. So goddamned loyal.
I drape my hand over his head and step past him, into the pantry. “Here boy...” My voice sounds low, the rasped words barely there.
I shift my mind away from that and focus my clumsy hands and the peanut butter: twist the top off... set it on the floor. Truman’s long ears perk in question.
/> “All yours.” I blow my breath out. Wait—no. “Hell...” I scoop the peanut butter container up and get a spoon and dole some into his bowl. “The whole thing would make you sick,” I whisper.
I blink a few more times and lean my head back. There now. I can see straight.
“Ummh...” I lick my numb lips. “Eat that,” I murmur, setting Tru’s bowl down.
I get another bowl—a big glass mixing bowl—and hold it under the faucet for what feels like several weeks. The water sloshes as I set the bowl down. “Now gotta... wash these dishes.”
Truman doesn’t eat his peanut butter. He leans against my legs while I load the dishwasher. I can feel the Fentanyl seeping through my skin, into my veins... Lifting me above the floor.
You’d think that it would help me forget, but I want her no less; more. I turn off the sink. Look at my hands. I know them. They are mine. I use them to pull my phone out of my pocket.
I can’t call her.