“You love me,” I counter. “You still love me.”
He roars as he comes, forehead pressed to mine before spilling the rest of himself on the table between us. Chest heaving, he backs away, while jerking up his pants. The porch light blankets us in light as he retreats, his face going ashen as he gathers his jacket and the state I’m in—torn, bitten, and flushed from my orgasm. His face twists in anguish before he hangs his head at the threshold of the door.
I gather myself from the table. My limbs still shaking, but I manage to keep my voice steady. “It takes a queen to love and understand a king. Did you think this would break me? You made me!”
His silence is answer enough.
“You really thought that would do it? Would change what I feel for you and get me out of your system? You should know better than that, you fucking fool!” I wrap myself in the ruined silk.
He palms his mouth, frozen on the doorstep, unshed tears in his panic-filled eyes, a plea on his lips when he speaks. “Please leave, Cecelia. I can’t give you what you want.” Shadows of our undoing sneak in, casting darkness over his features, his eyes wild and haunted while an agony-filled groan escapes his throat. I see it then, the ironic truth, I might be strong enough, but he’s not. He turns and stalks out, leaving the door open.
The next morning, I pace the house, my core sore, throbbing, as I contemplate my next move. I know I have to go. I know what needs to be done. I’m trying to break through a door that’s long closed and sealed shut.
I will leave, for the both of us. I’m only hurting us by staying. I admit to myself I had hoped we could put it behind us, never Dominic, but all of the heartbreak and deception. We were torn apart before we had a chance to be. His unreasonable anger with me, I can’t fully understand. It was horrible circumstance that ruined us that night, and I now know that the easiest way for him is to blame our relationship as a whole and deny me for himself as penance. And I get to share in that punishment no matter how much I want just a measure of absolution.
In a haze, I find myself in my father’s room. When I lived here, I never, not once, was curious about his living quarters. It was just a part of the house I never dared enter aside from the night Tobias showed up injured. Entering his room now, I see the room of a stranger. The whole of it covered in floor to ceiling windows, offering a spectacular view of the mountains. His furniture is simple, elegant, dark mahogany, and void of much life. Aside from the fading smell of lemon polish, it remains untouched. Just the way he left it the day he died. I open his chest of drawers and lift some of his socks before pulling out one of his T-shirts. I’ve never known my father’s smell. He never hugged me, held me. Never. He wasn’t that man. That thought saddens me as I inhale the laundered shirt. And then it occurs to me.
Roman died without a single soul mourning him, not even his only daughter.
His cover-up of Dominic’s death had settled my fate with him. I never spoke to him again after that, and he rarely ever reached out.
And if I’m not careful, I might not have many who mourn me when my time comes.
But from what I knew, we were two different people who live and lived completely different lives. I’m still reeling from the fact Tobias swallowed his pride and met with him, told him he loved me, swore to keep me safe all the while protecting him, a man who covered up his parents’ deaths, accidental or not, and gave him money in return.
Tobias got the same consolation I did.
Money.
The most necessary of evils that can completely change a person for better or worse.
My mother lives comfortably now, but she’s grown used to it, and it’s brought her no greater happiness. It never brought my father any either.
And for me, it is an insult. I hate it. I hate the power it gives to those who don’t deserve it, and the lives it steals for those who are a slave for just a little of it. I hate the greed, and the thirsty deeds done to acquire it, and the fear and the bitterness it inspires in those who don’t have it.
I hate everything it stands for.
It’s not a God, but a runner-up to blame for a lot of life’s cruelties.
I lay on Roman’s bed, on the stark white comforter, and stare up at the ceiling. Despite my need for something, closure, or just the necessity to grieve properly because I was denied, I’ve caused more damage to myself.
But I asked for it.
And now I’m lying in the bed I made.
In truth, I got some of what I came for, answers. And I fight myself to be satisfied with that.
Last night, getting physical with Tobias only opened an old wound and helped us bleed out a little faster, but the truth is, we are bleeding out. He’d ended his relationship, but that meant nothing if he couldn’t accept us. And his words and actions last night only told me he never would.
It is love, but it’s love lost, no matter who’s to blame, and it’s time I face it.
Fighting with him brought me back to life in a way, and having him inside me, no matter how angry he was, was proof that nothing or no one can take his place. His touch will forever be the only touch I’ll ever want.
I turn on the bed and gaze out the window wondering why the men in my life could never embrace or fully trust the love I harbored for them.
Had I made it so hard?
Briefly, just briefly, I imagine what my life would have been like if I’d had a father. One who loved me as a father should. Who did more than support me financially.