Page 9 of Queen of Ruin

“Some things don’t get a pass in the name of tragedy. At some point, you have to grow up,” I state, knowing it sounds harsh, but I’m not inclined to make excuses for Darren – especially when I know exactly how he feels about me.

“I know you think I’m making excuses for him. Lord knows Darren can push your limits, but everyone deserves a little grace.”

Lottie has a knack for reading people’s minds.

“I think you’re a better woman than me,” I sigh.

“That’s not true.”

“You don’t know me or the things I’ve done.” I doubt Lottie has ever had to make the choices I’ve had to make.

“We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. Doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you a person who’s had to make tough choices.” She reaches out to take my hand, but I pull away. I’m feeling very vulnerable right now, and if I let her touch me, she’ll be able to extracts truths I’m not ready to let go of.

Lottie seems to take my silence as a way of agreement, but I stare at the entryway wishing my car would arrive.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” she tries to reassure me. “You can always work things out.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. Even when he does come back, then what?”

“You argue until one of you gives in,” she explains. “Then you go upstairs and make love until you forget about what it is you were arguing about in the first place,” she states matter-of-factly.

If I had taken a sip of coffee, I might have spit it out all of over the island. Lottie always seems to surprise me.

“I only wish it were that easy,” I counter.

The doorbell rings and I slide off the chair. Before I reach my luggage, Lottie stops me by placing a gentle hand on my arm.

“Don’t give up on him.” I know she cares for Darren deeply, it’s evident in the worried expression on her face, but this isn’t up to me.

“I have to go.” I hesitate for a moment before I give her a brief hug and head for the door.

I shouldn’t be emotional over saying goodbye to Lottie, but in the short time I’ve been here, she’s been more of a mother than I’ve had in a very long time.

It’s a short ride to the airport. As we cross the Potomac, I can’t help but think of the first time I crossed it, seeing the city I had fantasized about for so long. My hands are shaking, and to stop them, I hold my purse tighter.

I never belonged here, and I was kidding myself if I ever thought I did. I need the money, but it’s not worth it. I’ll figure something out – I always do.

Just to piss him off, I chartered Darren’s private plane. After everything he’s done, I figure I deserved at least a nice ride back home.

The driver holds out my luggage and whistles at the plane sitting on the tarmac. “Sure must be nice to have a private jet,” he says.

“I’m sure it is, but it’s not mine.” I hand him what little cash I have on me as the stewardess descends the stairs.

She takes my luggage with a smile. “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Walker.”

She says the name so effortlessly… but I’m nothing but a fraud, playing pretend wife in a mansion, boarding a private jet that isn’t mine.

Now that I’m on the plane, I’m not so sure it was a good idea.

On the seat is a book. A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway, and a small laugh escapes me. “Asshole,” I whisper as I settle in and flip through the pages.

“I’ll let you know when we’re ready for takeoff,” the stewardess says and then disappears.

I hold the book to my nose inhaling the worn pages, and thinking about how many times I’ve read it. I may not have understood poetry when I was in college, but Hemingway had an immersive way of telling a story that made me feel a part of it; so much so that I already felt like I had been to Paris.

First editions of this book aren’t worth an exorbitant amount, and I imagine Darren would have a snarky comment about how Hemingway is undervalued.

It was incredibly sweet of Darren to remember our conversation and get it for me, but that was before. Now, holding it in my hands, I’m not sure what to make of it or how I should feel. The Emerson portrait, the book… everything… it doesn’t matter now.

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