Page 65 of Sin of Love

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Watchingthe door Gideon just disappeared through, I cradle my arms against my stomach and will my body to not reject the oatmeal.

At thirteen days without morphine, I’m still detoxing and uncomfortable, but every day is an improvement. My thoughts are clearer, my sleep sounder. My body is weak but mine. Bruised and battered, bones protruding, nails cracking, and hair falling out in clumps. But mine.

I’ve been more awake, more present these last two weeks than Gideon realizes. Awake enough to know what I’ve done to him—what I’m doing to him—and to hate myself for it.

In the first days, when withdrawals graffitied my world with glowing streaks of pain, I wished that night in Playa del Carmen had been left to run its course.

Part of me still believes I should have died with Julep. Or been executed by the cartel. Or faced final judgement from Maggie, who might never understand that I wanted to save the girls and her, too. That I tried to give them a shot at a different life, and it’s killing me not knowing whether I succeeded. Or whether they were punished for my crime.

Or what the fucking point of anything is anymore.

The only anchor I have is a man who barely resembles himself—the wild, uninhibited artist who moved through life without resistance, following his instincts and bending the world to his delights. The man who asked me to unlock my shop of horrors and didn’t flinch when I invited him inside.

I’m not afraid of your dark.

He’s afraid now. For me, of me—who knows—but it’s different. We’re different. Everything is different.

For the past two weeks, Gideon has selflessly nursed me through one of the most painful, demeaning, disgusting processes a body can go through. A purge that took my mind to hopeless, helpless places and my body to the brink.

But that’s not why I can’t look at him. Speak to him. Give him the words that stretch and yawn in my heart. Don’t leave me. I need you. I can’t see the way out.

The sound of his voice grates. His very presence is an irritant. I can’t stand his tiptoeing and disappointed eyes and long, despairing calls to Nate that I can hear if the wind is right and my window open.

The simple truth is I can’t stand what I’ve done to him.

Late at night, when the cottage is quiet and dark, I’ve been sneaking into the living room. After making sure there are enough logs on the fire to keep it going until dawn, I sit in the chair closest to Gideon’s cot. I listen to his breathing. Memorize his face, the new lines of worry and strain. And I wonder if there is a road ahead of us or a fork.

I remember us—in all our brief, beautiful passion—and how much I loved him. And I hate the impossible choice I had to make. I hate that his feet dangle off the end of the cot, that he’s sacrificing comfort for me. That he dyed his beautiful red hair in order to risk his own life rescuing me.

I hate that he has stitches in his arm from a bullet nicking him because of me. That he could have died, that he was there in the first place, that he paid that Irishman God knows how much money to find me. That he now has a target on his head; that he’s not safe anywhere La Familia Lazcano has a presence. Because of me. Because of me.

I hate that I didn’t get confirmation of Julep’s death. I hate that Maggie knows how to find Nate, and I’m not there to protect him. That I failed to protect him all those years ago, and protect myself…

Everyone.

I failed everyone. Myself.

I hate.

Hate that I hate.

But I can’t stop.

* * *

The oatmeal stays down,the sugar providing short-term relief for the hole in my brain that used to produce dopamine and serotonin. Thanks to Nate’s exhaustive research during his own battle with addiction, I know all about the effects of sustained, heavy opiate use.

If there’s good news, it’s that I was only under the influence for several months. On a cellular and chemical level, my body will recover. My mind, though? My spirit? Those are a harder sell. I don’t have an answer. I can’t see past the dark inside me.

How does a person come back from this?

What if there’s no coming back?

“Deirdre?”

I look up, having not noticed the door opening.

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