Page 11 of Love is Angry

If I’m in Rochester and not at that open dinner thing, there will be gloating. It will be proof that I don’t want to be around Julian—and it would be the truth. Why deny it, still, when it’s technically him who sent me away, in the first place? Truth be told, I would have liked another gap year before starting classes again. I would have liked to spare my dad any additional expenses for this educational endeavor, yet I ended up doing theexact opposite. He doesn’t mind, of course, but damn it—that day continues to haunt me.

By the time I reach my dorm room, Dad’s already fixing up dinner for himself. I think he’s got Noelle over, too. I may have heard her in the background, earlier. I don’t know why he’s so secretive when it comes to her being at the house. He knows I like Noelle, despite their age difference. The thought of a younger woman and an older man shouldn’t make anyone squirm, unless…

White lightning flashes before my eyes and I’m pretty sure I break into a cold sweat. The decay and descent into despair is so sudden, so mean and merciless and determined to break me down that I just fall apart. My dad, Noelle, my mom… everything in my life fades away as I manage to lock the front door and lean with my back against it.

My heart is thumping as the past forces its way back into my future. The way Julian touched me, flipped me over, how easy my legs spread as he pushed himself inside of me.Heat bursts up my throat, colliding with the regret I’ve felt ever since I made the decision to go back to the Echeveria house that night.

“No, no more…” I’m crying. It’s muffled, and no one can hear me.

And then I’m seeing it like it’s happening all over again, Rhue’s eyes meeting mine. The anger in them. The pain in them. I will never forget that moment. I broke him in that moment. I broke his heart. His happiness. His family. But I have paid for my mistakes.

The pounding follows a rhythm. It’s rough and hard. It hurts. I can feel myself clenching. I can feel the past’s grip on my flesh, its claws ripping through my soul as I understand for the millionth time that it will never truly be over.

The vivid memory becomes a reality of sorts, as the bitterness of regret climbs down my throat and mixes with thebile that is so eager to come out and spill all over the dormitory’s cream carpet.

At least I’m not sharing this room with anyone. I can just fall to my knees and shudder and cry my heart out until my eyes are dry and empty marbles.

I curl into a fetal position and allow the first waves of a panic attack to take over. I have learned that it’s better to give into it than to fight it. It’s better to let the storm rage through me until it dies out.

One moment, I’m trying to be a better Madison, to make friends, to build a career, and to look into the future. Next thing I know, it’s all coming apart at the seams, and the past returns with a vengeance, the vivid nightmares making my very spirit scream in agony. No, it isn’t over. I doubt it will ever truly be over. I can only survive. Right now, seeing Rhue again has triggered new crises. I need to find a way to rise above.

One day at a time, right?

Just one day at a time.

Chapter 6

Rhue

Laura keeps her promise, much to my dismay.

My sister is spending the weekend with me in Ithaca. It does beat going back to Rochester to see her, so this is the closest I’ll get to a silver lining after the nightmarish week I’ve had.

Three days in Cornell, and I’m already thinking about blowing the whole place up. Fire cleanses everything, and only fire can wipe away the memory of Madison’s presence and the print of her every touch, of her every step. And that Cameron dude, the nerve on the fucker…

It’s not his fault. It’s Madison. She sways that glorious ass around, she turns that sweet smile on, opens her mouth and gushes out her signature charm, and that’s it. Game over for any man who dares cross her path. I was one of her victims, too.

I turn to face my sister. Laura is halfway through with unpacking some kitchenware I ordered for this apartment—a two-bedroom on the ground floor of a historical building in the center of Ithaca. There’s a great view from the living-room’s massive windows, overlooking the entire town with its tall aspens and nightly twinkling lights.

“I’m surprised you weren’t more persistent about me coming back for the weekend,” I tell Laura.

She finishes filling the bottom cabinet with a few pots and pans before turning her wheelchair to look at me. That dry smile she puts on sometimes reminds me of Mom. Most of Laura’s physical traits come from Dad’s side of the family, much like mine—crow black hair, olive skin, slender nose and full lips, tall cheeks and broad shoulders. We’ve got some Aztec genes, or so Grandmama used to say, at least. But our dark blue eyes come from Mom, along with many of her facial expressions. From an anthropological point of view, that is rooted in us spending more time with Mom. Since Dad was always busy, we got most of our social cues from her—including mannerisms.

“I imagine Dad would want us to have dinner together.”

“We both know Dad is the last person you want to see right now,” Laura replies. “Besides, I was hoping this weekend would be more for the two of us. Three’s a crowd.”

“Wow, you really despise the old man,” I chuckle and unpack another courier box. This one has the espresso machine. I find it a pleasure to install, with my attention split between the instruction manual and my sister, who is now stuffing wrapping papers and bubble wrap into an empty box before she can take another one on. I’m proud of her. Laura has been remarkably self-sufficient since her fall.

The knock on my apartment door reminds me that Dad doesn’t trust her as much.

“Miss Laura, I’m back!” Steve calls out. I’m still pondering whether to let him in or not. He’s a glorified babysitter. He means well, and he’s paid well, but Laura can’t stand it when he’s around. Steve is a constant reminder of her invalidity, much like the wheelchair. She needs him when I’m not around, and I would like nothing more than to make my sister feel better. Mom’s suicide took its toll on us; on Laura most of all. Dad andhis way of handling Laura’s new condition haven’t made it any easier, either. “Open the door, please,” Steve says.

Laura rolls her eyes. “Ugh.”

“He’s useful,” I chuckle.

“Not right now, he isn’t! Can’t we get rid of him? He’s just here to spy on us for Dad, anyway. You know that.”

---