Page 48 of When I Come Back
Ripley: Gotcha. You didn’t answer the other question.
Me: Because I don’t have an answer…
Ripley: I’m sorry, babe…
Me: Me too. I’m heading home. Love you, thank you for tonight.
Ripley: Yeah, of course. Love you too.
I’m familiar with the five stages of grief having gone through them a couple times in my life. This time, as I mourn my second chance at a future with Cary, I skipped right over denial since reality was staring me in the face and was really fucking hard to deny. Depression hit first. I’d spent the full hour after seeing Iris at the bar in the distillery with Ripley crying a goddamn river over it all.
I never thought Cary was capable of hurting me in this way. I didn’t think he was capable of being so cruel. It made me wonder if this was karma for breaking his heart eight years ago. If it is—congratulations. It got me fucking good. Ripley had disagreed though. He’d told me since I came home to help with my mom’s care, I was given a free pass. He said it as if he personally knew how these decisions are made, like he has an in with karma herself. The thought made me laugh at the time.
Had it not been for Ripley, there was no way I could have attended that horrid dinner. He’d given me the option to bail. He told me he’d cover for me and say I was sick. He’d even offered to tell everyone his own secret, so I didn’t have to go out there and pretend I wasn’t upset because why would I be when I’m with Ripley? I never would have let him do that though. And it was better with him by my side. I could lean on him, and no one would question it.
Ripley wasn’t one to let anyone get away with hurting someone he loves though. He’d made it his mission to make sure Cary was uncomfortable. By that point, I’d entered into the anger stage of my grief, so I was more than happy to play along. I didn’t hold back my glares, and I didn’t pretend everything was fine. I made sure he felt my wrath from across the table. He’d played me so fucking well. I’m still mad at myself for falling for it.
I turn to leave the patio, but my eyes snag on Iris’ ring sitting on the railing. Picking it up, the facets glimmer, catching thelight from the parking lot. I stare at it for a minute before I pocket it and climb down the steps.
The drive home is silent. I don’t put on music, I don’t call my mom or Rip, I just drive with only my thoughts to keep me company. I let them fuel my rage for Carrington Grant. I want to hold onto my anger until I slip into acceptance. Bargaining won’t be a part of my grief for him or the relationship I thought we were re-establishing.
I pull into my driveway, turn off the car, and sit there for a moment. When I left my house this morning, I was excited about my future. I was nervous and anxious, too, but I attributed that to my own issues. Maybe, subconsciously, I knew something was off. I’d tried to convince myself Ripley was wrong, thinking Cary’s note seemed odd. I knew it had seemed too good to be true. That’s why I’d been on edge to begin with. So why was I so surprised when it blew up in my face?
The lights inside my car dim, illuminating the clock on the dash telling me it’s almost ten. I take a deep breath, finally reach over the middle console to grab my purse from the passenger seat, and go inside.
I need acceptance to hurry the fuck up.
Once inside the house, I lock the door behind me and beeline for my bedroom to change into pajamas. As I walk into the kitchen, I remember the ice cream in the freezer. I need some sugar to drown my sorrows in.
As I reach for the cutlery drawer, I spot the leftover pumpkin pie from last night. My heart constricts with the memory of how fuckinghappyI felt yesterday, how everything felt like it was finally falling back into place.
Without wasting any more thought on what could have been, I shove the pie to the end of the counter and into the trash can.
I grab a spoon, forgoing a bowl because no one is here to judge me—and even if they were, I wouldn’t give a fuck—and grab the cookies and cream from the freezer.
I’ve already determined that sleeping in my bed tonight isn’t an option since it’ll just serve as a reminder. The sheets still smelled of him when I got up this morning. I relished it when I woke up, now I’m seriously considering taking them outside and lighting them on fire. I could watch them burn to ash like our relationship just did.
My favorite blanket waits for me on the couch as I slouch down into it. I turn onNew Girl—my all-time-favorite comfort show—and proceed to eat my weight in ice cream.
Around the fourth episode, I must have fallen asleep because I’m awoken by my phone ringing on the end table. I swipe at my eyes and sit up but realize a second too late that the ice cream container was still in my lap. It starts to tumble onto the floor, but I catch it at the last second, just barely avoiding a huge melted ice cream mess that really would have been the cherry on top of my shit sundae of a night.
On the fifth ring, I grab my phone and bring it to my ear without seeing who it is first.
“Hello?” my voice cracks at the end.
“Hey, Thea… uhh, it’s Nat.” My bartender’s voice wakes me up more, I pull the phone away from my ear to see it’s a few minutes after midnight. My heartbeat picks up with panic at hearing the uncertainty in her voice.
“Nat, what is it? Is everything okay?” I’m already getting up from the couch, turning off the TV, and walking toward my room to find some clothes.
“Oh, umm… kind of? I just—I didn’t know who to call…” she trails off at the end which makes me even more nervous.
“You’re scaring me, did something happen at the restaurant? Are you okay?” My mind is going a mile a minute as I hold thephone to my ear with my shoulder, freeing my hands to slip on my jeans.
“I’m fine! The restaurant is fine. But… Mr. Grant has been drinking for the last few hours, and when I asked him who I could call, he asked for you…” she pauses for a moment before quickly adding, “I know it’s late, and I’m so sorry for that. I just didn’t know what else to do.”
I take the phone away from my ear to put it on speaker while I finish getting dressed, sliding an old band tee over my head. “No, no, don’t be sorry. Which… Mr. Grant are we talking about?” I ask, knowing with my luck, she doesn’t mean Brooks.
“Oh, right. Cary, not Brooks.”
