Page 89 of Fragile Lives
So, I started drinking heavier than before—the very thing she gave me shit for. I came to work in an Uber, already drunk, and I left in one, too wasted to the point of not remembering my own name. But not once did I think about another woman. Not once, and there were plenty of opportunities. Women love me and they love my money, and before, I’d enjoy every single one of them, but not anymore. Something in me shifted after that time in the cabin. Hell, it shifted way before that, on the bridge.
But she doesn’t know all of that, and I can see now how she might have thought something was going on when she saw us together. When Leila opened the door, Cherry was trying to convince me to go to get my shit together; go to rehab before I find the balls to go to Little Hope to talk to Leila. I told her thatLeila had my balls in her hands just as she opened the door at that exact moment…
She told me she loved me. I’ll never forget that. When I was balls-deep in her, she told me she loved me. I thought it was just the orgasm talking, and she’d take it back when she’d come down from the high. But she didn’t. She sent me running for the hills with parting words of love. Words I don’t deserve and never will. How can she love me? A monster responsible for the lives of his brothers? How can she do that?
I look at the parlor and decide not to go back because I can’t handle Cherry’s looks and supportive words. I know she means well, but I’m beyond saving, and we both know that.
I’m about to get into an Uber when Cherry cries out my name. I turn toward the voice and find her running to me in her high heels, shaking a newspaper in her hands. She nearly falls on her ass, and I make a move toward her to help, but she straightens herself and continues her run.
“Wait up, Archie.” She waves the paper in her hands. “You forgot this.”
“Shit, yeah. Thank you.” I take it from her. “Did you look inside?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Something must be so important in there that she drove all the way here from Maine to hand-deliver it. I think you’re the only one she wanted to read it.”
“Thank you, Cherry.” And I mean it.
“Archie,” she sighs, “she’s the one.”
“The one?” I try to laugh. I’ve never had this conversation with her before. I mean, is she talking marriage?
“The one who’ll give you a reason to live.” She places her gentle hand on my chest and holds my eyes as she speaks. “Please, Archie. Let her help you.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t say it.” She punches her fist into my chest. “It’s me. Don’t offend me with the lies. Please.”
I shut my mouth and listen. For once. She’s been trying to cure me for many years now, just like other women tried. Cherry is family though, so it feels different, but I’d never responded to any of it. Until now.
“Please, let her help you.”
She pats my chest one more time and starts walking backward. I watch her until she disappears inside the building, and a loud horn sounds to my right. The Uber window rolls down, and the guy yells, “You comin’ or not?”
I glance toward my shop once again and get inside the car, careful not to ruin the newspaper in my hands.
On the way home, I try calling Leila a couple more times, but it goes straight to voicemail. Shit. I’ll sober up tomorrow and drive there.
Wait, maybe I should go there today. Just take a taxi. But then I get a whiff of myself—I smell like a fuckin’ distillery—she doesn’t deserve that, so I decide on going home for now and making myself presentable.
A cold, empty house greets me like it does every single time. No amount of furniture can fill it with joy or homey feelings.
I call Leila one more time with the same success, and my mood drops even lower. I’m gonna be sober tomorrow, but today I drink.
I grab a bottle of bourbon and move to the couch. Not bothering with a glass, I down a third of the bottle, and my head instantly heavies. I’m used to alcohol in big doses, but maybe this was a little too fast. Since I decided to change my path of self-destruction, I should probably slow down, so I place the bottle on the table.
Right next to the newspaper. The newspaper she wanted to hand-deliver, and I fucked up the moment. I grab it and unfold it. The headline on the first page makes my heart stop.
Heroes who have been deemed villains, got redeemed.
I open the next page with shaking hands.
…and the list goes on and on as the article continues exposing the night that ruined so many lives.
I’m wiping away the tears I didn’t know were running down my face. My nose is itchy, and I try to breathe through my mouth.
I haven’t seen their names for many years. Didn’t think I deserved to say them. They’re dead because of me. Me.
But this article says it’s not because of me? I can’t believe it. I can’t. Because if I do, it means that the system I gave years to fucked me over. That they made me live with this guilt for years. That nothing is sacred anymore.
