Page 71 of The Biker and the Loner
Then one morning I woke up, gazed out of my window at two birds drinking from the tiered fountain, and I felt...peace.
"I'm okay," I'd whispered to myself. "I'm okay."
That afternoon, during my therapy session, I said all the things out loud that I'd refused to say over the past few weeks.
I am a victim.
I am a victim of sexual and emotional abuse.
I amnotresponsible for Kathy’s death.
I deserve to be happy.
I deserve to be free.
I deserve to be loved.
I deserve to be happy.
I deserve to be free.
I deserve to be loved.
On the night Kathy slit her wrists and bled out on our bathroom floor, she’d left a note on my bed. It contained three words.
Please come home.
The cops inferred that she’d left it there for me to see in case I came home while she wasn’t there. Which didn’t make sense since Kathy was always home. Not to mention she’d placed that note on my bed right before she did the deed.
With the help of my therapist, I came to understand that “home” in the note, means death. Kathy had lost her grip on me in life, so she wanted me to join her in death.
Offing herself was just another form of control and manipulation over me. She knew I would blame myself, especially after the promise I made Papà. I believe she counted on it—counted on me being so guilt-ridden that I would want to either live in misery or end my life. Unbeknownst to me, she’d even secured the spot next to Papà’s grave and left her wishes that in the event of her death, she was to be buried next to him—much to her family’s dismay, who was prepared to fly her body back to Europe for a proper royal funeral.
Please come home.
Maybe I'd known it all along but chose to hide behind guilt and blame as an excuse to deprive myself of happiness and a healthy mind. Deprive myself ofhim.
In rehab, though, there is no hiding. In the quietude and endless deliberate stillness, your emotions are all there like tattoos on your skin. Time moves slow as molasses, and it feels never-ending.So much time to think, and think, and think, that when you run out of lies to tell yourself, there is nothing left but the truth, and you have no choice but to face it.
I don’t need the sixth week, but I’m staying, nonetheless, because as much time as I’ve had to think over the past four weeks, I still have a lot more thinking to do…
About my life. My future. Andhim—my forward.
~
I don't recognize the shiny blue truck that waits for me in the pickup area. Toni had volunteered to come get me, so I'm expecting her Porsche. But Owen, the concierge, assures me that the Ford Raptor outside is for me.
Gripping the straps of my duffel, I exhale and say goodbye to the place that has given me the longest, tightest, warmest hug I've ever received, then jot down the steps to the pickup area.
When I pull on the glossy chrome handle of the truck to open the door, I'm surprised to see an old friend.
Grunt.
We haven't spoken since he ended our friendship to start his life with Toni. He's loyal like that—to her, not me.
"H-Hey," I say, taken aback. He's still as handsome as ever. Golden hair, golden skin, and piercing blue eyes.
His lips kick up in a smirk. "You gonna get in or nah?"
