What the fuck were you thinking coming back, Cecelia?
The only conclusion I can draw is the same I did last night. I can’t outlive these memories. Moving on hasn’t happened in the six summers that have passed.
There’s no help for this, no psychiatrist who can shrink this away without the full truth. There’s no pill to prescribe to help me forget.
There’s no priest I believe in enough to confess our collective sins to. There’s only a God I have taken issue with, who I’m not sure has ever heard me, and might not consider me worth listening to.
It’s always been up to me to sink or swim. And I’ve been in the deep end for years without an inch of cement to grab onto while the kick slowly drained from me.
I chug more of the bottle as the grey sky greets me and I take in the view in the distance, the cell tower blinking at me as if to say, ‘welcome home.’
Hours later, I wake with a slight hangover, my head thumping as I realize the rumble of my cell phone on my nightstand is what woke me. The silver lining is that I can’t remember a single dream I had in the last few hours. It’s when I see the name flashing on the screen that my celebration is cut short.
“Hey.”
“You were sleeping? You promised you would call when you got there.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You should be.” Guilt nags at me when I hear the plea in his voice, “Cecelia, please come home.”
“Collin, I can’t. I’m sorry. But I can’t.” I lift from my bed, disoriented, and decide I’m far too sober for this conversation.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t. I won’t deceive either of us anymore.” Grabbing the bottle and my tumbler, I take the stairs two at a time, opting for a little hair of the dog over ice. I have no issue with rock bottom. I’m comfortable here. On the rocks might be the safest place for me for the moment, much safer than walking around lying recklessly to those I love.
But the reality I’ve thrust myself into is hell on Earth. It was so much easier to lie.
“Tell me why this is happening,” he urges me gently. “Just come home so I can try to understand. You just left.”
“I gave you an explanation.” I press my tumbler into the fridge door, adding some ice and pour a generous helping of whiskey. “Collin, I won’t ever come home.”
“I don’t believe you. This is some…mental break, some…episode.”
“You’re not wrong, but it’s not a case of cold feet. I wish it were.”
“You aren’t thinking clearly. What we had was real. No one is that good of an actress.”
“I wasn’t acting. I was…masking. I wanted it to work. A lot of the time, I believed it was.” I take a healthy sip of the whiskey and glance at the clock as it flips just past midnight, bringing an end to my first day in purgatory.
“So what if you were promiscuous when you were young. I’m no saint. I don’t give a damn if you slept with half that town.”
“Are you wondering if I was faithful?” I swallow, as a guilty tear sneaks out of me.
“You told me you were.”
“And you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“But you won’t for long. You’ll wonder if I was honest about that too, and then you’ll resent me for it.”
“I won’t. If you’d just come home—”
“Stop. This is beneath you, Collin. I do love you. I always will. I’m so grateful to have been loved by you.”
“So, you just decide it’s over and I’m supposed to accept it? Are you purposefully trying to destroy me?”
“I know how cruel this seems, but I want you to know the truth of what I’ve been battling for years. The guilt I constantly feel, knowing what I’m doing is wrong. Please trust me when I say next to Christy, you’re the closest person in the world to me. But you don’t know me fully, and if you want honesty, neither does she.”
“Jesus, Cecelia, I don’t understand,” his voice cracks and I feel it, the sharp stab of pain that I’m causing, again I fill up my tumbler. The reality of losing him is taking a toll.
“Collin, I’ve come to realize I’m broken that way. I lived too much. I experienced too much when I was too young. It was intense, and it made me…think differently, crave life differently. That’s the most I can explain it. I’m capable of monogamy. I’ve been faithful to you physically. It’s just…”