But it’s time to confess, to myself more so than any other, that I’d hindered my chance of a normal and healthy relationship because of the way I was built, and because of the men who built me.
At this point, I just want to make peace with who I am, no matter what ending I get.
The hardest part of all of this isn’t the fiancé whose heart I broke. It’s the knowledge that the one and only man my heart’s ever been faithful to, I will never have.
Trepidation engulfs me as more memories surface. I can still smell him, feel the swell of him inside me, taste the drop of salt in his cum, see the satisfied look in his hooded eyes. I can still feel the unmistakable rush from the looks we shared, hear the rumble of his dark chuckle, feel the wholeness from his touch.
The closer I get, the more memories come crashing over me. My resolve to face what haunts me beginning to break away piece by jagged piece. Because I have some idea of what the true end looks like, and I can’t escape it anymore.
There may be no cure, no moving on, but it’s time to deal with unfinished business.
Let the ghost hunt begin.
PULLING UP TO THE MASSIVE iron gates, I punch in the code Roman gave me and gawk as the sprawling estate comes into view when I drive through. Acres and acres of neon grass littered with trees surround the massive house in the distance. The closer I get, the more I feel like a foreigner. To the left of this palace sits a four-car garage—which I forgo—choosing to park in the circular drive at the foot of the porch. Exiting the car, I stretch my legs. The drive wasn’t long, but my limbs grew heavier with every mile as I got closer. Though the house is impressive, it feels more like a prison to me, and today is the first day of my sentence.
Opening the trunk, I gather a few of my bags and head up the steps, scanning the pristine deck. Nothing about this place feels inviting, aside from the land it sits upon, and everything about it reeks of money.
Toeing the door closed behind me, I glance around the foyer where a lone table sits with a large, empty vase that I’m sure costs more than my car. There’s a grand staircase to my right and to my left, a formal dining room. Deciding to skip the self-guided tour, I cradle my phone on my shoulder as I haul my bags up to the second floor. She answers on the second ring.
“Hey girl, I made it.”
“This is bullshit,” Christy greets as I enter my designated cell and glance around. Inside sits a stark white four-poster bed my dad had delivered, along with a matching dresser, chest of drawers and vanity. It’s regal in taste, stark white, and nothing at all like me, which isn’t surprising. He doesn’t know me.
“It’s just until next fall.”
“That’s a year, Cecelia, a year. We just graduated. This is our last summer before college starts, and your mom decides to take time for herself?”
It’s not the whole truth, but I let her believe it for my mother’s sake because I’m still at a loss on how to explain it. The sad truth is my mother had a breakdown of epic proportions that led to her losing her job and scraping to pay bills she could no longer afford. Her boyfriend offered to let her stay with him, the operative word being her, not her bastard child. My mother and I have always been close, but even I don’t recognize her anymore. Despite my best efforts of being her good girl, she retreated into herself a few months ago, drinking White Russians day and night for weeks until she stopped getting out of bed. She’d all but abandoned me on her quest for a daily buzz. Though I’d tried, and desperately pressed for reasoning and answers she wouldn’t give, I didn’t know the first thing on how to help her, so I didn’t give her grief about entertaining my father’s proposed and conditional living arrangements.
Seeing her unravel like that was terrifying, and in her state, I didn’t want her going without, especially after all her years of being a single parent. When times became desperate, I asked my father to extend child support—just temporarily—to get her through financially, even though the money he sent monthly and without fail was a drop in the bucket for him—the cost of one of his tailored suits. He refused, and shortly before I graduated, he signed his last check, the act making it seem more like a final paycheck of services rendered like she’d been his employee.
In my wildest dreams, I can’t fathom how they ever coupled at any point, or how they could have been the two to conceive me because these are two people who had no business procreating. They are universal opposites. My mother is…or was until recently, a free spirit with plenty of vices. My father is a conservative with a critical tongue and militant self-discipline. From what I remember, his schedule is like clockwork and rarely changes. He wakes up, works out, eats half a grapefruit, and then goes to work until the sun sinks. His only indulgence when I was younger was a few tumblers of gin after a long day That’s the whole of the private information I know, due to his discretion. The rest I can look up online. He owns a Fortune 500 company that used to deal in chemicals but now manufactures electronics. His high rise is a little over an hour away in Charlotte, his primary manufacturing plant here in Triple Falls. I’m certain he built here because it’s where he grew up, and I have zero doubt he revels in rubbing his success in the noses of his former classmates, some of whom now work for him.