Was I afraid that I couldn’t hack it out there on my own?
Would I regret violating parole, being on the run forever? Avoiding Florida like the plague?
It’s as if some alien set up shop inside me, turning and cranking levers in my brain, confusing the hell out of me. My own feelings and thoughts so foreign; I decided, finally, that if I didn’t yet know myself, then I couldn’t stop there.
I had to keep going.
And that’s a fucking scary thought; not knowing your own damn self. Your true wants, needs, fears. Out of every messed up thing in my life, I thought I had that one covered. But I’m discovering it’s the illusion, the idea of who I thought I was that I projected to the world.
Not the truth of me—I wasn’t ready to look that deep. Not yet.
Besides, the thought of never seeing Boone again frightened me—possibly more than the discovery of Hunter. Whether he can forgive me for bailing on him, though, I don’t know. I don’t deserve any forgiveness, or his empathy for my pathetic freak-out, but I still have to see him, to know he’s all right. Eventually.
I just don’t know how to process all of it—that he’s mourning a dead child. How can two recovering addicts really help each other through that kind of pain?
I need to get my head straight before I can move forward. But I want the option to do just that. For that maybe future for the both of us.
After exiting the bridge, I swing a right down the first road I come to and make a pit stop at a gas station. I want to splash myself with water, wake myself up, get myself together somehow before I just show up at Sam’s front door.
Dar and I checked out Manhattan once, to say we did. The memory is bittersweet. We stayed a couple of days in the worst hotel, this totally shoddy, dirty, little room. But we made it work. We always made it work.
Nodding to the checkout clerk, I head to the back of the gas station. I barricade myself in the tiny bathroom, my heart palpitating out of control. Throwing the lock, I press my back against the door. Breathe in, breathe out.
I can’t go a minute without thinking of her. And it’s becoming paralyzing. I don’t understand why I’m falling apart now—why not when she first died? Fuck it; I was in shock. It’s taken this long to finally hit, and hit like a mallet.
Somehow, maybe, I have to stop seeking that elusive inner strength from her. Maybe I have to find it within myself. That’s what this solo mission is about. As long as I had her to follow my lead, I was strong, in control, brave. I feared nothing and no one.
But in reality, she was my crutch. I’ve discovered I have a few of them. I depended on Dar to need me. As long as she did, I had a plan. Never more than our next stop, or the next score. I never planned anything long-term, but I could be strong enough for the both of us when it came down to it.
Staring in the grimy mirror, I want to punch the girl looking back at me. Just reach right through the glass and strangle her. How could I fail the one person who counted on me the most?
How could I not change the chain reaction before Darla’s domino toppled over?
Simple.
Because really, truly, honestly…when it’s all said and done, I don’t have the discipline that Boone does to find a new way of life. I only know one way; mine. Only it’s no longer working.
With that gloomy thought, I leave the bathroom, buy a pack of cigarettes, and take off toward the one safe haven where I can crash and burn.
Someone’s checking me out through the peephole. Then the door swings wide open.
“Holy shit!” Sam’s arms surround me, pulling me to her petite body (she’s smaller than me, if possible) in a tight embrace that nearly crushes the breath from my lungs.
I return the hug, inhaling her lavender scented shampoo mixed with the smell of paint thinner and some other acrylic paint smell. When she pulls away, she blinks to clear the fresh tears in her eyes, and I roll mine. Really, to prevent myself from tearing up also. But she doesn’t need to know that.
“Surprise,” I say, fanning my hands around like I just poofed into existence.
“No shit, surprise. What are you doing here?”
I give a partial shrug. “Um, visiting you.”
She laughs and shakes her head, her dark hair with strategically streaked blue bangs falls across her forehead. Then she smacks her hand right over it. “Oh, right, come in! Oh, my God, I can’t believe you’re here, Mel.” She waves me into her apartment, and before I’m even fully through the doorway, she turns and says, “Where’s Darla?”
The question hits me like a direct punch to the gut. The little air left in my lungs after her hug completely depletes. I suck in a much needed full breath and don’t hold back. “Sam, I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you before…but Darla—she died.”
Sam goes sheet white. The blood drains from her flushed cheeks. Her thin mouth opens, closes, and opens agai
n, seeking words I know she can’t find. Somehow, she manages. “Sorry? Mel, what…why?” She shakes her head again. “Jesus. What happened? Are you okay?”