Once all of the doors to his rooms were locked and we were in the bedroom by the window, Lochlan held the envelope in front of him in shaking hands.
There would have been no fanfare if I wasn't, peanut.
Just open it.
I can't. He's a leaf in the wind, shaking, pale, serious. I'm not doing any better. My mind is racing, my heart is reeling. The house is so quiet. I am trying to plan for whatever happens next but I can't because I didn't expect to be in this place.
There would have been no fanfare if I wasn't, peanut.
Just open it.
I can't. He's a leaf in the wind, shaking, pale, serious. I'm not doing any better. My mind is racing, my heart is reeling. The house is so quiet. I am trying to plan for whatever happens next but I can't because I didn't expect to be in this place.
Ever.
He lets out a long quavering breath and rips the end off. He pulls out the papers. He's skimming and passing me pages as he reads. I throw them down, I only want the last one. Paper cuts and tension are making this unbearable.
Oh Jesus Christ. Bridget, she's mine.
The black pushed around my consciousness and then the light blew it all away as I fell apart. Finally. Something good.
There is no moment more bittersweet in life than when you go digging back through years of memories to understand how you missed experiencing things in the way that you were meant to, instead of from afar. I watched all of that play across his face but all I could think of is now everything makes sense to me.
Lochlan's not a religious man. Not by a long shot. He won't pray, he won't go to church unless it's Christmas, he doesn't believe in God anymore than you believe in the bearded lady (she is real, by the way) but for the second time in my life he got down on his knees and prayed for help. The last time he did that was in a ransacked, smashed-up camper on the outskirts of a carnival parking lot, holding me in his arms. This time I just stood quietly and watched. I'm trying to decide how I feel before his input skews it, like it does for everything.
(How's your pizza?
Yummy. What about you?
A little dry, isn't it, Bridgie?
Yeah, it is, actually. Now that you mention it.)
He stands up and picks up the papers again and sits down on the bed to read through everything again. There are no questions left save for the one on everyone's mind.
He lets out a long quavering breath and rips the end off. He pulls out the papers. He's skimming and passing me pages as he reads. I throw them down, I only want the last one. Paper cuts and tension are making this unbearable.
Oh Jesus Christ. Bridget, she's mine.
The black pushed around my consciousness and then the light blew it all away as I fell apart. Finally. Something good.
There is no moment more bittersweet in life than when you go digging back through years of memories to understand how you missed experiencing things in the way that you were meant to, instead of from afar. I watched all of that play across his face but all I could think of is now everything makes sense to me.
Lochlan's not a religious man. Not by a long shot. He won't pray, he won't go to church unless it's Christmas, he doesn't believe in God anymore than you believe in the bearded lady (she is real, by the way) but for the second time in my life he got down on his knees and prayed for help. The last time he did that was in a ransacked, smashed-up camper on the outskirts of a carnival parking lot, holding me in his arms. This time I just stood quietly and watched. I'm trying to decide how I feel before his input skews it, like it does for everything.
(How's your pizza?
Yummy. What about you?
A little dry, isn't it, Bridgie?
Yeah, it is, actually. Now that you mention it.)
He stands up and picks up the papers again and sits down on the bed to read through everything again. There are no questions left save for the one on everyone's mind.
***
A month later and still the same question remains hanging in the air above me like a cloud with a pull-chain for a light to come on.
How do I feel?
Part of me is cartwheeling-happy, swinging from a rope, shouting from the rooftops ecstatic, and the other part of me is terrified of the thought of a little more of Cole slipping away from my psyche. I'm not ready for that. I might sell my soul to hang on to what I have left of him (I just got my soul back from Satan in an even trade and once I boil off the blackened outer shell I'm sure it will be as good as new). I know that's unforgivable and incomprehensible, but you didn't choose Cole.
I did, once upon a time.
Sometimes the death of a fairy tale is the most difficult death of all and here it is before me in glorious finality and I need to kiss it goodbye.