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Because, to this day, I had a hard time walking away from him.
Something inside of me—some insidious thing, deep down in the dregs of my soul raged against every step that took me in the opposite direction of him.
Even after all this time, it raged.
CHAPTER
SIX
“Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.”
~Emily Brontë
I don’t sleep well. I never have.
My subconscious hates me. It exploits me at my weakest moments. When I can’t control my own mind, it conjures up new and old nightmares to taunt me—ruthlessly and consistently.
My dreams like to trap me. Take me back to places I badly want to leave. Back to feelings I desperately wanted to forget.
That night my sleep was particularly wretched, as I dreamed about Dante and the way it used to be. The could haves and the what ifs were my own personal hell and had been for a very long time.
I liked to blame Dante for everything that went wrong between us, and when I was in my right mind, I did. But my subconscious had other ideas. How much of our end had been my fault? And worse, how much of it had been preventable? He’d started the avalanche that ended us forever, but it was a fact that I’d fed that disaster once it had started rolling.
If I was brutally honest with myself, I’d even helped to start it. Not deliberately, but I’d always just been so insecure.
When I was a child, I thought that no one would ever love me. For the longest time, I was certain of this. It was me against the world, and the world was cruel.
But then.
Then.
Dante.
He loved me so deep and so hard that I was blinded by it.
I thought it was a miracle. I was so young, so impressionable, so infatuated.
So stupid. For years and years, all I had the sense to do was bask in it.
I let our love rule my life. It was everything to me. He was. I became possessive of every part of him. And it didn’t take much for that possessive streak to turn ugly. My jealous rages were infamously brutal on us both.
How much had that desperate insecurity contributed to pushing him away? If I’d been less difficult, less needy, less fundamentally fucked in the head, would things be different?
I tossed and turned all night with those impossible questions tormenting my overactive mind. I’d have been better off just staying up all night, but I was paralyzed, frozen to the hard hotel mattress until my alarm freed me.
I reported for work in a hell of a mood.
“I take it things didn’t go well,” Leona finally asked me as we strode through the terminal, headed for our plane. I hadn’t said a word to anyone on the ride from the hotel to the airport. Not so much as a good morning for a one of them.
I didn’t look at her as I answered. “Everything went according to plan. I won, he lost. He shouldn’t bother me for a while.” My tone was curt. It was my leave me alone voice, and she knew to do just that. It was one of the reasons we could hang.
I was a loner by nature, and she was a nice, friendly, sociable girl that never seemed to have a bad day. When I’d first met her, that had annoyed the hell out of me. But over time, when I’d realized it wasn’t an act, that she was just somehow inherently good, the girl couldn’t help it if she tried, she’d started to grow on me. And over time, as I’d given her a shot, and found that she didn’t expect me to be like her, I’d become dangerously attached. More so than I usually allowed myself. It was her tolerance that got me, when I normally had no problem staying aloof.
If she saw a storm brewing in me, as it inevitably did, she had the sense to give me space. I’d never been a girls’ girl. I didn’t keep female friends for long, before Leona. She was the first girl-friend I’d ever had that did that, that took the time to understand me enough to just back off sometimes.
As though taking her cue, Demi and Farrah did the same. They didn’t know me or my situation with Dante like Leona did, but they knew enough.
My mood improved a bit as we started to work. Keeping busy was distracting enough that my mind began to clear from the fog of my dreams.
