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And that’s exactly why she deserves better than you.
My heart is pounding like a fucked clock. My palms are slick with sweat.
It’s been hours, and apart from the sound of her using the bathroom once or twice, Hannah is silent.
She doesn’t want to talk to me, and I deserve this. I’m a piece of shit. I’m not going to feel sorry for myself about it, but I have to make this right. I can’t… I can’t have her cry over this or blame herself. I’m the one with the rules and the problems, not her. I should never have put this on her. I should never have yelled.
I scrape my hands through my hair.
Fuck. Fuck, please, Hannah. I’m sorry. Fuck.
There has to be something I can do.
The lock on the bedroom door clicks, and I straighten.
Hannah cracks the door open and sees me sitting there. Her eyes are red. My stomach sinks, and I hate myself so thoroughly, I feel sick.
“Hannah,” I murmur.
“Not your princess any more, huh?” she asks.
“Hannah, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want apologies. You can save that for Charlotte,” she says. “I assume she’s your real princess, right? Or no, maybe she’s your queen.”
My stomach turns, and blood rushes to my ears. The sound of screaming. My own screaming. Pain. A memory that threatens to drag me back into the past. I start shaking. “Hannah,” I manage. “Please.” My throat tightens with emotion, my eyes are hot, prickling. I’m on the brink of an episode.
I focus on my breathing. I reach into the pocket of my jeans and find it. The soft chain links. I run my fingers over them. Here. Present. I fix my gaze on Hannah, breathing hard.
Her face has fallen into concern.
Even now, when she’s furious with me, she’s worried.
“Hannah,” I manage.
“What’s going on?” she asks. “Savage? Are you okay? Do you need help? What’s wrong?”
“Hannah, I’m sorry,” I say. “I… Just give me a second.”
She stands there, watching me. I trace my fingers over the bracelet in my pocket, fixating on it. I breathe slowly, bringing myself back.
Inhaling and exhaling. Slowly.
“There are things,” I say, finding the strength inside, “that you don’t know about me.”
Hannah sits down in the doorway, keeping her distance but watching me. She’s wary, and I don’t blame her. She must think I’m crazy. Maybe I am.
“Charlotte,” I say, “is dead.”
Hannah’s eyes widen.
“She was my wife.” The words are clipped. I’m hanging on.
Hannah’s mouth drops open. She lifts her hand to cover it.
“She died sixteen years ago,” I say, and the breathing helps. But I fixate on Hannah’s face to help me even more. She’s wide-eyed and listening, and right now, she is my anchor. “She died because of me.”
Easy. Slow breaths.
