Dreams of 18(18)

But I think I know the answer.

He did to me what I did to him. I hurt him. I betrayed his trust. So he did the same.

I just hope he doesn’t get hurt in the process because according to Fiona’s Instagram, they’re still going strong.

The only consolation is that when I asked Fiona to never mention my breakdown to Brian, she agreed. Her exact words were, “If you think I’m going to mention Heartstone to my boyfriend, Brian, you really are crazy. You’re not taking this away from me, not again. For some reason, he chose to become friends with you and your weirdness. I’m not adding fuel to the fire by painting you as this poor, crazy little Violet who ended up at a psych ward and risk being sympathetic to you. So yeah, I’ll personally make sure that Brian never finds out.”

For once, I was happy to be on the same page with my sister.

I don’t want anyone to find out. Ever. Besides, it’s in the past now. I’m on the Outside and I’m handling things.

And I’ve got bigger fish to fry. That’s why I’m here.

In Colorado. In the middle of nowhere, it looks like.

It’s a small town called Pike’s Peak and Mr. Edwards lives a little over an hour outside of it.

The first thing that I notice when I reach my destination and park my car by the side of the road is that this road is endless.

It stretches on and on, flanked by dense trees.

In the midst of all the green and the open skies is a winding dirt path that cuts through the woods and on the cusp of it is a little red mailbox. Or rather it used to be red once upon a time, I think. Now, it looks more rusted than anything.

I should really get out of my car right now.

I’ve been sitting here, staring at that mailbox and that dirt path for about thirty minutes.

“It’s gonna be okay,” I tell myself, gripping the wheel tightly. “You can do it. You can face him.”

Then, I chuckle nervously. “Really? Can I?”

They told me not to go, my friends.

They did.

They told me that it was a bad idea.

Why did I not listen to them again?

Oh yeah, because I’m crazy.

Puffing out a breath, I sit up and straighten my shoulders. From behind my Audrey Hepburn glasses, I squint at the endless road, the mailbox and the trees.

“Just do it. Don’t think.”

I jump out of the car before I can change my mind and start jogging.

A second later, I’m standing at the mailbox. It has the house number on it, along with Edwards.

Edwards.

It sends a jolt through my body. So much so that my hand raises itself and my fingers grab hold of the rim of my glasses so I can pull them off and read the letters that make up his last name in technicolor.

But I stop myself.

For some reason, it feels too intimate to see them without the lenses. And I have no plans of feeling any kind of intimacy toward Mr. Edwards whatsoever.

So I move on.

I walk past the mailbox, putting one foot in front of the other. It’s hard. But I do it.

The dirt road is littered with leaves, some green and some crunchy yellow. My red sneakers chomp on them as I walk through them and toward what I’m hoping is going to be his house.

Right now, I can’t even see it.

Just when I think that I’m going to be walking forever, lost in the thick woods, I reach a clearing.

And in that clearing sits a house that kind of dries out my throat.

Mostly because it’s not what I expected but at the same time, it’s exactly where I expected Mr. Edwards to live.

On one hand, everything about his cabin is very masculine and woodsy and outdoorsy and tough. It’s exactly what I felt when I saw Mr. Edwards on my sixteenth birthday, hauling that coffee table.

But on the other hand, it doesn’t look like anyone lives here.

Or anyone can live here.

Because it seems inhabitable. Take the front yard, for example. It’s overrun by brambles and wild grass and shrubs that haven’t been trimmed in years. There’s a snaking stone pathway through them that leads to the stairs, which in turn lead to the porch of the cabin.

Now the stairs and the porch.

Wow. They’re made of wood but they seem to be sagging.

In fact, through all the savage flora, I can see that one of the stairs is cracked and a piece of wood is simply hanging there. Like someone’s foot just went through it.

And don’t get me started on the front door, man.

Like the mailbox, it used to be a different color but now it’s all discolored and dull.

Oh and let’s not forget the roof.

The roof is pointed toward the sky but that’s the only detail I can tell. Because all of it is covered by ivy and something else that I don’t even know the name of.

How does anyone live here?

How does he?

Because I know he lives here.

It has an air of loneliness to it. If I focused harder, I could smell it. I could smell the old wood, the mothballs, the musty scent of dust. The neglect and disarray and even hate.

Forgotten and lonely.

Just like him. So far away from civilization and aloof.

I shake my head to dispel all these silly thoughts.

I need to walk farther, go to the front door of his house and knock. But I’m not moving. I’m not even looking at the front door anymore.

I’m looking around.