Before She Disappeared(71)

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—

I call Lotham. It’s late, but it doesn’t surprise me that he picks up immediately.

“You should pull the fake ID Angelique dropped yesterday. I have reason to believe the ID itself might be a clue.”

A pause, the weight of many unasked questions, such as why did I believe such a thing now and who might I have been speaking with. Then: “I’ll retrieve it from evidence first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

Then, we don’t speak. I stay on my puny little flip phone. I listen to him breathe. And it’s like knives flaying my skin. The sense of déjà vu. The harsh knowledge that this is the only way I know how to connect. All these years later, nothing has changed. I am me, and the rest of the world, the good guys like Paul, like Lotham . . .

“Good night,” I say at last, my voice thick. I might be crying, but I don’t want to be.

“Good night,” he agrees.

He ends the call. I sit in my threadbare room, holding my phone against my chest and telling myself I have no reason to be sad when this is the life I’ve chosen for myself. Eventually, I change into my sleeping clothes, brush my teeth, and climb into bed. Lights out. One day done, another soon to begin.

But once again, my dreams haunt me.

Paul: “Are you going to tell me what’s really going on?”

Me: “I just have work to do.”

“Are you drinking again?”

“No! It has nothing to do with that.”

“Then why all the secrecy, the disappearing act?”

“I told you, I’m looking into something, a friend’s missing daughter . . .”

“What’s it to you?”

Me, hostile: “What’s it to you?”

“There you go again. I’m trying to ask a question, you make it a war.”

“I’m not making it a war!”

“You keep secrets, Frankie. You enforce boundaries, erect walls. Then turn around and try to pretend it doesn’t matter. What’s it going to take for you to be honest with me?”

“What’s it going to take for you to trust me?”

“You’re an addict. You really have to ask that?”

Me, staring at him, feeling my throat thicken and my chest compress. “It’s not always about drinking!”

“Then what’s it about?”

My mouth opens, but the words don’t come out. I stare at his kind, earnest face. I gaze into the eyes of the man who loves me. And once again, I feel nothing but my own frantic heartbeat. I gotta go. I gotta get out. I can’t handle this.

I found this man. I fell in love with his kindness, his patience. He saw me, all of me, and he didn’t turn away. He let me in. He held back my hair while I puked my way through detox. He spoon-fed me broth while I slowly fought my way back to living. He crawled into bed beside me, all those horrific nights, when I shook uncontrollably and prayed for death but never actually let go because I didn’t want to disappoint him.

He is my anchor. The best person I’ve ever met. If I think of life without him, I feel pain, way down deep in the place that alcohol once took away, and now I will always get to live with.

And yet, day after day after day. This life. This existence. I don’t feel joy or contentment or everlasting peace.

I think, most of the time, don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t look at me.

I think, all of the time. I wish I could disappear. Vanish without a trace. Never to be seen again.

My hand, on the doorknob, trembling slightly. “I’ll be back later.”

Paul, his handsome face now contorted. “Don’t bother.”

“Okay.”

“It’s that easy for you? Just walk away, never look back? For God’s sake, I love you, Frankie.”

Me, twisting the doorknob. “Okay.”

“Okay? That’s all you have to say? Fucking okay? You break my heart.”

“I love you,” I whisper finally, though it’s not enough. We both know it’s not enough. I so wish I were on the other side of the door. I so wish . . .

“Get the fuck out, Frankie.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not,” he says bitterly. “It never was.”

And me, a stupid broken record. “Okay.”

I leave.

He lets me.

Okay. Okay. Okay.

And then, mere hours, days, an entire lifetime later:

“What did you do, Frankie? Dear God, what did you do?”

Now I’m the one crying. I’m the one cradling his head in my arms. The blood, the blood, the blood. Dear God, the blood.

“I love you. I love you, I love you. I promise I loved you.”

But there’s just so much blood. As his eyes close, and his breath starts to rattle.

“What did you do?” Paul asks me, one last time.

“I loved you . . .”



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—

I wake up screaming. Or maybe I’m sobbing. It’s hard to be sure which. Piper is curled up against my lower back. I focus on the sound of her rumbling purr as I stare into the dark, willing my breathing to ease, the horror to fade.

Paul is gone.