Echo(48)

Well, almost.

Declan is still here, but in a sense, he was destroyed as well. His heart still beats, but not like it used to. My choices—my decisions—they’re poisonous. I used that poison for power, but it backfired.

“Are you okay?” Isla’s voice interjects.

“I made bad choices,” I say without thought. The words simply fall from my lips before I can stop them.

“Welcome to life, my dear,” she condoles. “I could write a novel with all the mistakes and ill choices I’ve made in my years. But I’ve come to realize that’s what it’s about. Sometimes we have to fall to know how to stand back up. Sometimes we have to hurt people to recognize our flaws and to see that we need to better ourselves.”

“Did you ever find that some of your choices were so bad they were unforgivable?” I ask as regret stirs in my veins.

“Yes,” she admits with her chin held high. “But even though I knew they were unforgivable, I was still forgiven.”

“Who was it that forgave?”

She pauses, and when the corners of her mouth lift in a subtle smile, she answers, “My husband.”

“You hurt him?”

“I hurt him terribly.”

“Why did he forgive you?” I ask.

“It’s called grace. When we love, and when that love comes from the purity of your heart, you give grace. You find compassion and forgive because we’re all flawed. We all make mistakes, but love’s devotion doesn’t cast stones.”

I want to believe the love Declan once had for me did come from a pure place. That there’s still hope for forgiveness. That there’s still a shimmer inside of him that still wants me. Because for me, it’s more than a shimmer—it’s a raging fire of need and desire I have for him. But after what he did to me today, I don’t see this working out. Isla’s words are nice and flowery, but flowers eventually wilt and die no matter how much love you give in tending to their needs.

“You look like you could use a distraction,” she says before suggesting, “Why don’t you settle back into your room, and when you’re ready, how would you like to help me prepare dinner?”

“That actually sounds lovely, but unfortunately, I can’t cook.”

“Everyone can cook. All you need is someone to guide you.”

Smiling at her invitation, I accept her offer, and agree, “Okay then. But I’m warning you now, I’ve been known to incinerate food beyond consumption.” I laugh at the memory of the first time Declan tried teaching me to make champagne chicken and I charred the meal. But that laughter is tainted. It’s bittersweet. My time with Declan back in Chicago held some of the best moments in my life, even though I was just an illusion of a better version of me.

“If I could teach my daughter how to cook, I can surely teach you,” she tells me as we stand.

Picking up my bags, I look over and tease, “But is her cooking any good?”

“She always made the best meals.”

“Made?” I question her use of the past tense.

“She left this world many years ago.”

“How did she die?” I question, knowing all too well the annoyance of the overused I’m sorry people give who clearly haven’t suffered a death filled with I’m sorry’s.

“It was a senseless act of violence, but that’s part of life, dear,” she says, attempting to downsize the ache, but her loss is seen in the gloss of the unshed tears of her eyes. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she says and then walks out of the room.

Death is imminent—I know this all too well—but no matter how much we lose, no matter how numb we become, we always feel the pinprick of the vacancy. The parts of our soul that our loved ones take with them when they leave this world are forever left unfilled. They’re empty wounds that are always exposed and unable to heal.

As I make my way up to my room, I settle my things in and decide to keep myself busy to block out the thoughts that keep filtering in. Memories of this morning’s defilement. The vision of Declan when I looked at him, his villainous eyes, blackened in rage, keeps finding its way into my head. He was a riled beast, taking what he wanted, forcing his power on me.

Shaking the visions away, I quickly rush out of the room to find Isla for the much needed diversion. We spend the rest of the day in the kitchen, and I find myself enjoying my time with her. We cook, share a bottle of wine, and enjoy each other’s company, and I’m thankful for the distraction she’s able to provide me.