I get everything packed, clothes, electronics, passport – all of the shit that sits in the closet waiting for the word go on a moment’s notice – but when I turn to take one last glance at my bedroom to make sure I’ve got everything, my feet falter as my eyes fall on Stella’s camera collecting dust on the top of my dresser. Conscious that time is limited, I walk over and reach out for it, my finger wiping away a streak of dust.
It’s been a little over nine months since I last saw her smile, heard her voice, laughed with her. For the first time since then, I think I’m ready to see the images from that night. I’m ready to face them.
Not to forget her, but just to say good-bye.
Because for the first time in forever, I can admit that guilt held me hostage from doing it. And not guilt because she was out buying me a birthday present when she was killed but instead for not protecting her long enough for her to find her once-in-a-lifetime. God yes, I loved her. Loved her company and her corny jokes and so many more things about her, but I wasn’t that person for her. It’s taken me the longest time to realize that. And maybe, just maybe, when the hurt fades from all of the shit with Beaux, I’ll be able to be thankful to her for that because learning that I loved Beaux, feeling the intensity of that connection, made me realize what that once-in-a-lifetime might possibly feel like.
And even though it still feels like a spilled beaker full of acid in my chest at times, I know it’s possible. And at least I know that I wasn’t cheating Stella out of that by not trying to rekindle what we might have had.
When I pick up the camera and turn it on, I’m surprised that the battery is still charged enough that when I click over to the slide show of pictures, it responds. The first image that pops up causes a lump to form in my throat but also a smile to come to my face. Stella has her arm around me, a silly cone-shaped party hat on her head, and her tongue stuck out at the camera while I’m beside her, an exasperated look on my face but a smirk on my lips. And of course the first picture captures us perfectly – our friendship, our partnership, everything – so much that it’s just what I need to see to know I’m right and at the same time to be able to say good-bye.
I flip through the rest of them quickly. Pauly dancing on the tabletop, Bob’s Pee-wee Herman dance that I’ll never forget, the shots lined up and down the bar top, the disaster of a birthday cake they made me, but none of them compares to the one time that Beaux stepped out from behind the camera for the picture of the two of us.
Feeling less burdened, I stare one more time at the image of two people lucky in friendship, carefree, and lost in the moment before I look up to catch my own reflection. The lines around my eyes are a little deeper now and my eyes a lot more weary, the curve of my mouth still holding on to the bitterness some. Reflections don’t lie. They magnify the truths you want to hide from, the reality you don’t want to face, the shit you need to get over.
They also make you want to punch the mirror so you don’t have to see anything you don’t want to.
Well, at least I’ve dealt with one of the two women who fucked me up. It’s still best if I don’t think about the other one too much.
Restraining order, my ass.
Chapter 29
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