But the second she ran off after Constantine, her narrative switched. She became the same weak, mewling cunt her mother had turned into when she’d run off after the dogs she called “husband material.”
Sutton didn’t know why she did it. Revenge on Ethan wasn’t enough to debase herself like this. To bed someone she knew she didn’t truly want. It took her back to a time she’d rather forget, a time when she was indiscriminate, looking for attention and popularity any way she could find it. It had gotten her in a huge mess then and she had the same sneaking instinct that her actions of the past few days were going to have the same effect.
She was losing her nerve.
After everything she’d done to assure herself a clean getaway, a fresh life, a break from the world that intimidated and threatened her, lying under Constantine’s straining body all she could think of was going home. Slinking back to Nashville with her tail between her legs.
It wasn’t worth it, this. There was no medicine in the world, psychotropic, alcoholic, or sexual, that would fill the empty, gnawing hole in her.
She wanted her baby back. She wanted her husband back. She wanted her career back. She wanted her life back.
She wanted. God, she wanted. She’d spent her whole fucking life wanting. As a child, wanting to create. As a teen, wanting to fit in. As an adult, wanting to land the perfect man. And she’d finally achieved all the things she wanted, and she’d thrown them away. It had taken this empty affair to show her the way.
An hour later, feeling sore between the legs and sick to her stomach with self-hate, she had just enough respect left for herself to tell Constantine to leave.
Good night and goodbye.
He’d looked at her sideways, as if to argue, but kissed her chastely on the forehead and left, whistling, as she shut the door on him. He didn’t seem to have picked up on her isolationist thought process during their sex. Certainly hadn’t worried about pleasuring her. He was in it for himself, something she’d already known, but had to prove to herself yet again.
She cleaned up, made some peppermint tea to settle her stomach, decided to check and see if there was anything new on the murders of the poor kids at Sacré-Coeur.
Their deaths were the fulcrum. There was something so wrong about it. She felt violated, though she hadn’t had anything to do with them. Her adventure—and let’s face it, that’s what this had turned into, a vacation from her life, not a fresh start—was over when she heard they’d been killed. She couldn’t escape reality anywhere. People were always vicious, wherever they were.
The television was inside a cabinet. She hadn’t planned to watch it, ever, just in case, but now she grabbed the dusty remote and brought it to life. It was already tuned to France24; not surprising, since this flat had been a popular spot for American tourists prior to Sutton claiming it.
There was nothing new on the story, except the families had been notified, so they were now releasing the names of the victims. Rick Lewis and Lily Connolly. Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. High school sweethearts. Exchange students in England. Their families didn’t know they were in Paris. The girl’s mother was suspicious; the boy’s father posited they were probably getting engaged, because his son had told him he wanted to do something grand, sweeping, romantic. He wanted it to be memorable. They led quiet lives, in a quiet town, with a quiet future ahead, raising a quiet little family to live another quiet life. The exchange year abroad was the most outrageous thing they would ever do; they both knew this. Rick’s father, standing stooped and defeated behind a bank of microphones, said he was certain his son was giving his lifelong love a proposal she’d never forget.
Sutton snapped off the television, rushed to the bathroom. Was peppermint sick, kneeling on the hard black-and-white octagonal tiles. When she was finished, she wiped her mouth. Their deaths were horrible. Their deaths were meaningless. Their deaths inspired an idea.
That’s what made her ill, the horror of seeing the terrible story, the loss, the forever torment of absence that would exist for those left behind, and her awful writer brain immediately saw a path to a story that would capitalize on their suffering.
And so, she wrote. As the fine strands of sunlight danced around her head, she typed and plotted, she created. Creation was life to Sutton. Without the outlet, she would surely go mad. Perhaps that was the point of all art, truly, to eliminate the need for madness. And the poor souls who couldn’t surrender themselves to creation ended up ratty and homeless with tinfoil hats and lives lost to the wandering streets.
It was a romantic thought, that the work was divine and she was simply its channel. But she believed, as all great artists do, and gave herself up to the process.
Before Ethan, she’d had a method. A plan. A schedule.
After Ethan, she was happy to put those things on hold, to walk a different path. A path that led her into the darkness of death and loss, all over again.
That’s why her writing desires had changed. She was changed. She was forever changed.
With a simple prayer of forgiveness to the families, she created a new world around their worst nightmare.
THE HEADLINES ARE GRABBING
Here’s irony for you.
Sutton, in the grips of a sudden creative urge, flipped off the television before the story of the lovers’ murders finished playing, and so missed what would have been a very important moment in her life.
The story France24 followed with, rare for a European television station, was about the sudden disappearance of an American woman. A writer. Normally this foreign news wouldn’t be worthy of coverage, but the woman was the wife of a celebrated and much-loved author who was very, very popular in France. Not only did his book sell well in French-speaking territories, but he’d once written the scripts for a hugely popular television show that was still in syndication.
She missed the headline: Author’s Wife Missing.
She missed the delicious broadcast innuendo that followed: author is suspect in wife’s disappearance.
She missed the fabulously replayable footage of her gorgeous husband standing in the middle of the street in front of their house, pale and wild, screaming at the reporters while rain hammered him and made his thick hair plaster to his head.
She missed the still shot of him flipping the bird as he entered the house.
She missed the subsequent footage of a towheaded blonde cop entering her sanctum.
She missed the interviews given by her best friends, the people she hadn’t trusted with the truth of what was happening in her world.
She missed it all.
If she hadn’t missed it, what would have happened differently? Would she have realized she was truly loved? That she’d caused worry and concern throughout a community, and now, the world? Would she have packed her things and gotten on a plane immediately?
If only she had. If only she had.