No way to ease this soul-gutting desolation.
I straighten my spine with the reminder of his promise. He loves me, and he’ll do everything within his power to return to me.
For the next two hours, Bree and I chill on the couch in the front room, sharing a bottle of wine. She’s been spending more time with me recently, her concern for my mental state growing more blatant with each visit.
“I need to go, Danni.” She glances at her phone. “Or the family won’t eat.”
“Thanks for coming.” I stand and follow her to the door. “You don’t have to, but I really appreciate the company.”
“I know you do.” She hugs me, breathing into my hair, “I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
She opens the door and falters. “Oh, sorry. Umm…”
“Danni Angelo?” A middle-aged man in a dark suit looks past Bree to gaze unerringly at me.
“Yes?” I step next to Bree. “That’s me.”
“I’m Robert Wright.” He clasps his hands in front of him.
His expression’s warm, friendly, but there’s a trace of something else in his eyes. Intelligence? Rigidness? I can’t put my finger on it, because there no emotion there at all.
“As a representative of GAO, U.S. Government Accountability Office, I’d like to speak to you about your fiancé, Cole Hartman.” His nose twitches with a soft sniff. “May I come in?”
A simple update on Cole’s whereabouts could’ve been done over the phone. A house visit brings ugly news. The most vicious kind of news.
My stomach caves in, and Bree grabs my hand, clutching tightly.
“Yes, come in.” I move on numb legs as the hole in my gut fills with harrowing dread.
“Can we sit?” He gestures at the couch, already lowering in the chair that sits perpendicular.
Bree and I perch side by side, and I clutch her hand like a lifeline. A lump of ice lodges in my throat, freezing my voice and shredding my breaths. Time stands still.
“There’s no easy way to say this, Miss Angelo.” His eye contact is firm, his face composed. “There was an accident at the…”
A low keening sound crawls from deep inside me, and blinding pain bursts behind my eyes.
Bree wraps her arms around me, her voice thready. “At the oil terminal?”
“Yes, the oil terminal. An explosion killed several contractors.” He sits taller, adjusts the drape of his tie. “I’m sorry, Miss Angelo. Cole didn’t make it.”
I blink rapidly as his words sink in and suffocate the life from me. An uncontrollable, sobbing meltdown works its way to the surface, but I deny it, swallowing over and over to clear my voice.
“When?” I ask hollowly, barely a whisper. “When did it happen?”
“Four months ago. His remains were exhumed from the wreckage, returned to the States, and identified.” As Robert stands, he seems to make an effort to soften his voice. “His body was cremated and his financial assets will be transferred to you, per his request. Someone from our office will be in contact to help you make funeral arrangements.”
Bree untangles her hand from mine, crying quietly as she walks him to the door. They exchange words, details about the death, contact information, but I can’t make sense of it over the ringing in my ears and the brutal shaking through my body.
That’s when the wailing starts. Like a spout busting loose, the pain shoots from my vocal cords and doubles me over. I don’t hear the door shut, don’t feel the couch beneath me, don’t taste the tears flooding my face. The agony is all-consuming, crippling my body, twisting me into something unrecognizable, and spiraling me into a shapeless, hopeless place.
Bree’s arms come around me, and that’s where they stay. She holds me through the funeral. Through the burial of his ashes on my wedding day. Through Mom and Dad’s visit from Florida. She doesn’t leave my side until summer ends and school begins, and she’s forced to return to work.
I heard once that hardship brings the true nature of a person to light. If that’s true, I’m a deeply angry woman, seething with hatred and resentment. The rage is powerful and incapacitating, like a beast roaring and pacing inside me and pointing blame.
He left me.
He broke his promise.
He lied.
He’s not coming back.
As the bitterness threatens to smother me, I welcome it. I climb into the darkness, lugging a bottle of hard alcohol with me. When the booze doesn’t numb, I break things. Like the mirror I just shattered with an empty fifth of whiskey.
Two months after Cole’s funeral, I lie on my back on the floor of the dance studio, stinking to high heaven and staring at the broken image of my reflection. I look like a monster with jagged teeth protruding out of my sunken, miserable face.
I’m drunk. I haven’t showered since…whenever. I closed my dance school indefinitely. I canceled life, my future, everything.
I’ve been okay with checking out. Until now—staring at my splintered self in the mirror. I don’t recognize the woman reflected back at me. She’s hideously sad and pathetic and weak. I hate her, because she’s not who I thought I was.
My inebriated brain sparks with life, and I sit up, swaying with disorientation.
Fighting hurts. Living without Cole hurts. But nothing’s as painful as hanging onto the broken pieces of a dream. Doesn’t matter what I choose—stay here or move forward—he’s gone. Giving up on life won’t bring him back.
After several failed attempts, I climb to my feet and stagger toward the shower. Every step is small and laborious, but I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I focus straight ahead and allow myself a grain of hope.
Hope that one day I’ll look back and appreciate the distance I covered.
Acid hits the back of my throat, and my gag reflex kicks in. I cover my mouth and slam a hand against the elevator call button in Trace’s penthouse. He didn’t follow me out of the bedroom, but that doesn’t mean he won’t.
Please, open. Please, open.
I made it this far without surrendering to the impending meltdown. I just need to get through the casino, outside, and into a taxi cab. Then I can cry.
Voices drift from the hall, and my shoulders climb around my ears.
Her hair spread over the couch. His hips pressed against her ass.
I don’t want an apology or an excuse or worse…the sight of his ironclad indifference. I just need to get the fuck out of here.
The elevator opens, and I scramble in, punching the ground floor and holding my breath as it closes.
Her skirt around her waist. His hands—those masculine fingers I so desperately wanted on my body—gripping her hips.
I don’t release my breath on the ride down. If I do, the tears will come. They’re already trembling behind my eyes, simmering, burning, threatening to explode.