Page 103 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
I let my head fall back against the wall, eyes closed, seeing Caitlin’s face in the darkness behind my lids. Not Caitlin crying, but Caitlin smiling. Caitlin in Colorado, her hair glowing in the sun as we hiked through the mountains. Caitlin in our first apartment together, dancing in the kitchen to music only she could hear. Caitlin looking at me like I was her whole world.
Caitlin is the best thing that ever happened to me. And what did I do with that gift? I trampled it. I took her trust and her love, and I betrayed them.
I open my eyes to the destroyed bathroom, to the physical manifestation of my self-loathing. I’ve been sitting here so long that my legs have gone numb. The sweat has dried on my skin, leaving me cold and shivering.
How many chances had I squandered, how many times when I should have stood up to my mother, set boundaries with Millie, put Caitlin first? I blew every single one of them.
I’d tell myself I had responsibilities. That Millie depended on me. That this was just what you did for family. But the truth is, I was being a coward. I was so afraid of disappointing my mother, of upsetting Millie, of disrupting the status quo that I was willing to sacrifice Caitlin’s happiness. Her sense of belonging. Her trust in me.
No wonder she left. The miracle is that she stayed as long as she did.
I force myself to stand, my body protesting every movement. I’m covered in dust and grime, my hands blistered from the sledgehammer, my muscles aching. But the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the emotional turmoil inside me.
I betrayed her. I let my mother hurt her. I prioritized Millie over her. I made Caitlin feel like an intruder in my life instead of the center of it. And I have no one but myself to blame.
I move through the destroyed bathroom, stepping carefully over piles of broken tile and splintered wood. I should clean up, but I can’t summon the energy. Instead, I make my way back downstairs to the kitchen. It’s still a work in progress, but already I can see how beautiful it will be when it’s done. Caitlin’s vision coming to life.
Caitlin’s vision. That’s what matters now. Not mine. Not what I want.
The truth hits me like another blow from the sledgehammer: I need to leave. I need to finish this house for her, make itperfect, make it everything she dreamed it could be. And then I need to go.
The thought of leaving her again makes it hard to breathe. But staying, continuing to be in her life, will only hurt her more. I’ve seen how my presence affects her, how the mere sight of me brings back all the pain I caused. How can I claim to love her while continuing to be the source of her suffering?
I lean against the door frame, letting the decision settle into my bones. I’ll finish the house. Every last detail, exactly as she wants it. I’ll pour everything I have into making it perfect. And then I’ll leave. And maybe then she won’t be reminded of everything she lost every time she looks at me.
The thought of never seeing her again, of living in a world without Caitlin’s smile, without the sound of her laugh, without the chance to make things right between us, is almost unbearable. But that’s my burden to carry, not hers. I’ve caused her enough pain for a lifetime.
Sometimes loving someone means knowing when to let them go.
37
Chapter 37
Caitlin
I wake to sunlight streaming through my blinds, casting thin stripes across my bedspread. My eyelids feel glued together, heavy and swollen. When I finally pry them open, the full weight of yesterday crashes down on me; Adam’s confession about the cruise, the way I completely fell apart in front of him. My head throbs, a dull, persistent ache that matches the hollowed-out feeling in my chest.
I roll onto my side and find Luna curled against me, her small furry body warm and vibrating with a gentle purr. She opens one eye, gives me a slow blink, then closes it again, continuing to purr. I stroke her silky head, grateful for her uncomplicated presence. “At least you don’t judge me for being a mess,” I whisper. She stretches one paw toward me in what I choose to interpret as solidarity.
Memories from yesterday play through my mind like scenes from a movie I wish I hadn’t watched. Adam on his knees in front of me, his eyes raw with regret. The look on Rachel’s face when she saw I’d been crying. The weight of Adam’s arms around me as I sobbed against his chest. The confession about Millie kissing him, about sharing a room with her. I close my eyes, wishing I could block it all out, but the images just play more vividly against my eyelids.
With a groan, I push myself up. Luna makes a small chirping sound of protest but resettles herself against my pillow. The clock on my nightstand reads 9:47. I never sleep this late, but Rachel must have decided to let me rest. Her bedroom door stands open across the hall, bed already made. She’s probably been at work for hours.
I shuffle to the bathroom and wince at my reflection. My eyes are red-rimmed and puffy; my hair is a tangled mess. I splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth, and run a brush through my hair, taming it enough to pull back into a loose ponytail. I don’t have the energy for anything more involved.
As I make my way downstairs, a familiar scent wafts up to meet me, bacon and coffee and something sweet, maybe pancakes. For a moment I think Rachel must have come back, but then I hear humming, a tune I’ve known all my life. Aunt Charlene.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, watching her move around the kitchen with practiced ease. She’s wearing a bright yellow sweater that makes her look like a sunflower, her blonde hair pinned neatly up. The kitchen island is covered with flour, eggs, a carton of blueberries, a stick of butter, and she’s stirring something in a large mixing bowl, hips swaying slightly to whatever song is playing in her head.
“Aunt Charlene?” My voice comes out scratchy, still rough from yesterday’s crying.
She turns, wooden spoon in hand, face lighting up when she sees me. “There she is,” she says warmly. “I was just about to come check on you, see if you were still breathing under all those blankets.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, moving further into the kitchen. “Don’t you have the breakfast shift at the restaurant?”
“Peter’s handling it.” She sets down the spoon and crosses to me, pulling me into a hug that smells like breakfast and her familiar perfume. “Rachel texted me last night. Said you’d had a rough evening and might need some looking after this morning.”
I let myself lean into her embrace, surprised by how much I needed this, the warm, solid presence of someone who’s known me my whole life, who loves me without question or condition. Aunt Charlene has been more of a mother to me than my actual mother ever was.
