Page 62 of The Girl He Loves
“You seem stressed, sweetie,” Brian says between forkfuls of his fried rice.
“I am,” I deadpan.
I’m livid with the beautiful mother of your secret illegitimate daughter.
I realize that I’m not only upset with Renee, but I’m also angry with Brian, for putting us all in this mess, for throwing me onto this obsessive path.
“Whatever it is,” he says. “You can always talk to me about it. You know that, right?”
I don’t say a word as I dig my fork in.
It’s about two hours later when I completely lose it. It typically happens like this, an escalation of angry and compulsive thoughts which usually build to an explosive peak.
I’m standing on a chair in my walk-in closet to grab my box of diaries. I want to flip through a few of them and read them because they always calm me down when I get tense or depressed. It’s evidence of how far I’ve come along. I used to be so much more messed up. The diaries remind me that the present day is only that: a day. The next day will be better, and the next, even more so. And before long, a week will pass by and my concerns and problems will be a thing of the past. Emotions are transient.
As I reach for the box, I topple and fall off the chair. And to add insult to injury, the box of diaries falls on my head. It hurts and my closet is a complete mess. Rage floods through me, so fast, I don’t see it coming. I have no time to prepare for it, to stop it. In tears, I throw the diaries.
“Bitch!”
I stand and pull at the hangers, rip my favorite red dress off, and flick it.
“Fucking bitch!”
I throw everything I own on the carpeted floor, all the while, shouting, “Fucking bitch!”
I reach for Brian’s shirts and one by one, I fling them in the air. “Asshole.”
I grab his favorite dress pants and rip them off the hanger. “Fucking asshole.”
I reach for my shoes, grab a pair of Steve Madden black stilettos and throw them behind me.
“What the fuck?” Brian scoffs.
I turn to see him standing there. Trevor is next to him, looking confused. Thankfully, Tristan is not there to witness my breakdown — he’s at a friend’s, working on a school project.
“Trevor, please leave us alone and go to your room,” Brian says, his words measured. I see the teacher in him then, the authoritative figure.
Trevor doesn’t hesitate.
“What is going on?” Brian asks as soon as Trevor is gone. “What did I do?”
I fall to my knees in the mess of clothes I’ve created. I’m sobbing like a widow at her late husband’s funeral. “I know.”
He inches closer. “You know… what?” he asks, his words a whisper.
I look up at him, at his beautiful green eyes. “I know about Ava.”
He’s without words. How could he not be?
“She’s beautiful, by the way,” I say. “Looks exactly like you.”
He kneels on the floor, next to me. “How… how did you…”
“I found the photo, the one you hid behind our wedding picture.”
He stares down at the heap of clothes, not able to look me in the eye. He can’t even bring himself to say anything.
“You know what’s always bothered me about the photo?” I say. “Why would you have kept it there, where I could so easily find it?”
