Page 37 of Then You Happened
Plus, I only dreamed it. My subconscious chose to speak to me that way because it’s been over a year since a man has touched me.
It knew I would wake up and hear it.
Too bad I still feel it.
Needing to shake it from my thoughts, I sit up in bed, prop my pillow behind me, and grab my book from the nightstand.
But after staring at the page for way too long and never seeing the words, I realize what’s bugging me so much. It’s that everything I’ve ever loved began with my seeing it in snapshots like art playing out before me: the first time I saw Fletcher, the first time on the Mediterranean, the first time I laid eyes on Ruby.
And how does Jack play into all of this?
Click.
“Christ,” I mutter before giving up on the hope of reading, sliding back down under my blankets, and forcing myself to fall back asleep. The last thing I need is for my brain to start suggesting that the dream could really happen.
Or, worse, for more snapshots to fill my mind.
Only I can’t fall asleep. Every time I close my eyes, it’s as if I can feel the heat of his body against mine and taste the flavor of his kiss on my tongue.
It’s maddening and arousing, and as much as my previously dormant libido flutters to life, I need to stop thinking about this.
About him.
I shove up out of bed and out of my bedroom.
The house is quiet as I walk through it, the pad of my feet the only sound, but I welcome its silence and darkness. It feels as if muting any kind of outside distraction is my only goal these days. It’s a sad thought since I used to have so many goals, so many dreams and desires.
Photography. It used to be my life, my passion, and a way to show others the beauty they could see if only they knew where to look.
And now, as I run my hand over the door that leads to the room that used to be my studio, I feel the hum beneath my skin for the first time in years.
Fletcher robbed me of that. First with his anger at how I pissed off the citizens of Lone Star when I wrote that article and made life harder for him. Then it was because money was tight and he needed me to help out more on the ranch even though he barely let me do anything. When I could find a moment to sneak away to shoot, he would become enraged. Back then, I didn’t know it was because he didn’t want me talking to anyone in town. I didn’t realize he was afraid that if I did, someone would confront me and tell me about the overdue accounts and mounting debt.
The anger and rage he’d fly into every time I grabbed my camera became too devastating.
The fights became not worth it.
So I gave up.
And like everything else I had previously cherished in my life, I gave up photography to keep Fletcher happy.
Twisting the knob, I push open the door and steel myself against the onslaught of emotions I know will come when I see the space again.
And they come. The tsunami fueled by rage, betrayal, loss, and pain hits me the minute the room comes into view.
The photos of things I loved about Fletcher that had been hanging on my mock clothesline across the far wall are torn into pieces and thrown around the room. Images that depicted a life of happiness and honesty but unbeknownst to me covered up a marriage based on deception and lies. The ones I ripped from their frames and hangers that I tore up in dramatic flair to try to do anything I could to relieve the hurt I felt when I’d learned what he’d done, what he’d hidden, and what he’d cost me.
Photo after photo and memory after memory of a life I thought we shared.
The desk is a mess of unedited prints that I was amassing for a future photobook project. A ceramic figure he’d bought me still lies shattered where I’d thrown it to the floor. The small satisfaction in its crunch was fleeting and only left me with a mess I haven’t cared to clean up.
Our wedding photo still sits beneath the splintered glass of the frame. A day I thought held so much promise despite the absence of my parents or anyone else for that matter.
Just the two of us.
The two of us in a shotgun wedding at city hall.
That was all I thought we’d needed.
