Page 18 of Losing a Piece of Me

My eyes bounce around the wooded area. I look at the big trees, the green grass. I smell the dirt all around us. I feel the warm sunshine that is breaking through the gaps in the trees. I try and focus on anything other than the man sitting next to me. I can’t let him in, not again. It almost killed me last time.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I stand and start to walk away, but the next moment, I’m in his arms with my back pressed against a tree. We’re nose to nose and his eyes burn into me. I feel his breath blow across my face and can feel his heart pounding against me. His scent is rich and intoxicating, and, for just a moment, I let my walls down. Looking into his eyes, I let my face expose all of the love and regret held inside of me.

“I won’t let you walk away for me. Not again.” His mouth crashes into mine and his tongue sweeps out to taste me.

His hands tangle in my hair while his lips tease my own. I give in. I don’t mean to, but I’m not strong enough. I never could resist him. That’s why I couldn’t tell him I was leaving - I knew he could stop me, but I couldn’t let myself be stopped.

His hand travels from my hair, down my side, and to my thigh where he holds firm. He hooks my leg over his hip and presses himself against me.

God, this feels so good. His weight, his smell, his touch, it all feels so good. I’ve been starving for him and only him, but it can’t happen. Allowing this will only hurt us both. We can’t be together, and even if he doesn’t know the reason why, I do. I can’t bring that upon my family.

I want to push him away. I have to stop this. Why am I so weak? Why can he control me the way he does?

My heart is pounding in my chest and our breathing is heavy. Our hands impatiently explore each other’s bodies. I run my hand under his shirt and his muscles tense beneath my touch. I can feel every ripple of every muscle. All I want is him, it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But giving in will only set into motion a series of events that I need to remain unknown to all but me.

“Stay away from my son or I’ll make sure they all know. Wouldn’t that be the talk of the town?”

With that memory, I push him away. “I can’t. Please stop.” I’m on the verge of tears as I run past him, not stopping until I am back upstairs in my room and can crash on the bed. Tears wrack my body and for just a minute, I allow myself to relive every painful moment of that day.

I can feel his breath blowing against my face as he stands not even a foot from me, yelling at me. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, so strong it burns my nose. I feel my heart breaking at the thought of my family being destroyed by his threats. I feel it completely crumble at the thought of having to leave Striker behind.

* * *

I wake to a knock on my door.

“Why am I not surprised? You need to get ready. We’re going to be leaving for the country club soon.” My mother leaves as quickly as she appeared.

I make my way toward the bathroom and quickly shower.

An hour later, I am dressed and have my hair and makeup done to perfection. The thick layer of cosmetics makes my face feel like a plastic Barbie, and I hate it. Between my unhappy homecoming and painfully confusing reunion with Striker, my mind is a wreck; it takes everything for me to hold myself together.

I knew this trip home was going to be challenging, but never would have guessed that it would be this brutally difficult. Stuffing the emotions down inside of me so that only the fake exterior will be visible for my family, I drive to the country club. The parking lot is littered with pretentious luxury cars and obnoxiously large SUVs, and I end up choosing a spot at the back, far away from where I might accidentally scratch someone’s midlife crisis with my car door. I take a deep, cleansing breath and open my door.

Walking inside, I’m greeted by a waiter carrying a tray of champagne. I empty one of the glasses, the bubbly mixture going down smooth and minutely helping to calm my nerves. Preferring to stay out of sight, I hang out near the back of the crowd, watching several older couples dancing to the classical music. My sister is practically glowing while holding onto her soon-to-be husband.

Her golden hair is pinned up and soft curls are flowing down, and her face is perfectly accented by her makeup. She looks just like my mother. But why wouldn’t she? She is the golden child after all.

Her fiancée looks just like any other rich prick: sandy-brown hair, a chiseled face, and a suit that probably cost more than my car. He’s tall and lean, but looks to be in good shape. It occurs to me that I don’t even know his name. Just as well, I guess.

I turn my cynical gaze away from the happy couple and find my mother and father making their rounds, greeting the guests. A smile which could never be mistaken as genuine is plastered on her face while she leads my father around, who is clearly bored and daydreaming of being anywhere but here.

A few family members are nearby, but it’s no use bothering to talk to them; they have disowned me just the same as my mother.

So here I stand, alone in the back of the room, feeling completely alone and vulnerable.

I straighten my back and stand a little taller. The mask I usually wear around these people goes back into place. Conversation will inevitably turn to my profession, which will invite all sorts of snobbery from anyone listening in, and the best I can do is to not let them see how much their words hurt me. That’s what they want: to see me crumble and come running back to my parents, where I can finally live the life I was meant to.

It won’t happen.

Within the hour, I have relieved the waiter of four more champagne glasses and received many more dirty looks from guests. I flash them my best smile and wave like their looks don’t bother me, but on the inside I’m dying.

Finally, after a sufficient time spent feeling like a social outcast, my mother sits beside me. She brushes a strand of golden hair out of her face and adjusts her pink jacket over her matching skirt. “Honestly Alexis, do you think you could look any more bored?”

I roll my eyes and finish another glass.

“Have you met James yet?” she asks, a little breathless.

“No, I haven’t. There hasn’t been anyone to introduce us.” I use my overly polite voice and smile, knowing she will take this as a jab.

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