Page 73 of Mended Hearts

But has it really been beneficial for him to see me fake it? To grin and bear it. What have I been teaching him in the process? Absolutely nothing. Nothing of value.

I slowly push the garage door open, scared of seeing the remnants of last night strung about. And very uncertain if I’ll be able to handle the aftermath, after all. Strong Echo is starting to feel entirely too weak and fragile. The sun has set, leaving the house dim of light and life. I flip the switch right inside the doorway, turning on the dining room light. It illuminates enough light to brighten the kitchen and living room as well. Expecting to see some sort of proof of what happened last night, I find none. In fact, the house looks to be in perfect conditionas if my door wasn’t kicked in and my husband didn’t try to kill himself last night.

Fully allowing that thought to form in my mind guts me, bringing me to my knees. My body shakes as sobs rip from within. Deep, painful cries I haven’t released since I was a teenage girl. I swore I’d never let myself feel this way ever again. That’s why I went the safe route.

“You were supposed to be safe,” I yell, slamming my fist against the carpet. “You were supposed to keep me safe.” I sit kneeled in the living room—the room where he attempted to end his life—and I release all the anger I feel for him. And all the anger I’ve been holding onto. For the second time in the last thirteen years of my life, I pray. I pray and ask God to release me from the anger I’ve let consume me over the years. Once my sobs subside, I get up and head to bed.

Although this is the room it all went downhill in, I can’t stomach the idea of sleeping in my own bed. I pull Dylan’s comforter back and fall into his bed as if I lost all energy. Which, at this point, I have. I could easily sleep for an entire week. I welcome the idea as I begin to doze off.

THE FEELING OF tears prickling the backs of my lids awakens me, bringing me back to reality far too quickly. “Nooo,” I scream into my pillow. I wanted to at least sleep a full twenty-four hours. Not wake up bright and early the next morning. I lie face down, begging for sleep to return. Maybe if I roll back and forth enough, I can lull myself back. “Fine.” I accept defeat, throwing the covers off me.

I sit on the side of the bed and wonder what I’m even doing here. More importantly, wonder what I’m even doing with my life. So much chaos and confusion has settled in since Dustin showed up. So many unknowns have been in place, particularlybecause of my situation. But the last thing I want to do is throw me and Dylan into another unknown situation.

First things first, I sniff myself. I need a shower. I need to wash this grimy feeling of doom and gloom off me in hopes of feeling alive again. I strip off my clothes, making my way to the master bathroom. The idea of taking a long, hot bath sounds so enticing, but then the memory of Brian and me in the tub flashes through my mind and my stomach rolls at the thought. I can’t just flip a switch and hate the man when I know what he’s become is based on circumstances that got out of hand. Just because he crossed the line and pushed me past the point of no return doesn’t mean I stop loving him. I’ll just love him differently and from a distance.

Who am I kidding… I’ve always loved him from a distance. What I’m feeling isn’t a shift in the depth of what I feel for him. No, this feeling is relief. Relief that I don’t have to make a choice. Relief that I don’t have to hurt someone. Relief that I don’t have to continue carrying on a charade.

And relief makes me feel like a shitty person.

I step into the shower, letting my tears mix with the steaming stream of water washing over me. So much regret. So much unforgiveness. So much heaviness. I cry harder. Pray harder. And release it all, vowing to quit living in the past from this moment forward. I don’t know what my future holds and I’m not in a rush to figure it out.

I turn the shower off and wrap a towel around me. I’m done crying—for now. I have to shift my focus. Right now, I just want to breathe and not think, worry, or focus on anything other than my son.

Dylan.

He’s with his dad. The thought has me reaching for my phone as I walk into my bedroom, wanting to call and check in. But I slide it back on the dresser, thinking better of it. This reunionhas to happen. I just thought I’d be part of it. Maybe it’s better this way. It is better this way. They need to bond without me interfering and I need to figure stuff out around here while they do.

As I pull clothes out to wear, I begin pulling Brian’s stuff out of the dresser, making a pile on the floor. When he gets out to come get his stuff today, I want to make it as easy and quick as possible for them to grab and go. Anything that can’t fit into his vehicle for him and his mom to drive back to Oklahoma, I can mail one day.

I throw my clothes on and make my way into our walk-in closet, doing the same thing—purging Brian, refusing to cry as I do. The truth is, while I am incredibly sad about how things have gone and almost losing him for good, I’m still mad at him. And oddly enough, while I’m the victim, I feel sorry for him because I know the man I’ve lived with for the last six months is not the man I’ve loved for the last thirteen years. And it infuriates me that he let all his thoughts win him over and change him from the inside out.

But then again,relief. The war on his mind caused this ripple effect. What would be my life had it not? Pretending to be a happy, doting wife, longing for my past lover? I’ll never know because that wasn’t the hand I was dealt. Instead, I was dealt a hand to my face by the man who vowed to always keep me safe, then ripping that safety net before my very eyes.

I gather his fatigues and uniforms, lay them on the bed, and pull out the garment bag we have. He might not find value in them at the moment, but I hope his love for what they represent returns once he’s healed. I keep all his military items separate from his civilian. I’m not packing up his stuff to be heartless. If that were the case, I’d be hella dramatic and toss it all on the front lawn. Glancing around at the piles before me, I realize I need some boxes. And coffee since I’m running on fumes and it’sonly a matter of time before exhaustion catches up with me once again.

Making my way through the house, I examine my surroundings. The light illuminating through all the windows makes some of the destruction I didn’t notice last night noticeable. Holes line the walls down the hallway, leading to the living room. A splatter of something catches my eye on the far wall and I walk closer to inspect it. Remnants of dark brown flake off as I glide my hand across it, feeling a dent in the wall as I do. I look at the ground for clues of what it could be and see nothing. Then I notice my plant I had close to the window is missing.

I try to picture it all as Dustin recounted it to me. It had to have looked like a crime scene. That’s what I expected to walk into. So why doesn’t it? To anyone else, the house looks well kept and not like a self-destructive bomb went off two nights ago. I walk into the kitchen and stop at the dining room table. A phone and a note sit atop. I recognize the phone as Brian’s. I push the button, bringing it to life. A million missed calls and text alerts flash on the screen, but the background is the three of us—a once happy-ish family.

Then I pick up the note and I can’t help but smile.

Much faster than snail mail.

972-431-5800

D.

Chapter Fifty-One

DUSTIN

Ipick up the takeout cups left over from our last meal together and lift the lid of the trashcan. My breath catches as I see the aftermath of what took place here filling the bag and I know exactly who took the time to do it so I wouldn’t have to witness it. Dustin thinks of every little detail. His mind works like no other. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it. But it’s reassuring, especially where Dylan is concerned.

I STACK THE last box in the living room next to his camo duffle bag and drape the garment bag over the top. Nerves run rampant as a knock on the door breaks the silence. I’m unsure of why I’m nervous since we’ve said our peace. Maybe I wanted to avoid close contact again this soon. Maybe I’m even a bit fearful of how he might react on his own, alone with me. What if everything in the hospital was all for show? I mean, he pulled that Dr. Jekyll / Mr. Hyde move on his mom with me. He could’ve been pulling the wool this entire time.

I go to unlock the doorknob, realizing it wasn’t locked, but the deadbolt is. The door creaks as I open it, and I can see the splintered wood pieces that are left in the doorframe.

Brian stands in front of me, a shell of the man he once was like the life has been sucked out of him. It practically was. “I just came to get my stuff,” he says, looking down.

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