Page 12 of Every Promise Broken

As I sit down on the porch swing overlooking the yard, resentment fills me like a toxic sludge.

Resentment toward the peaceful evening. The crickets chirping in the distance. The setting sun.

Resentment toward everybody who eyes me with pity every time they see me.

Resentment toward my husband, yet I don’t know why. He’s done nothing wrong, and everything right.

Resentment toward my parents for leaving me this fucking ranch. Life would be a hell of a lot easier if I didn’t have so much goddamn responsibility on my plate at any given moment. If they hadn’t gotten in that car that night, heading to Cheyenne to celebrate their anniversary, they would still be alive, and I wouldn’t have to deal with the anger and bitterness suffocating me at every turn.

They’re dead, and all I can feel is resentment toward them. How fucked up is that?

I lose track of time, not sure how long I sit out here, drinking, and thinking, and stewing over anger for…everything and nothing in particular. Eventually, the back door opens and out walks Whit. Coming to sit beside me on the porch swing, he doesn’t say anything for a moment. I can hear his breathing. Smell the sweet, slightly spicy scent of his body wash.

The urge to lean into him, to hold him, is there, but it’s muted. It’s buried under grief and something much stronger.

Finally, with a deep breath in, he says, “I can’t help if you won’t let me in, Connie.”

“I don’t need help.”

He laughs dryly. “Like hell you don’t. Why won’t you let me in? You have always let me in.”

“Because I don’t need help,” I repeat. “And I don’t need a husband constantly nagging at me.”

He says nothing, and I don’t need to look at him to know he’s clenching his jaw and glaring at the side of my head. It takes alot for Whit to get pissed, but lately, I’m making a sport out of it. I hate it. I relish it.

“That’s rich coming from you,” he spits out. “Coming from the man who gets drunk on a daily basis. Look at you.” Standing up, he looks down his nose at me. I can’t bear to look back at him. “You’re a fucking mess. Did you cut your finger open? You have dried blood on your hand, and you didn’t bother washing up. You’re sucking down that bottle of whiskey like it’s your lifeline. And when was the last time you showered?”

Eyes flaring up at him, I roar,“Get off my fucking back, Whit!” I raise to my full height, staring down at him this time, chest puffed up from the darkness seeping into my bloodstream. “Take a goddamn hint, would you? I said I amfine, so back the fuck off!”

His eyes well with unshed tears. Tears that I caused. It’s a razor blade to my heart, shredding it until there’s nothing left, but even still, I can’t stop it. Can’t figure out how to let him in. Can’t figure out how to not succumb to this anger.

I’m losing him.

Losing my true lifeline.

And I can’t. Make. It. Stop.

“Conrad, please.” His voice is nothing more than a broken whisper. Stepping closer, he reaches for my hand, and I pull away before he can make contact. Deep, deep down, far enough away that I can barely feel it, the need to hold him, to breathe him in, is still there, but it’s suffocated by the dark cloud invading my body. “Why won’t you let me in?”

“Drop it,” I grit out. “I don’t fucking want or need your help.”

Something sobering washes over his face, like he’s seeing me more clearly. I feel his gaze in the depths of my soul, and I know I’ve fucked up.

“You know what, Conrad? Fuck you. Rot in your misery, but I’m not rotting with you anymore.” Stomping across the porch, he rips open the screen door, disappearing inside for only a moment before appearing again, keys and phone in hand.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Away from you,” is all he gives me before climbing into his truck. His eyes, red-rimmed and wet, meet mine from over the steering wheel, a beat passing before he puts the truck in reverse.

Then he’s gone.

7

Conrad Strauss

Present Day

Early mornings are my favorite time of day. When daylight barely touches the sky, and the grass is covered in dewy droplets, I feel the most at peace. It wasn’t always like this. I remember a time many years ago when I found myself wide awake throughout the long, lonely nights. The moon and stars brought me comfort in a way the harsh morning light never could. When shame was etched into my flesh and grief chipped away at my wellbeing. When the early hours brought nothing except for a sour stomach, regret, and a pounding head.

---