Page 1 of From West, With Regret

ONE

LONDON

I was born with a broken heart, I’m certain of it.

Okay, maybe not a hundred percent certain. It’s hard for someone like me to be sure of anything.

Fragments of my life come back to me in flashes. They don’t make sense, and sometimes I try to capture them and shove them into a back corner of my brain to piece together later. My mind is full of tiny, little puzzle pieces waiting to be put together, waiting for me to connect the fractured parts of my life. If I spend too long forcing the pieces together, an overwhelming sense of suffocation smothers me. If I allow those thoughts to snowball, my entire body seizes, and the edges of my vision feather with darkness—a darkness that squeezes every bit of breath from my lungs. A darkness so ominous, I’m almost certain I’m dying.

That’s all my life has ever been, shadowed by complete and utter emptiness. At least the first thirteen years. I may only be twenty-eight, but my life feels cut short, considering I only remember the last fifteen, as though I’ve been simply existing, only ever knowing half of myself the whole time.

So, like I said, I’m certain I was born with a broken heart.

I wish I could remember my birth parents. I wonder if they ever loved me at all. Were they born with broken hearts, too? If so, did the cracks of theirs widen the day they decided to give me up?

I quickly shove those thoughts aside, knowing there’s no use asking questions I will never have the answers to.

Today, though, my heart doesn’t feel quite as broken. More… numb.

I nervously click the end of the pen in my hand repeatedly as I tug on the large, wooden door into the bar only blocks away from the Hudson River, hoping the ceiling of dark-gray clouds hanging above don’t decide to break before the funeral. The last thing I need is to show up looking like a swamp rat.

I have no idea how much longer the walk to the cemetery will be, but I’ll take the gamble. Whether I’m late or show up dripping wet doesn’t matter.

You can’t start a funeral without the decedent’s widow, right?

Widow.

That’s what I am now.

I don’t feel like a widow in my bones. I don’t feel the expected immense sadness that comes with losing the love of your life. Because Heathwasn’tthe love of my life.

It’s a secret I’ve kept buried deep in this broken heart of mine, along with any emotion I carry for losing him. Simply because I don’thaveemotions for him.

It’s a horrific thing to say, coming from a wife who’s lost her husband. It’s a terrible notion for someone like me who has nothing to say about his death, but it’s the truth.

Ever since the day I woke up in a hospital bed with nothing in my mind but those scattered puzzle pieces I can’t keep in order, I’ve decided to live in my truth.

And the truth is death can set you free.

Is it horrible for me to not be heartbroken over my husband’s death? Probably.

Society tells me I should be inconsolable, but I remember what it was like to be married to a man who had immense wealth and absolutely no soul.

Heath’s funeral is being held in the center of a cemetery along the Hudson River, giving him a perfect view of the city for the rest of eternity… or as long as his body remains buried beneath the cold, dark earth. All it would take is another filthy-rich billionaire making an offer the city can’t refuse and building another fucking skyscraper in its place.

Heath buried under a sixty-story building. Seems appropriate.

Up until the attorney read Heath’s will to me the day after his death, I never knew my husband had held such adoration for the city he always pushed away. Not enough adoration to commit his body to it for the rest of eternity, anyway.

Finally, warm air wraps around me when I step inside the bar that feels as though I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole and into a dream world, so different from the bustling city on the other side of the large, wooden door I just walked through. The walls of the interior are painted a rich, dark forest green. Brass lights hang above each black-stained table. Soft piano music fills the air, as if it’s purposely trying to lull you to sleep. It isn’t until I slip into the first open barstool at the end of the counter that I realize I didn’t even pay attention to what bar I was walking into. I just needed to escape the mounting pressure growing with every step I took closer to the cemetery. I survey the space, hoping to find the name of it displayed somewhere.

I glance down at the other side of the wooden bar top, where a small, black caddy holding cocktail straws and napkins rests on the edge, looking for anyone who works here, but there’s no one. Aside from five people seated at two tables in the back ofthe dining area, and the middle-aged businessman sitting at the opposite end, downing his cocktail, the bar is empty. I tap my finger on the counter before leaning forward to steal a napkin from the caddy, then sit back down to stare at the words printed on the bottom:The Veiled Door

Clicking my pen, I scribble the first thing that comes to my mind.

Reasons I’ll miss him:

My mind draws a blank as I tap the tip of my pen against the white paper, and ink bleeds into it. Needing a distraction, I flip the napkin over and start drawing the first thing that comes to mind in place of the lack of sorrow I have for Heath.

---