Page 114 of His Heart

Brooke

The bartender puta glass of whiskey on a napkin in front of me. I nodded my thanks, and he left to see to his other customers.

It wasn’t busy. Enough people that a low hum of conversation hovered in the background. Not so many that it was crowded. Music played, but I didn’t recognize most of the songs. The lights were low, the bartender never smiled, and the guy sitting two barstools down kept falling asleep, his scruffy chin resting on his chest.

I took a sip of my water, leaving the whiskey to sit on its napkin. I had my notebook open, my pen in hand. I hadn’t written a word since I’d left Sebastian. But my thoughts were eating at me from the inside, and I hoped I could get them out on paper. Maybe quiet them down.

It had been my therapist’s idea. Almost on a whim, I’d called her this morning. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her. She hadn’t had time in her schedule for a full appointment, but she’d fit me in for fifteen minutes in the afternoon.

It had taken so much effort to make myself go. In the time between making the call and going to her office, I’d invented at least a dozen excuses to cancel. But in the end, I’d gone. She’d asked me a few questions, and then suggested I try her writing exercise.

Just write, she’d said. Not with form or intent. I wasn’t supposed to worry about sentences or punctuation or even making sense. Just write whatever came to mind—whatever thoughts and feelings were in my mind.

I began, and my pen moved across the paper, leaving a trail of blue ink. I kept my eyes moving forward—didn’t allow myself to read what I’d written. I just needed an outlet. A place to put all these feelings. I filled the page, so I turned to a new one and kept writing. Glanced up at the whiskey. Still didn’t take a drink.

I wrote more. Filled pages and pages. My hand cramped and once in a while I had to pause to stretch my fingers. But still the words tumbled from my mind, through my pen, and onto the paper.

Eventually, I stopped. The swirl of madness in my head wasn’t spinning so fast, the whirlpool of thoughts was slowing. Calmness crept over me. My muscles relaxed and the tension in my shoulders eased. I put my pen down and flexed my fingers, opening and closing my hand a few times.

Then, with a tingling sense of trepidation in my stomach, I looked back on what I’d written.

At first, it was random. Single words, some phrases. Things like hollow, tears, and I’m lonely. By the top of the third page, my ramblings took on more form. Lines and sentences. Complete thoughts. Questions.

Is there a door on the other side of the darkness, and if there is, will I be able to find it?

How does the cycle end?

Am I strong enough for this?

And there, among the words I’d written, his name. Sebastian.

He was always on my mind. I missed him desperately. The warmth of his strong body. His big hand holding mine. The way his beard scratched my neck or my cheek… or my thighs. The way he kissed me, so fierce and passionate. Just thinking about him brought tears to my eyes and made the hollow space in my chest ache.

I closed my notebook and tucked it away in my bag. Tossed some money on the bar—more than necessary, even with a tip—and walked out the front door.

I left the whiskey sitting, untouched.

My house was dark and cold. I turned up the heat and flicked on a few lights. Shivering a little, I went to my bedroom and found a thicker pair of socks and a long knit sweater. As I put them on, the half-open closet caught my eye.

I took out my backpack—the one I’d carried around in Phoenix. The box holding Liam’s engagement ring was still tucked inside. I opened it and ran my finger over the smooth gold band. Then I put it aside, and pulled out the dance photo.

How you doing, Bee?

“I don’t know,” I said, touching his face in the photo. “Not so well, I guess.”

I gazed at the picture for a minute. But Liam couldn’t help me. He wasn’t here to save me anymore. With a deep breath, I put it all away.

My mom’s box was still in my closet, unopened. I’d been too afraid to look. I had no idea what a woman like her would have kept. Was there anything meaningful in there? Or would it be another disappointment? A box full of junk I’d have to throw away.

I put it on the bed and sat in front of it, cross-legged. My heart fluttered as I lifted the lid and set it aside.

It was full to the top. I found papers, some in envelopes. Most of them looked old—faded and yellowing. A copy of an old lease for an apartment in Albuquerque. Two bus tickets from Fort Worth to Tulsa. An envelope, shaped like it had once held a greeting card, with a handful of pictures—all of people I didn’t recognize. None of it meant anything—at least not to me—so I dug deeper to see what else was in there.

My hand touched something soft. It was a strange contrast to the smooth feel of paper around it. I grabbed it and pulled it out of the box.

It was the pink teddy bear my mom had won for me at the fair.

I stared at the tattered stuffed animal. Its fur was unevenly worn, one foot so threadbare the stuffing showed through. It had lost an eye and I’d tried to fix it by drawing one in sharpie, but it was crooked compared to the original. The piece of thread that had been its mouth was loose, and its once-bright pink color had faded considerably.

---