Author's Note:
Hello friends,
I apologize for my absence. Let's get right to it!
My humblest thanks to my good friends: MsCherylTerra, Bebop3, SleeperyJim, GoneGray, Chasten, Laura R., and PickFiction. This group of fantastic people are the ones who helped make this installment possible. Thank you all, including you readers, for being patient with me.
Cheers!
Nora
_______________
People call me a bad bitch.
If you're a part of the older generation, you may think this is an insult, but to us millennials, bad bitches are confident women who are bold and do things for themselves, relying on no one. I was a bad bitch to the first degree, a woman on a rampage, at war with the world, fighting it to earn my place, and for the better part of the last ten years, I had succeeded. From eighteen to twenty-eight, I'd been a beast at work, a Dragon Lady, breathing fire and tearing down every last man to get my gold. I'd been hoarding my treasure, and all these years, I'd been miserable but stable, making a life for myself in a world that had set me up to fail.
I hadn't known comfort, hadn't known love—not ever in my entire life. I guess my parents must have loved me, but I'd lost them when I was four, and I had no memory of them besides snippets of my mother's laugh and sitting on my father's broad shoulders. I couldn't remember what they looked like, and I had no pictures of them. For most of my childhood, I'd looked for them in the faces of my foster parents, wondering if they shared any features or personality traits, if the lady who'd serve me hot dogs and ramen noodles was anything like my mother, or if the guy who went behind his wife's back to force me to do his chores, making me rake the leaves and wash the dishes when she wasn't home, was anything like my father. I wondered if my parents would do such things, if my parents were the kind of people that would force my hand close to a flame on the kitchen stove if I misbehaved, or if they'd stick a finger down my throat for eating my dinner in the bathroom.
And you know what? There's no telling. I couldn't romanticize my parents, couldn't pretend that they would have been perfect. They would have had their own faults, and maybe as a teenager, I would have told them that I hated them. I might have driven them crazy, but still, they would have at least loved me—right?
They would have loved me, and maybe then, I would have been familiar with these crazy,
insane
feelings that I had for Wes. How the hell could I love someone if I didn't know the first thing about it? I was worried that I'd do it wrong, that if I said the words out loud, I'd be held accountable and suddenly I'd have to be a proper girlfriend, giving him things that I couldn't define, things that I didn't fucking
know.
Was love just three words? Was it chocolates and flowers and cards on Valentine's Day? Was it doing nice things for each other? I didn't know, and I couldn't commit to something I didn't understand.
And so I didn't say that I loved him. I didn't
know
how to love him, and so I wouldn't. I wouldn't pretend that I could love him the way he was supposed to be loved. I could only hold on tight, kiss his pain away, spread my legs for him to find comfort in my body, listen to him when he needed someone to talk to. I could be his friend, I could be his
best
friend, and I hoped,
God how I hoped,
that that'd be enough.
Because even if I didn't know how to love, I knew how to care. For now, that would have to be enough.
—
Wes and I are like oil and water in the same glass, separating where the lines meet, but still co-existing, still enclosed in the same space, letting gravity do its work to keep us together. Even when things got hard, even on days when I wanted to call it quits and go back to my old life, gravity pulled us back together, and I'd somehow end up in his strong arms, and we'd wipe away each other's tears and laugh about it later, pretending that our hearts weren't brittle because we cared just way too fucking much. I was weak—weak in the knees, weak in the words, weak in the heart. When it came to Wes, I kept coming up short. I was never
enough.
I kept trying and trying because I wanted him to be happy, wanted to see his effortless grin, his eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughed, wanted him the way he was meant to be: happy... but I wasn't good enough.
I was a strong woman. I should have been able to give him the world, and in many ways, I could. I made over twice what Wes did, and financially, we probably would never need to worry. I could pay off his loans with the money that sat in my bank collecting dust, could've eased his financial burdens. I could have bought him a more reliable car than the Camry he'd been driving for ten years, could have taken him shopping and bought him anything he wanted. But the thing is, Wes would
never
accept my help. He would be insulted. And so, the only ways I could repay him for loving me were out of the window. I couldn't even properly thank him.
All I could do was wake up in the middle of the night, fear gripping me, and I'd think for one terrifying second that I was drowning, that there was no Wes, that it had all been a dream. And then he would mumble something, wrapping an arm around my middle and pulling me close to him, pressing a kiss to my forehead with a "S'okay. Go back to sleep." And there in the darkness, I'd repay him by settling into his arms, giving him that closeness that he craved. He'd smile, and my heart would
sing.
Sometimes he'd be at the hospital, and on those nights, the terror would spike into my bloodstream, making me scream in the darkness. I
screamed
without Wes. It was almost pathetic how badly I needed him, how much I relied on his comfort.
I was
stronger
than this, damn it!
"Celine?"
I looked up from where I was staring into my computer, looking blankly at an expense report that I was supposed to be filling out. The accounting head was going to kill me; I was supposed to turn this in hours ago. Addie walked into my office, closing the door behind her.
"Everything okay? You look... I dunno, fucked up."
"Thanks," I muttered.
She laughed. "Cheer up. He'll be back in a couple of hours."
Wes had partnered up with Health Volunteers Overseas, an organization that connected healthcare professionals with countries in need. He was volunteering his time in Bhutan, performing life-saving surgery on kids who lived in remote or rural areas. The hospital had allowed Wes to take a six-week leave of absence, and the clinical hours would be counted toward his residency. It was a great opportunity, one he couldn't have missed, and the only shitty thing about it was that he'd be gone for a month and a half. It had been torture, waiting for him to return.
"Where's his plane now?" Addie asked, rounding the desk to stand beside me. "Seriously? An expense report? Celine, you absolute freak. Move." Addie took over the mouse, clicked onto Chrome, and looked up Wes's flight number, which she seemed to know by heart. "I've been checking every hour," she explained sheepishly.
Addie and Wes were pretty good friends. We often double-dated, me and Wes with her and Ryan, and usually it was me and Ryan making small-talk while those two talked a mile a minute, discussing Game of Thrones and Star Wars and Doctor Who or Strange or whatever. Who knew Wes was such a nerd? Actually, who knew Addie was? I sure didn't. They'd become close, and I never minded because Addie was like family, and it was nice when your boyfriend got along with your family.
"Two more hours," Addie said, grinning. "Shouldn't you be heading over to LAX now?"
"I thought I was the boss here."
"Come on, boss lady. Go get your man!"
"Get out of my office," I said, giving her a look. "And get back to work."
