The Art of Starting Over

Chapter 53 - Women... Not Bottles

I look into his eyes searching for something, anything that could give me a clue as to what's going on in that messed up head of his. But what I see is his despair, his desire to not be alone, for me to help him pretend everything is perfectly all right.

All the hurt, all my anger ebbs away. I sigh resignedly thinking how absolutely crazy I am for even considering it.

"Stay with me, Sparky," he pleads again.

So, I stay. I lay down beside him and he pulls me against his chest, moulding me into him. He kisses my hair and hums softly into it until his breathing slows down and his arms become slack and heavy over my body.

Sleep comes easily after that. I sleep beside him until the sun creeps over my face and wakes me up. Jeremy is still passed out with one arm under my neck and the other around my waist and his face looks peaceful save for the one crease between his brows. I reach up and try to smooth it over with my thumb.

A single tear slides down my cheek as I slide out of the bed quietly and leave the room without a sound and with a determination to fix what I've ruined.

#

It's Saturday, it's sunny and I just got my first pay check. I want to do something nice for Jeremy in the hope of making things a little bit easier between us, at least easier enough for us to talk. We need to talk. I have no idea what I will say but I can't let him lose himself like this.

I know what he's doing. He's pushing me away just like he did a million times before, only this time, I get to see every gory detail. And I hate it. He can say what the fuck he wants. This isn't him.

I shower, get dressed and go to the supermarket to get some groceries. I may not be as good a chef as him but I know Millie's Lasagne recipe like the back of my hand and I know there is nothing he loves more.

When I get back home, it's still quiet. Just as I'm thinking he's probably still passed out from all the liquor he consumed last night, something at the base of my door catches my eye.

It's a beaten copy of Thomas Hardy's Tess of the D'Urbervilles with a note saying, 'Tess's only fault was putting her faith in people who did not deserve it.'

I scoff bitterly. Are these our only options? Darkness or naivety? Envy or purity? Heathcliff drove his heroine to madness, Angel to her death.

It does not matter because we are not in a romance novel. Just because two people are very likely to ruin each other, doesn't mean they have to. He said it himself. We are family first. That is the start and finish of our circle.

Tess and Angel, Heathcliff and Catherine, Vronsky and Anna... They all had plenty of chances to turn their lives around but they kept making the wrong decisions. All in the name of love. They kept losing control of their emotions and went spiralling down a path they knew led to their inevitable destruction. But we don't have to.

There is nobody writing our story but us and we have to be logical if we want to stand a chance at surviving this. I am determined to fix this Millie-style. With food. It's a peace offering he cannot refuse. He will sit. He will eat and we will talk.

I wash my hands and start dicing the onion, tears stinging my eyes mercilessly as soon as I split the first one open with his sharp knife. I'm barely halfway through when the doorbell goes off. I wash my hands again and dab at my eyes with a napkin as I head for the door. All my blood drains out of me as soon as I open it.

Pretty as a picture in skin-tight jeans, an oversized cream jumper and a red band to hold her mass of curls away from her beautiful, made-up face, Sosa stands frozen in the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" she asks after few shocked seconds, her horrified voice breaking mid-sentence.

I feel a familiar bubble of rage stir, expand and explode in half a millisecond. All of Keith's messages flash before my eyes like credits after a movie. All of my anger, the feelings of betrayal and hurt and pain I thought I had under control, rush to the surface and it takes all my self-control not to slam the door in her face.

"What am I doing here?" I say back in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

"She's here for me."

His voice is demanding. Sober. He sounds nothing like the wild, staggering J.J. I've been living with the past few weeks, or the soft Jeremy whose strong arms were wound around me just a few hours ago. Instead, I see The Boss who used to call and complain about me at work.

There is nothing about him that suggests he's ever been haunted or troubled by anything. He doesn't look hungover or shabby or distraught like any other human would be after drinking so much. He looks perfect as he stands in the doorway of his room. He shaved his stubble completely, looking younger as a result. His cheekbones and jawline look stronger, sharper, like they can cut through stone. The arrogance is back in his icy eyes, perfectly matching the pale blue shirt he's wearing beneath his favourite navy suit. Actually, it's my favourite. I don't really know if it's his.

I stare at him open-mouthed, my world falling around me as he strides across the open plan, over my heart, the smell of his cologne hitting my nostrils and instantly reminding me of the first time he showed up unannounced on Millie's doorstep.

He grabs his keys from the side table as he puts one hand on the small of Sosa's back and leaves with her. The door slams behind them and my eyes start to sting again.