Chapter 22

Sierra

TURNS OUT, packing’s pretty fast when you abandon your usual type-A leanings and just… throw all your shit in a bag.

“Fuck—”

In went a shirt.

“This—”

Then a dress.

“Fucking—”

A pair of shoes.

“Asshole!”

My toothbrush.

I collapsed on my bed in tears, feeling a momentary sap in my strength. I’d been doing so good at being angry, had gone so far as to kick the wall and consider throwing a glass — I decided against it. Anger was rewarding, anger was an end in itself. But it wasn’t what I wanted to let myself feel.

Instead, I wanted to curl on the couch in my living room, turn off all the lights, click on to some baking show, grab a container of shortbread cookies and a box of Kleenex, and weep to my heart’s content. I wanted to let the sadness pound through my system like an intoxicant. I wanted to wring my experiences for all their pain. It was perverse, but it would lessen the throbbing ache in my heart.

How could he?

That was the question that rang over and over in my ears. How could Jacob do this to me?

No, you know what? That wasn’t the right question — the right question was, how could I let him do this to me, and for a second time?

Some people never learn, my inner voice tsked.

But that wasn’t me. I learned all my lessons, heeded every piece of advice. I made good decisions, it was hardwired into me. So why Jacob? Why had I, against all odds, given this guy a second shot? Had I sensed someone better in him, or had I been blinded by all that body?

Either way, I’d let myself get played. I didn’t think Jacob had set me up with Joe, had intended for us to be found — he’s not a psychopath — but I should’ve known that if the choice ever arose between me and the job, he’d choose the job, choose the less bumpy road.

I’d done so well when I first arrived and realized I was to be set up with him, you know? I think that’s what really irks me. I’d taken our new “partnership” in stride, even though I’d been rattled to the very core. I treated him like shit, which is what he deserved, and held him at arm’s length, constantly reminding myself that his charms were a show, that he’d hurt me before and wouldn’t pass up a chance to do it again.

So then, why had I let him back in? Probably some kind of death drive, a need to find the most painful shit possible and let it batter me.

Or… maybe I’d actually seen the trace of a better guy. Or imagined one, anyways. Probably the latter.

Definitely the latter, I thought. I always try too hard to think better of people.

Well, I was done being a patsy. From now on, I was throwing up even thicker walls, ones so impenetrable you could shoot at them with emotional cannons and they wouldn’t even get a scratch.

The thought revitalized me — or so I convinced myself.

I bounced off the bed, a woman with a new defense system. Don’t open up, never get hurt. That would be my motto.

My bags were packed, I was ready to go. I’d never be back, not to this mansion, this town, or this company. Permanent goodbyes felt strange, like a conscious subtraction.

I pulled my phone out, and texted Flo:

Omw home. Will xplain when I see u. Got fired, hate Jacob. Kiss Ginger for me. Ugh.

Probably should’ve made the message just a touch less depressing, but oh well. I was busy wallowing. I turned off my cell to save the battery — it’s not like I could sit around in the mansion and wait for it to charge — and tucked it in my pocket. With a heave-ho, I yanked the suitcase off my bed and tromped down the stairs, hand trailing the banister as my eyes fell on the rich artwork of the foyer. I would never be anywhere this nice again. I had to suck it all in, store the wealth in my bones to revisit for a later day.

At the door, I whispered, “Goodbye.” To who, I don’t know.

I arrived at the airport in record time as one of Charles’ security members was outside working on one of the cars and offered to drive me, probably because it was the dead of night and I had obviously been crying, and the roads were free from other cars. Flights between Fort Myers and Jacksonville were frequent, so I selected the first available one and made my way to the gate, stopping only to buy an enormous iced tea, a pack of Kleenex and a box of assorted chocolates. I already pitied my seat partner.

By the time we all boarded the flight itself about half an hour later, I was inconsolable. My fiery rage that I’d carefully stoked in the mansion had backslid once again into despair. The Kleenex and chocolate came in handy, and the man next to me scooted as far away as possible, as though my sadness were some kind of airborne toxin. Not that I blamed him. I’m the first to admit that my snot output was borderline concerning.

Finally, the plane touched down in Fort Myers. Not a second too soon, either, as I’d just polished off the entire packet of Kleenex. My seatmate shoved his way off the plane and I waved him a morose farewell that went pretty ostentatiously unreturned.

The taxi ride back was spent trying to steel myself to see Flo, to prepare for her the confident, even-keeled personality she knew best. ‘Trying’ being the key word — in practice, I cried some more. At a point, it felt so good I stopped pretending to even hide it. The taxi driver turned up the Dolly Parton station louder, which I thought was decent of him.

When I arrived home, Florence was already sitting on my porch with Ginger and a bottle of vodka.

“Sierra!” she cried, running up to the taxi and pulling out my bag, then pulling me into a hug. Ginger toddled after her, anxious to be a part of the action. As she squeezed me tightly and paid the driver, Ginger licked my ankle.

As the taxi sped off, she moved back a few inches to look at my face. “Have you been crying? You look like you’ve been crying.”

I managed to say, “Yeah, I’ve been crying,” before bursting out into another chorus of tears.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she murmured. “Let’s get you inside.”

I nodded, and she led me to the door, her arm wrapped protectively around me, her long curly black hair spilling over my shoulder and the skirts of her airy, floral dress whipping around my legs. Florence looks like a witch, which is to say, she looks like exactly the kind of woman you want comforting you after a man stomps all over your little heart.

Just as I’d hoped, the three of us curled up on the couch, Flo holding me and Ginger nestled in my lap. I pet her silky head and played with her soft ears as Flo reached over my shoulder to pour some vodka.

“Now,” she said. “It’s time you explained that text message.”

Reluctantly at first, then all at once, my story came out. Jacob, Joe, the whole thing. Flo listened attentively, nodding and gasping in all the right places. Some half an hour later, I drew to a close.

“So,” I finished, “I have no job, no romance… nothing. I’m back to square one. Actually, I’m back to exactly where I was two years ago.”

“Damn,” Flo said under her breath.

“Yeah.”

“Well, first of all, fuck that guy.”

“Which guy?” I asked.

“Jacob. Joe. Both of them. All men.”

I nodded, understanding what she meant. “Fuck ‘em all,” I agreed.

“What are you going to do about it?” Flo asked gently.

I considered this for a moment, hands playing with Ginger’s neck rolls, before replying, “Nothing. I’m done fighting. What I’m gonna do is sit here and be sad and angry and have lots of other feelings and then pick myself back up again and try something different. Make a new life.”

“Okay, sweetie. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

“Thanks,” I whispered, leaning back on her chest. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Within minutes, the three of us were asleep and snoring on the couch.