Chapter 13
Esme knew that as soon as she stepped into her old bedroom, she’d be swept up in so much emotion she’d likely sink into the abyss all over again.
Rayna seemed to sense that; she seemed to know that if Esme were given the chance, she’d be lost.
“You want me to join you?,” Rayna asked.
Esme shook her head slowly as she eyed the same clubhouse she'd left only a couple of weeks ago.
“No. I’ll be okay,” She said.
Liar.
Esmeralda Quinn, you’re a fucking liar.
And she knew it too, as she entered the same clubhouse and saw the same people ambling about.
Everyone waved, nodded, or smiled in her direction; but Esme knew what they really thought of her. Christopher Wilder’s poor little widow, all torn up with grief.
I am torn.
The hallway that led to their room never seemed so long, but she took each step slowly. One foot in front of the other until she was standing outside their door, her fingers wrapped around the brass knob.
The knob turned easily in her fingers, and the creak of the hinges barely made it’s way to her ears.
When did the room she’d seen every day for six months turn into something so different? When did it turn into a shrine for her dead husband?
When I fucking let it, and lost myself in the process.
Pain is a fickle bitch, and she’s as indecisive as mother nature…
Esme knew she had to get in there and get that dress, but as she stepped into the small room, her gaze landed on something sparkling in the bright sunlight on the edge of her night stand.
As if she were seeing it for the first time, she headed for it, her boots clomping loudly on the tiled floor.
Esme ripped the offensive item from the top of the nightstand and rolled it over in her palm; Chris’s wedding ring.
The thick gold band was simple, like him.
And yet, it was still here, and Chris wasn’t, and something has to fucking give.
I can’t keep living like this.
I can’t keep acting like I’m okay.
As Esme turned, she saw the same line of pictures standing tall and proud on top of her dresser she'd put there months ago.
Chris’s handsome face smiled up at her, and for the first time, she felt angry.
Why did he leave me?
Why didn't he just stay home?
Esme gripped the ring tightly, the rounded edges almost cutting into her palm, as she released a sound that bordered on desperate.
A deep, guttural sound that easily portrayed how fractured she was.
Her arm went flying and then all of the pictures did, too.
The glass shattered easily, just like her world had.
Esme’s whole body shook with the force of her grief and her utter fury.
Her blue eyes were leaking and wet, but her tears couldn't stop the avalanche of emotion that had her whirling to find the next object to smash.
His shoes went flying, knocking over the vase of mummified roses from their wedding day. Esme hadn't ever gotten around to throwing them away, not even when they’d rotted in that crystal vase that Axel’s sister had gifted them.
The roses and the crystal slammed into the ground at full force, spraying her with shards of glass and bits of roses, and Esme remembered how much she fucking hated roses!
She hated them, abhorred the sight of them, and as she stomped on the broken bits of stems and petals, she made sure she grabbed a hold of his cut hanging on the wall. Esme wanted to slice it to pieces but she couldn't bring herself to do it.
Instead, she cried into the thick leather material as she turned towards the book shelf housing all of the knickknacks they’d collected together. Small snow globes, a couple of them housing their pictures inside, a few more photographs that made her want to curl into a ball and die right along with him.
Esme’s hand flew out before she could stop herself, and suddenly all of those knickknacks were sailing towards the ground, bouncing and breaking just like she had.
Her bedroom door slammed open as she turned to face the destruction. Familiar arms wrapped around her while she kicked and cried into the leather cut she hadn't yet let go of.
“Jesus, calm down, sweetheart!”
The voice belonged to none other than Tango, the Lone Rangers's enforcer.
“Just let me go,” She begged through her tears.
“I can’t do that, Esme.”
He tucked her closer into his chest as she sobbed, her black hair sticking to her wet cheeks.
The cut in her hands smelled like nicotine and sadness and everything she missed so fucking much.
Everything she couldn't get back.
“What are you doin’ here? You’re supposed to be with the Seven Deadlies,” Tango said softly.
His large hand smoothed hair away from her face and she turned in his arms to look at him.
“I came to get my wedding dress, to give it to Rayna Claire. I thought that she could use it, and I just…lost it,” She admitted.
Tango’s hazel eyes were soft and sweet as he wiped tears from her chin.
“We heard. Don't worry about it, Esme. I’ll have the prospect clean it up.”
She hid her face in his green shirt and shook her head.
“I’m sorry. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me,” She whispered shakily.
“You lost your old man. Nobody here blames you for being upset.”
She laughed, the tinkling sound loud in the aftermath of her destruction.
“I’m a little more than upset, Tango. I’m lost.”
“Maybe, but something gave you the courage to drive over here and give that sparkly dress of yours to Rayna Claire. Something inside of you wants to be better, Esme. It’s okay to move on, ya know. Settle down, find somebody new to warm your bed. Chris would want that for you.”
Esmeralda’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of someone else warming her bed; not because she had a lot of options lining up to sleep with the notorious crazy widow, but because someone’s face popped into her head at the exact moment those words left Tango’s mouth.
Esme knew she couldn't go on the way she was.
She had to pull herself up by her bootstraps and get moving.
She had to find the strength within herself to not only forgive Chris, but to forgive herself.
Tango released her from his hold and she stumbled, catching herself on the door frame.
“What the fuck happened in here?,” Esme heard over her shoulder.
Rayna’s vanilla perfume met her nose and she sighed as she wiped her tears away.
“I had an accident.”
Rayna snorted and stepped over the broken glass and chunks of ceramic that were littering the floor.
“Honey, it looks like a hurricane swept through here.”
“Yeah, if Hurricane Esme is a thing,” Tango deadpanned.
Rayna looked up at him, confused.
“I fucking lost my shit, Rayna.”
Esme dropped Chris’s cut onto the bed and pointed at it.
“You can hang it up on the memorial wall now, Tango. It’s yours. I’m gonna take the dress and we’re leaving. I’ll tell Axel what I did when I get back to the Seven Deadlies’s clubhouse,” Esme said shortly.
Tango’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the cut.
“You sure? You've been real adamant that you don’t want us to touch it.”
Esme ran her fingers along the worn patches and nodded.
“Yeah. He wasn't just mine, he was all of ours. It’s time for me to get my head out of my ass and get the closure I need to move on,” Esme admitted.
Rayna’s hand landed on her shoulder.
“You’re gonna be okay, Esme.”
I’m going to be okay.
For the first time since she’d awoken from her emotional-coma, Esme knew that what Rayna said was true.
One day she would be okay.
Not today, and maybe not even tomorrow, but one day she’d be okay again.