When I finally returned home, there was a gigantic pit in my stomach on what I was returning home to. I clearly didn’t have a job, and I’m sure my landlord had bolted up my door, demanding past rent. I wish I could admit I made some mistakes by taking off the way I did, but I can’t. It’s what needed to happen. I was spiraling. And fast. I couldn’t continue to live the same life I did before Chase Green. Before the book. Before the unwanted fame that followed. Because that was no longer me. I needed a time-out. A life time-out. And it took me leaving to finally understand that. The time I spent at the cabin may have saved my life. Definitely my sanity. I spent it thinking about how I needed to make things right. With Dex and Randy, with Kristen, and the unbeknown anger I had toward my parents. With Chase. But I needed to clear my head before I did that.
I wrote two letters while I was hidden deep in the mountains and mailed them from the local post office in town. First one was to Dex. I started off by letting him know I was alive. Then I told him how sorry I was for up and quitting. He had been nothing but there for me since the day I stumbled into his bar, and I repaid him by leaving him high and dry. But I had to. I needed to figure out what was so wrong that I felt so cheated. I needed to fix what was so broken inside myself. And I couldn’t do that staying at the bar. I loved that place. It was my second home. But as of late it wasn’t that place to me anymore. But I could only blame myself for that. I tarnished that place the day I decided to publish a book.
I wrote to him how I never meant to hurt him. I know I did with Chase’s comment. I couldn’t go back and take those words back. But I could explain. I told him that our relationship was more than just sex to me. It was a friendship. It was something I never had. We may not have had that love we tried to work at, but we had a different kind of love. A love that bonds us closer as friends than as lovers. I did love Dex. But not like I loved Chase. I needed him to know how much he meant to me. I just hoped he did enough to forgive me.
I ended it with telling him I would be back someday and maybe we could share a drink together. I wasn’t going to ask for my job back. I didn’t even know if I wanted it back. But I wanted him back in my life. If he would take me. In my PS, I asked that he hug and kiss Randy for me, and tell her I missed her. And I hoped she understood why I ditched her having to deal with Ralph and his beer foamed mustache all by herself.
My next letter was to Kristen. I know I owed her a huge explanation. She did nothing but try and make me shine. She wanted nothing more than to bring me out into the world and show everyone how amazing she thought I was. Talented, smart, beautiful. All, of course, her thoughts. But all I did was piss on her efforts. I apologized for leaving. I know after the last one, there will be some legal issues. I’m sure she did her best to fight for me, but in the end, I did sign a contract, and I failed to complete the entire event. When I get home, that would be one of the first things I had to fix. Most likely just offer some jail time since the fines may be more than I’m worth.
I did my best to explain myself and hoped she got it. I spilled the beans and told her everything. All the thoughts and feelings I’d been festering for so many years. The sadness and anger about my parents. The heartache and struggle with Chase. The fight to try and find a better view on life. I apologized for my actions the last night at the bar. I know she’ll forgive me. She always does, but it won’t ever lessen the shame of that night. I finished with thanking her for being someone who never gave up on me. Especially when I gave up on myself.
I finally pull into the parking lot of my building. The sun has gone down and it’s quiet, vacant of sounds from city life and traffic. I snatch up Gerdie and make my way inside. I’m shocked when I don’t see an orange eviction notice on my door. Unlocking my door and placing the cage on the counter, I set the pile of mail that was overflowing in my mailbox on my small kitchen table.
Being back home feels strange, but good. I missed my shoebox of an apartment, the taste of real coffee and cable. You don’t get to watch much TV in the boonies. Being home also reminds me of why I chose to come back. The anxiety of what I’m going to do never lessens. I’ve gone through every scenario over and over on what I’m going to say once I call him. What he may say in return, but it never gets easier.
I’m going to call him. I’m ready to open up. Give us a real shot. But I have to be prepared that he’s moved on. He may resent me in all this, and my time may have passed. And I have to be prepared. He may not want to talk to me. It will bring up the past and the lying and it will hurt all over again, stirring up the exact reason why I spiraled out of control to begin with. But I need to try. To know if we still have a fighting chance. He will take me back or he won’t. I’m just praying it’s not the second option.
I picked up a pay as you go phone on my way back into town since I cancelled mine, along with bashed it to pieces. I plug it in to charge while I settle in, making Gerdie at home and getting him fed. I pass by the phone a few times while I unpack, the anxiety about what I’m about to do growing.
“Maybe I should have a drink,” I suggest to myself to cool my nerves. I take a glance at the top of my fridge at my collection of hard liquor. I haven’t had a drink since I left. I realized that the heavy drinking I was doing to help mask the pain was a huge part of my problem. Deciding no against drinking, I go and take a shower.
Two hours go by and I’ve done everything from paint my nails to clean out the fridge. I know I’m stalling. “Oh, just do it, you pussy,” I talk shit to myself. I grab the small piece of paper off my dresser, snatch the phone, and plop myself down on the couch.
“Breathe, Katie.”
I notice my hand is shaking when I lift the piece of paper to dial the numbers. My heart is racing, and I feel on the verge of having a heart attack. Four numbers punched in, six numbers. Come on. So close. On the seventh number, I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut. The call connects, followed by a beeping noise. “The number you have reached is not in service. Please check the number and dial again…” Again with the beeping with the repeated number. I hang up.
I double-check to make sure I dialed the right number. I did. My nerves shift to disappointment. I definitely didn’t factor in this road block. I move down the list to what’s written as house phone. With another long intake of breath, I dial.
“The number you have reached is not in service. Please check the number and dial again…”
Dammit!
My mood plummets when I make it to the last number, which is working, but ends up being a local taco joint that, from what I learn, is Chase’s favorite spot for tacos. Per Jose, the owner, Chase spent a lot of time there when he wasn’t traveling since he wasn’t much of a cook. Unfortunately, he hadn’t seen or heard from him in over a month.
I thank the nice man for the information, along with the discount if I ever come and visit and disconnect. “It’s too late,” I whisper as I stare at the piece of paper that holds every single number to reach Chase, which are all disconnected.
“Fuck. It’s too late,” I repeat almost in shock. I didn’t expect this when plotting out all scenarios. All led to us at least talking. I didn’t think… think… “Fuck!” I cry, ripping up the list and throwing it.
I get up, kicking my coffee table, fighting back the tears. “He just changes all his numbers?” I mean, what the hell? I swipe away at the wetness that’s escaped the barriers of my lids. This, he’s… I’m utterly confused. He wouldn’t have changed all his numbers because of me. Would he? Did I mess up that bad? I begin to cry. I can’t stop it. I finally saw clarity and know what I want, and now it’s too late. He’s given up. I fall onto my bed and cry. For being so stubborn. For being too afraid to follow my heart. For mostly not letting Chase in.
I cry until I’ve worn myself thin and expel all energy left in me. When I hear Gerdie chirping, knowing it’s snack time, I pull myself up and out of bed, knowing I need to man up. Move on and accept what is. I can only blame myself for the outcome. But blaming myself doesn’t solve the pain that resides where forgiveness and new comings were to be filled.
I find myself in my kitchen making a packet of hot chocolate. It’s that or the tequila, and I want to wallow in my self-pity without getting loaded and vandalizing my neighborhood. I can only assume that’s where it would lead to at this stage. I grab my mail and hot mug and snuggle into my couch.
Flipping through my mail, I go to my DVR and press recorded shows. If I can’t indulge on my first guilty pleasure, which is vodka, it’s going to be Catfish on MTV. Junk, junk, junk… God the amount of paper wasted on people trying to sell me mortgages or loans. Hello, I’m poor and I rent. “Environmental killers,” I mumble and toss the mail to the ground. Flipping through more, I see the late notice from my landlord, along with bills and more bills. “God, even my mail is depressing.” I take the rest of the pile and toss it on the coffee table. As they scatter across the wooden surface an envelope stands out.
Leaning forward, I push everything aside and grab for it. As I flip it over, I notice it has my name on it. The return address is labeled the NHL Corporate Center. “What the…” Setting down my mug, I slide my finger through the tiny open slot and tear the envelope open. Inside is an event ticket, nothing more. Further investigating, I realize it’s to a hockey game. My eyes lock on the details, the Cleveland Barons against Chicago Blackhawks. Who sent this? I turn the envelope over again, but there’s no further information. My address is even typed, taking away the detective work of whose handwriting it could be. Not that I know anyone’s handwriting. I read the ticket again, the date of the game being… “Today?” I look at the small clock hanging above my television then back at the ticket. “Shit.” The game started two hours ago. “Shit!”
Shit, shit, shit… What do I do? My heart is starting to pound. The ticket is shaking in my hand. I’m not sure what the ticket means. Did Chase send it? Who else would, dummy? “I don’t know!” I start arguing with myself. I’m up and pacing my small apartment. I glance at the clock every two seconds, wondering what to do. The game is almost over. If he sent it, he probably already thinks I’m not coming. What if he sent it so you can come and see him and his new girlfriend because he hates you now? Oh God. That’s probably true. I look back at the time with every second I use to think, tormenting me.
“If I left, I could still make the last quarter.” I calculate how much time it would take me to get down to the Sports Center where the game is being held, minus downtown traffic and time to fix myself, because I look absolutely horrible, which is, “Not a lot. Oh, God!” I run to my room and practically dive into my closet.