Eleven P.M.

---

Two months. Five days. Twenty-one hours.

It’s my new record although I have no sense of accomplishment. No, I’m resigned as I walk down the dark, deserted alley. The heels of my knee-high, black patent boots click against the cracked concrete in echo of my defeat. The distant sounds of the bass thuds in my ears in time to the heavy beat of my heart.

My own personal staccato of failure.

I’m not sure why it’s always a surprise. Maybe because, at first, my conviction is so strong. By now my pattern is long and established—I vow, I crave, I give in.

Rinse. Repeat.

But, like any good addict, I always swear this time is the last.

Of course, I try. My therapist has given me “management tools” to get me through the hard times, and like a good patient, I follow her instructions to a tee—I meditate, do yoga, and write all my crappy feelings in the journal she insists I keep.

Only, it’s backfired and become part of the ritual. When the cycle starts, it’s a matter of time before I end up here.

I’m sure when John brought me to this underground club the first time, he’d never envisioned I’d be back on my own, wandering through the crowds, looking for my next fix. The club reminds me of him, and I wish I could go somewhere else so I wouldn’t be confronted with my betrayal, but I don’t have a choice. There aren’t ads for places like this. Or maybe there are and I don’t know where to look.

Swift and sudden, anger clogs my throat, and for a split second I hate him for changing me so irrevocably, and leaving me so permanently. Fast on the heels of anger, the guilt wells, so powerful it brings a sting of tears to my eyes. In the pockets of my black trench coat, my nails dig crescents into my palms.

I push away the emotions. Exhaling harshly, my breath fogs the air as I spot a hint of the red door that signals both my refuge and my hell. I hear the muffled hum of music that will crescendo once I’m inside to pump through me like a heartbeat.

My pace quickens along with my pulse.

As much as I hate giving in, I can’t deny my relief. Once I step through that door, I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to be normal.

The tension, riding me all day, distracting me in meetings, making me wander off in the middle of conversations, ebbs. A twisted excitement slicks my thighs as the bare skin under my skirt tingles.

I haven’t bothered with panties. It makes things easier, quicker. Less about getting off and more about taking care of business.

I have on my usual club fare: short, black pleated skirt that leaves a stretch of thigh before my stockings start. A sheer, white silk blouse that’s unbuttoned low enough to show the lace of my red demi-bra. My lips are slicked with crimson and my dark chestnut hair is a tumble of shiny waves down my back.

My outfit is carefully orchestrated. I leave as little to chance as possible.

No leather or latex. I’m not into bondage. Chains and rope do nothing but leave me cold. Once upon a time I loved to be restrained by fingers wrapped tight around my wrists, digging into my skin, but now I can’t handle even a hint of being bound.

I reveal plenty of smooth ivory skin, my clue to guys into body modification or knife play to stay away. I like fear, but not that kind. I want my bruises and scars hidden away, not worn like a badge of honor for the world to see.

My wrists and neck are free of jewelry so the Masters don’t confuse me with a slave girl. I tried that scene once, thinking all their hard play and intense scenes would focus my restless energy and make me forget, but there is no longer anything submissive about me.

I don’t want to obey. I want to fight.

---

The scream leaves my throat, echoing on the walls of my bedroom, as I start awake. I jerk to a sitting position, sucking in great lungfuls of air. Drenched in sweat, I press my palm to my pounding heart, the beat so rapid it feels as though it might burst from my chest.

I had the dream again. Not a dream—dreams are good and full of hope—no, a nightmare. The same nightmare I’ve had over and over for the last eighteen months. An endless, gut-wrenching loop that fills my sleep and leaves my days unsettled.

I miss good dreams. Miss waking up rejuvenated. But most of all, I miss feeling safe. I’d taken those things for granted and paid the price.

Lesson learned. Too late to change my fate, but learned none the less.

On shaky legs I climb out of bed and pad down the hallway of my one bedroom, Lakeview condo and into the kitchen, my mind still filled with violent images and blood trickling like a lazy river down a concrete crack in the pavement.

I go through my morning ritual, pulling a filter and coffee from the cabinets. Carefully measuring scoops of ground espresso into the basket as tears fill my eyes.

I blink rapidly, hoping to clear the blur, but it doesn’t work, and wet tracks slide down my cheeks. But even through my fear, my ever-present grief and guilt, I can feel it. It sits heavy in my bones, familiar and undeniable.

The want.

The need.

The craving that grows stronger each and every day I resist. That the dream does nothing to abate the desire sickens me.

I know what Dr. Sorenson would say: I need to disassociate. That the events of the past, and my emotions aren’t connected, but she can’t possibly understand. Throat clogged, I brush away the tears, and angrily stab the button to start the automatic drip.

My phone rings a short, electronic burst of sound, signaling an incoming text. I’m so grateful for the distraction from my turbulent thoughts I snatch up the device, clutching it tight as though it might run away from me.

I open the text. It’s from my boss, Frank Moretti. CFO is leaving to “pursue other opportunities”. Need to meet 1st thing this AM to discuss.

I sigh in relief. As the communications manager at one of Chicago’s boutique software companies this ensures a crazy day I desperately need. Frank will have me running around like a mad woman. I take a deep breath and wipe away the last of the tears on my face.

Salvation. I won’t have time to think. Won’t have time to ponder what I’m going to do tonight. I type out my agreement and hit send, hoping against hope I’ll be too exhausted this evening to do anything but fall into a bed, dreamless.

Too tired to give in to my drug of choice.

---

My morning is filled with back-to-back meetings and I don’t sit at my desk until eleven. On autopilot, I make my way through voice mails, jotting down the calls I need to return. All the while the all too familiar ache has only grown more insistent.

The morning’s pace has done nothing to ease the tightness in my chest, or curb the craving. Other than momentary periods of respite, it’s distracting me.

Reminding me in countless little ways I can’t resist.

My sister’s voice comes over the line, ripping me away from my thoughts. Tone light and happy, she tells me she’s looking forward to our lunch at noon. I dart a quick glance at the clock on my computer and groan.

April is the last person I want to see.

Not that I don’t love my sister, I do. She’s great. It’s just that being around her reminds me of all I’ve lost and how I’ll never be the person I was again. Today, I can’t bear to witness that look of expectation my family gives me, like they’re waiting for the Layla Hunter I used to be to show up. I hate the disappointment, the loss, shinning in their eyes when they search and don’t find her.

I don’t know how to tell them I miss that girl as much as they do.

This is not a good day to remember. Not when I miss John so much it’s a physical hurt. If he hadn’t died, I’d have been married a year and a half now, living the younger woman’s version of April’s life. Despite our dirty little secret, John and I were like every other couple we’d known in our late twenties, living in the city, having as much fun as we could before I got pregnant and we moved out to the suburbs to claim our white picket fence, four bedroom, and two and a half bath dreams.

Unlike me, my sister’s path didn’t deviate, falling perfectly into place as she’d planned all along. Her successful executive husband adores her; my twin nieces are right out of a stock photo they’re so cute. Beautiful, golden-haired angels that break my heart every time I see them they’re so precious. April even has my dog, the Golden Retriever John and I said we’d get the second we moved out of the city and had a yard.

His memory is close today, and with April’s call, I can see it—that charmed, blessed life I’d believed I was entitled too. A life where the evils of the world were so out of my hemisphere I’d never dreamed they’d happen to me.

Obviously, I was wrong.

Panic fills my chest, breathless in its intensity. I look down to realize I’m clicking the button on the top of my pen over and over. Stilling my restless fingers, I take a deep calming breath. Counting to twenty as Dr. Sorenson has taught me.

I can’t go to lunch with April. Not today of all days when I need so badly what John used to give me that it’s a dull, persistent ache.

I dart a quick glance at the clock and pick up the phone. I might be able to catch her. But then I recall I canceled on her two times before. My sister might be a happy little homemaker, but she’s no pushover, if I cancel again, she’ll come drag me to lunch by my hair.

I swallow all of my turbulent emotions threatening to bubble over and drop the receiver back into its cradle. Resigned.

---

I spot April already waiting for me in the little French bistro two blocks away from my work. She wears a worried, uneasy expression as her gaze darts around the room. As soon as she spots me she beams, flashing her trademark, million-dollar smile.

My stomach tightens as I walk toward her. She looks gorgeous and the sight of her makes me feel like a poor carbon copy of my former self.

While we have the same clear, sky-blue eyes, she’s a California blonde to my brunette. Today she’s wearing a casual dress the exact color of red autumn leaves falling to the ground outside. The simple cut, and jersey fabric, skims her body kept toned by walks and grueling sessions of hot yoga. It highlights golden skin, sun-kissed from her recent four-day jaunt to Naples, Florida, for a little alone time with her husband, Derrick. She radiates good health.

In essence, my complete opposite.

She throws her arms out in greeting and I begrudgingly step into her embrace.

“You look wonderful,” she says, squeezing me tight.

Liar. I look horrible. Lifeless and flat in the light of her glowing, earth goddess warmth.

“So do you,” I murmur back, except I mean it. I suck in her scent. She smells like flowers and sunshine. Achingly familiar, so reminiscent of a time hovering out of my reach, I want to stay in her embrace forever.

But, of course, I don’t. I break away and step back. Her lightly raspberry-stained mouth tucks down at the corners, her hands still resting on my arms as though she means to pull me in for another hug.

I tug away, retreating to the safety of my seat.

Her lips press together, but then she flashes me another brilliant smile, and settles into the chair across from me. She lays her crisp, white linen napkin daintily across her lap before looking at me. And I catch it, the hope shining in her eyes.

I pick up the menu resting across my plate and stare at the words without reading. An awkward silence, which never existed between us before, fills the empty space.

April clears her throat. “How are you?”

“Good.” Another lie. Today, I am drowning. “Work’s crazy.”

“I’m glad you were able to get away, you need a break, Layla.”

I put down the menu. “I’m fine.”

I want to reassure her. If we have a good lunch, she’ll be able to report back to my mother that I’m making progress. Peace might elude me, but I want it for them.

The frown makes another appearance, but before April can say anything, our waiter comes over and places a big bottle of sparkling water down on the table. Young, with a mess of golden-streaked hair, and the chiseled bone structure of a model, he’s all fresh-faced innocence. “Can I get you something to drink?”

My sister orders a glass of white wine.

I shake my head and he disappears into the lunchtime crowd, leaving us alone with our uncomfortable silence.

I manage a smile and settle on the safest possible subject, one guaranteed to make my sister forget her worry. “How are the girls?”

Her whole face lights up. “Their dance recital is in a couple of weeks and they love their costumes so much I can’t get them to take them off.” She picks up her phone and swipes over the screen before holding it out to me.

I take it and the image of my two nieces, Sasha and Sonya, fill the screen. As soon as I see their precious little faces, decked out in lavender leotards with matching tutus accented by pale green bows, I realize I’m longing for information about them. They’re so adorable it brings a sting of tears to my eyes that I blink away.

Technically, when I find myself on the verge of uncontrollably crying throughout the day, I’m supposed to call Dr. Sorenson for an emergency session, since it’s a trigger for my unhealthy behavior.

But I already know I’m not going to do that.

I’m ready to fall. Crave it in that way nobody could talk me out of.

I straighten in my chair and hand the phone back to April. “Text me the picture.”

“I will.” She drops the cell onto the table and places her hands in her lap. “They’d love it if their Aunt Layla came to their dance.”

An image of sitting in the audience fills my head. My parents, April and Derrick, and me, sitting next to some stranger where my husband is supposed to be. It’s a selfish thought and I immediately dislike myself for it. This isn’t about me. It’s about my nieces.

I nod. I will not disappoint April, not in this. “Of course, I’d love to come.”

She clasps her hands together in a gesture of prayer. “Thank you so much, they’ll be so excited.”

I’m sad she views this as a major accomplishment, and I renew my vow to spend the rest of lunch being a good sister.

---

Thirty minutes later, April has filled me in on every aspect of her life—from the petty women in the PTA, to her vacation with Derrick. I’ve done a good job, made all the right noises and gestures, laughing in all the right places. She’s satisfied. Relaxed.

The waiter walks away with our empty plates and April puts her elbows on the table and leans forward. “I want to ask you something.”

Spine stiffening, I’m immediately on high alert.

“I don’t want you to say no right away.” April’s gaze looks just past me and she nibbles on her bottom lip.

All my good intentions fly out the window and I say in a hard voice, “No.”

April sighs, folds her hands on the table, her two and a half carat ring glitters in the sunlight streaming in through the window. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

I shake my head, one hundred percent certain I don’t want to hear it. “I don’t have to.”

Her blue eyes fill with a shiny brightness. “Please, won’t you please hear me out?”

Do I want to ruin her whole lunch? I grit my teeth and nod.

She twists her ring, a sure sign she’s nervous, and my stomach sinks. “There’s a man, he works with Derrick—”

“Absolutely not!” I’m unable to hide the shriek in my tone. How could she even suggest it?

She holds up her hand. “Layla, wait, just listen. He’s a great guy. His name is Chad and he’s an IT Manager.”

“Stop.” My voice shakes. “How could you?”

She runs a hand through her golden hair, and the waves rustle before falling perfectly into place at her shoulders. “I only want what’s best for you. Tell us how to help you.”

“And you think going on a blind date would be helpful?” The words are filled with scorn. I’m unable to hide my sense of betrayal.

“Layla, it’s been eighteen months,” April says, her voice soft.

I look down at the table, staring at the leftover basket of half-eaten artisan breads, as I swallow my tears. Why does everyone keep saying that? Is eighteen months really that long? Is there an expiration date on grief? On fear?

“We all loved John, you know that,” my sister continues without mercy. “But you’re still young with your whole life in front of you. He’s gone. It’s time to move on and put your life back together. I don’t think he’d want you suffering like this.”

I put my hands in my lap and clench them tightly, so tight my nails dig into my skin. So brittle I might break, I look at my sister. My beautiful, thirty-five-year-old sister, who’s never even had a bad hair day.

“Someday,” I say, my voice cracking. “I’m going to ask you if you think eighteen months is a long time, and we’ll see what your answer is.”

She pales and reaches across the table, making me jerk back. She slides away. “I don’t mean it like that.”

“You do.” A cold, almost deadly calm fills my stomach. “You keep waiting for the girl I was before to show up, and that’s never going to happen.”

She presses her lips together, and tears fill her eyes, turning them luminous. “I miss you.”

“I miss me too.” And it’s the truth. All pretense of faking falls away. It’s impossible to maintain the mask, not with my emotions so close to the surface. So raw.

April picks up her white linen napkin and blots under her lashes. “I can’t pretend to know what you are going through. And with,” she clears her throat and her chin trembles, “what happened…” She trails off and looks beyond me, over my shoulder.

A smug, selfish satisfaction wells in my chest.

“Look at you,” my tone filled with an ugly meanness I want to control but can’t. “It’s been eighteen months, April, and you can’t even say it.”

Emotions flash across her face—worry, sadness, and lastly guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Remorse weaves a fine crack through my heart, but it doesn’t break me, because I’ve spoken the truth. None of them can even bring themselves to mention that night. They avoid it. Pretend only John’s death is the issue. I can’t say I blame them. Where we live, bad things happen to other people. They’re ill prepared for tragedy.

I abruptly stand. I need to get out of here. Escape. I glance at the large clock hanging on the wall. Ten hours. It seems like an eternity until I can go to that one place where I’m free to be as fucked up as I want and don’t have to apologize. I grab my purse, slip out two twenties, and throw them on the table. “I need to get back to work.”

There will be no good progress reports today.

“Wait, please.” April’s tone is pleading. “Don’t go.”

“Text me the details about the twins recital.” My voice is as cold as I feel.

“Layla.” A big fat tear rolls down my sister’s cheek.

I turn to leave before I confess my biggest secret, not to cleanse my soul, but out of spite. I’ve shielded my family from the worst of that night, the true extent of what happened and how it damaged me. Not because of some misguided notion of protecting them, but because, in truth, I’m no better. I also want to pretend.

Only, my nightmares won’t let me.