Confronting The Past
Boulder wasn’t the same city. At least, it seemed that way to Amanda. She’d just been there that morning and already it was different. Or maybe it was just her. The only thing she really knew was that the city that used to feel like home was now as much of a stranger as she was to herself.
She was no longer the same person. Her time away had changed her, altered her irrevocably.
It was strange to follow the same route through the city, to trace her way back to the house she once called home. It had never really been that, she realized. The house, with its modern architecture, square corners and huge glass windows, seemed like little more than a cold shell. All the money that Phil poured into it had failed to give it any meaning at all.
Amanda raised a hand to the front door. She could have punched in the code that unlocked the door. It was probably still the same. She still had a house key on her key ring. She refused to just walk in. She no longer belonged here.
She was so exhausted her hand no longer trembled. She’d run the full scale of emotions during the long drive. Dread, sorrow, grief, anxiety and fear over the future. She’d been through it all. She’d cried on and off, until she had no more tears to spend.
The door creaked open slowly and then Phil’s face appeared. He stared at her in surprise, as though he hadn’t honestly expected her to come back. He pulled the door open wider. He wore casual clothing, jeans and a black polo. All designer, but for him that was casual. No stains, immaculately pressed. He smelled like manufactured cologne, the scent sharp and nauseating, not the fresh smell of sun and wind and pines.
“Amanda.” He whispered her name almost reverently.
“Phil.” She couldn’t keep the exhaustion out of her voice. She just wanted to head to the spare room and sleep. Maybe things would look better in the morning.
“You’re here.” Phil stepped back, let her into the front entrance.
She recalled the last time she’d been there, the accusations he’d hurled at her, the hurtful words, the way he’d thrown her into her studio and told her to pack and get out. She shivered in distaste. Amanda finally removed her runners. They were muddy and stained and Phil stared at them disdainfully. She wondered if he’d throw them out during the night. She didn’t move to tuck them away into the closet like she knew he would have liked.
“Come in. Do you want anything? Coffee? Are you hungry?”
She slowly shook her head. “No. Just tired.” She didn’t rise to Phil’s niceties. He never did anything without a reason.
A tiny frown line appeared on Phil’s brow. His dark eyes flashed with some hidden emotion, but he blinked quickly and it was gone. “Yes. Of course. I made up the spare room for you. I used the lavender scented fabric softener since I know you like it.”
Amanda carefully didn’t say that she didn’t give a shit about lavender scented anything or fresh sheets at the moment. It actually felt like nothing in the world mattered. Fresh tears threatened at the corners of her eyes and she blinked quickly. She turned, eager to be behind a locked door, in a private space, where she could turn her face into the pillow and sob out the grief in her heart.
“Thanks,” she whispered. Phil had never done laundry in his life, or at least not once in their time together. She didn’t like that he’d gone out of his way. It just further proved that he wanted something from her. The Wists were never motivated by generosity.
“We can talk in the morning then.” Phil crossed his arms over his chest. A chest that was far too thin and streamlined. He seemed somehow less intimidating, less powerful, less… everything, now that Amanda no longer wanted to please him.
“Yes. Thanks,” she said again, lamely.
She knew the way to the guest room and she wondered off. Phil didn’t follow behind her, dogging her heels, begging her to talk, trying to reconcile. Amanda tucked herself safely into the large room. It was bigger than the entire cabin she’d stayed in back in the woods, yet she would have given anything to be back there now. Back tucked in her tiny, hard twin bed, no power, no running water.
Amanda shut off the light and forced herself to walk forward, towards the queen sized bed with the purple satin sheets and matching comforter. The abstract, meaningless art on the walls. Not hers. Never hers. Phil never let her hang her paintings in the house. There was other furniture, all new, expensive, modern. For the most part it was untouched, as hardly anyone ever stayed over.
She didn’t bother to undress. Instead she peeled back the sheets and slid between them fully clothed. She didn’t want to feel the slide of satin against her bare skin, stain rather than cotton. She didn’t want to breathe in the scent of lavender instead of fresh, woodsy air.
All Amanda wanted to do was cry. She pulled the comforter around herself and waited for the tears to fall, but nothing came. Not one. She shut her eyes, the pressure behind them nearly as unbearable as the sorrow in her heart.
Tomorrow had to be better. She couldn’t handle the rest of her life, stumbling in a forward direction yet forever pulled backwards by the past.