There, standing tall and strong in front of the enormous wall of windows that faces me, is the love of my life. The betrayer of my last bit of trust.
Although his eyes are fixed in my general direction, I know he can’t see me. Maybe he never did. If he had, he’d know why we can never be together. Not after this.
Tiny droplets begin to pepper the thick, oval glass between us. For a few seconds, I can’t tell the difference between the water in my eyes and the water falling from the sky. But then it starts to rain harder. According to the forecast, there was no chance of rain, but they were as deluded as I’ve been. There’s always a chance of rain, no matter how small.
After a few minutes, my window is nothing more than a highway of rivulets that turn Rogan from real and solid into a wavy hallucination. Soon I can barely see the terminal at all.
Kiefer “The Rain” Rogan. Yes, he brought the rain. And if I’m not careful, I might well drown in it.
THIRTY-FOUR
Rogan
My legs feel tired. As I walk back through the airport, I’m aware of every muscle, every tendon, every ligament, and they all just feel . . . tired. Like I fought the best, most important fight of my life, and I lost. And, even though I won, I really did lose. I lost everything.
The ride back to the hotel is uneventful. When I try to think about past the now, it seems that everything feels the same way—uneventful. The night, the morning, next week, next year—all uneventful. It’s like everything I had to look forward to got somehow twisted around and wrapped up in a shy wisp of a girl. And without her, there’s just . . . nothing.
Uneventful nothingness.
At the hotel, I’m pissed to find Kurt in my room. “How the hell did you get in here?”
“Being your brother has some perks. Being handicapped just helps my case.”
I don’t reply. I don’t take the bait. I’m just not interested in Kurt right now. Actually, I’m not interested in much of anything except sleep. I just want to sleep.
Ignoring him, I walk into the bedroom to get some clean lounge pants, and I head for the bathroom. I cut on the shower and turn to find Kurt parked in the doorway. “What?” I snap.
“Did you find her?”
“Yeah.”
A pause. “And?”
“And what? She’s gone.”
“You’re the dumbest asshole I’ve ever met. Why would you let a woman like that go?”
“It’s what she wanted.”
“Well, I gotta give her credit for making the smart choice, but I’m surprised. I thought she was pretty into you.”
“Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t. Doesn’t matter now. It can’t work.”
“What kind of a defeatist attitude is that? Did it ever occur to you that you might actually have to try with some people?”
I clench my fists to keep from sending him back into the bedroom on his ass. “I tried, you shitdick. There are just some things that I can’t change, things that she can’t live with. That’s it. If I could fix it, I would, but I can’t.”
“Why? What’s so bad that it can’t be fixed?”
If you only knew, I think harshly. But I don’t tell him that. As I’ve done for years, I protect my brother. Mostly from himself.
“Just forget it, man. Back up,” I say, walking toward him to force him out of the doorway. “I need to shower.”
I close the door in Kurt’s face as soon as his lifeless feet are clear of the jamb.
“You’re making a big mistake, dude,” he says from outside. Unless I’m mistaken, there’s actually a note of regret in his voice. But not nearly as much regret as what’s in me. Nowhere close.
THIRTY-FIVE
Katie
I couldn’t face Monday. I called in sick and stayed in bed all day. Mona called at least six times, but I let them all go to voice mail. I knew I’d have to tell her eventually.
Today, Tuesday, is “eventually.”
As was her custom when Rogan was my first client of the day, Mona is in my “office” waiting for me when I arrive. Her face wreathed with a smile that’s so brilliant it rivals that of the sun. Until she sees me, that is. I watch it fall into an expression of concern.
“Kitty! You look terrible! What happened?”
She rushes across the room to take me in her thin arms. I resist the urge to literally cry on her shoulder. That’s not my style. Or at least it wasn’t until recently. For the last thirty-some hours, I feel like I’m no longer in control of my tear ducts. They’ve been overtaken by evil spirits or something. They don’t even care whether I’m asleep or awake. Each time I’ve fallen asleep, my own sobs have awakened me.
Somehow I manage to keep it together until Mona releases me. I give her a tight, polite smile and plead, “Do you mind if we just not talk about it?”
I can tell that’s tantamount to asking her to bite off her own tongue and swallow it, but still she nods in compliance. I walk past her to slide my purse into the drawer where it lives during the day. “Just know that when you’re ready, I’m here.”
I don’t turn to face her. I just nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.
THIRTY-SIX
Rogan
I have a lot of reasons to be angry. I had an abusive father who never once tried to hold his temper with me. I enlisted in the Army and got to see, up close and personal, the evil that men are capable of. My team has been betrayed by someone we trusted. We just haven’t found out by whom yet. I’ve been on the receiving end of hundreds of punches and kicks from various opponents, both professional and otherwise. I’ve been burned, cut, whipped, thrown, slammed and insulted more than I care to remember, but never, not once in my life, have I ever wanted to hurt someone as badly as I do right now.
As badly as I have since I found out who he is.
Calvin Sims. Katie’s ex. The man who tried to burn her alive.
Every time I think of Katie, I think of him. And that happens almost as often as I breathe.
He doesn’t deserve to live. Lots of people don’t, I’m sure, but I’ve never really wanted to take a life. Not even when it was part of my job in Delta Five.
Until now.
But I want to take his. He stole everything from Katie and then he stole her from me. He stole our future. He stole any chance we might have. I can’t blame her for drawing the line. Unfortunately it’s a line I can do nothing about. So I’m angry. No, I’m furious. Livid. Irate. All the time. And it’s eating away at me like cancer, gnawing at my guts. Always gnawing.
I’ve been in front of a speed bag, a punching bag or a sparring partner three or four times a day since the morning after she left. I beat on them like I want to beat Sims. Only I can’t. Because my hands are tied. And no matter how many other people or objects I take out all my aggression on, it never makes me feel any better.
I just feel worse.
More trapped.
More hopeless.
Less alive.
Every day I wonder how much longer I can let this go. Not that I’m letting it go. I’m holding on to it. Tight. With a death grip that feels like it’s only killing me. Slowly. Day by day.
At least I tell myself that’s what it is. But deep down, I know that it’s really not what’s killing me. Grief is. I die a little bit more every day. Every day without Katie.