Page 24 of Was I Ever Real
In the same way that I wish I wasn’t bound to any one thing. Incorporeal. Free to just… be.
Freedom is a fickle word, when it feels like I've been imprisoned my entire life. If not chained by my father’s influence, it was from the fear of being found, the fear of being caught, for people to know I’m a fake. That Lenix isn’t even real. Who am I behind the charade of hoping I’ll never be found… when I’ve been lost since the very beginning.
And now this.
Was this really my only choice?
To make a deal with the devil?
It definitely felt like it at the time. I’m unsure why turning to Connor for protection was my initial reaction in the first place. I avoid examining it any further. I dodge the questions floating around in my head as if I'd be in danger if I looked directly at them—a black hole threatening me into extinction. Pulled in to never be seen again.
A classic deal with the devil. I might not have signed my name in blood, but it’s just the same.
Connor isn’t someone who makes casual deals.
I’ve been warned my entire childhood of this and yet, I signed my soul to him, in a desperate attempt not to go back where I’m falsely promised salvation.
And maybe it’s because I’m pleasantly stoned from the joint I'm still smoking, but my mind begins to wander, and then wanders a littletoofar.
You two have been bound before…
I startle, my back straightening as if I’ve been caught daydreaming in class. Where the hell did that come from?
To even give what the palm reader said any kind of weight is laughable. I force myself to relax once more, taking another long drag of the joint while I hurl the thought into a corner of my mind to never think about again.
Especially, when there’s more important things to consider like the very real chance Sunny is about to disown me… or kill me. Or both. The guilt I feel about this whole situation and the web of lies I’ve run head first into is making me sick. How the hell am I going to pull off making her believe that Connor and I are in love, let alone married? It sounds utterly impossible and my brain is overheating just trying to come up with a lie that doesn’t sound like I’ve been possessed by a Stepford wife or something.
I audibly groan and turn to the table, stubbing the joint into the ashtray with a bit too much force, the metal table creaking underneath the weight of my small jerky stabs. I quickly give my whole body a stretch, trying to rid myself of the tightness I feel everywhere—it doesn’t work and I grumble back inside. At least it’s Friday night, I can avoid Sunny for a few days and try to come up with a realistic lie over the weekend.
I walk over to the kitchen, the tiles cool under my feet. I have a half-drunk bottle of rosé in the fridge but that won’t do. Not for the mood I'm in. I slide the bottom freezer door open and fish out the bottle of tequila. I set it on top of the counter and turn around to find a glass, although I strongly consider drinking directly from the bottle. Already knowing I won’t be finding any lime or lemon anywhere in my kitchen, I pour myself a drink minus any of the frills. Straight up will do. It goes down smooth—maybe a little too smooth.
I deliberate putting the bottle back but decide against it and drag it with me along with the glass into my bedroom.
I need to pack.
My mood sours even more.
Well. If this bullshit is unavoidable might as well turn it into a dance party. I grab my phone and find the perfect curated playlist for the mood I want. For this stupid and absolutely insane moment in time—and I have no one else to blame but me. Ewan jumps on top of the bed, stretching his entire body, claws included, with a wide yawn and then gives a small meow looking for an ear scratch. I do so distractedly while pressing play and throwing my phone back on the bed next to him.
I’ve always been great at finding small pockets of joy in even the darkest of times. It’s my speciality. Because life is ridiculous. And not ridiculous in a light and whimsical way but in more of a ‘is this a sick cosmic joke?’ kind of way.
If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry and that’s just not an option for me.
The first few notes of one my favorite songs come on and I pour another drink while I start dancing around my bedroom. Ewan watches me from the bed, one of his hind legs stretched straight above his head like he interrupted his cleaning just to watch me prance about the room. After he’s had enough of my antics he resumes his bath and I disappear into the walk-in closet to unearth my suitcase.
After finding it collecting dust in the back, I drag it out and plop it on the floor. It’s gaping wide open, ready to be filled with whatever the fuck I find worth bringing with me to Connor’s. Eventually I fall into a rhythm, the music, paired with the tequila warming my stomach, keeps my broody thoughts at bay for now. I spend the rest of the evening drinking and packing while taking breaks singing in front of the mirror in just my underwear and a loose shirt.
A few hours later and half the bottle gone, I fall asleep on the heap of clothes that I groggily promise myself not to forget to pack tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow… when I’ll willingly upheave my entire life and move into Connor’s god awful mansion.
Chapter 17
Freshoutoftheshower and stark naked, I stroll into the bedroom while toweling my hair dry. Noticing my phone light up on the bedside table, Lenix’s name flashing across the screen, I smirk and pick up.
Not letting me put a word in, she says, “I’m here,” her voice curt and a little hoarse.
“Ok… and?” I deadpan.