I don’t take a sip; I just sit and stare at the burnished liquid. It’s placid, and I get lost as I zone out in the glass. I’m so deep in my head that I don’t even hear the door open, but when someone takes a seat next to me, I turn to see Jase. His expression tells me that he knows I know. Candace must have told him last night. I focus back on my glass that’s still sitting on the bar, cradled in my hands.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I can barely move my head up and down to acknowledge his words that take me out of my daze and bring me back to the mass of emotions.
Without looking at him, I talk. “I always knew she was hiding something, I just . . .”
“I know.”
“She has these moments in her sleep . . . almost nightly . . .”
“It’s a lot better now,” he says, and I turn to look at him.
“Better?” He nods and I ask, because I want to know, “How bad was she?”
His head drops to the side, not wanting to tell me when I ask again. “How bad?”
“Don’t do this.”
“How bad?”
He takes a pause before he tells me, “Bad. It was like suddenly the Candace I had always known was gone.”
I turn back to my glass and take a drink before setting it back down, relishing the burn in my chest. Warmth.
“So she was different?” I ask, wondering what she would have been like if only I’d met her before that night.
“Yeah, but like I said, she’s better.”
“Better,” I repeat, not knowing what else to say, trying hard to keep the pain at bay. “How?”
“She used to have these hallucinations. It freaked me out. They were intense, and I’d always find her vomiting in my bathroom.”
His words punch me in the gut. Thinking about her like that is almost too much, and I feel the tears return, but I fight to hold them back.
“She said she knew him.” My words crack as they find their way out past the lump in my throat.
“Yeah.”
I turn back to him and ask, “You know him too?”
Shaking his head, he tells me, “I met him once.”
“Who is he?”
He releases a hard sigh when I press, “Who is he?”
He still doesn’t respond when I question, “Did you ever do anything?”
“I wanted to. I still do.” His breathing staggers as his eyes redden and gloss over. “But I can’t. Candace made me promise, and I just can’t break that promise. It would hurt her too much.”
“Why didn’t she do anything?”
“She was scared. Embarrassed. I tried talking to her, but she’d rather bury it, so that’s what she did.”
I shake my head, and when I do, he speaks up, “Look, man, I wanna kill that bastard. I do. I saw what he did to her, and he f**ked her up . . . bad. But I love her. And as much as I hate that all she wants to do is hide this shit, I don’t fight it because I don’t want to hurt her.” I watch his tears fall as he adds, “I know what you two have is completely different than what I have with her, but she’s my f**kin’ heart, man. I hate her choices, but I also know how fragile she is right now, so I let it be. Right or wrong, I just give her what she wants.”
I can’t speak even if I wanted to because the pain in my chest is nearly unbearable at this point. All I can do is give him a nod, and I know he sees the emotion on my face. How could a person hide it?
He stands up and grips my shoulder, saying, “I couldn’t deal with this shit if it weren’t for Mark. If you ever need to talk . . .”
“Yeah. Thanks,” I respond on a breath before he turns to walk out the door.
When he’s out of my vision, I drop my head in my hands and let it out. It’s a haze of unrecognizable emotions beating through me. To look past this and let her continue to sit and do nothing is something that I don’t think I’m capable of. But Jase is right. My girl is so damn fragile even though she’s so damn strong. It’s a paradox that’s hard to deal with. She’s gonna break one way or another.
Irritation boils inside, and the longer I sit here it starts to eat away at me until it takes over and I stand up, kicking over the stool, screaming, and smashing my glass against the brick wall behind the bar followed next by the bottle. The blast of glass shattering and sprinkling to the floor is all I hear through the ringing in my head. I grab my keys, leaving the mess, and head to my jeep.
I drive. Making my way back to my loft and upstairs to find Candace standing in my closet, slipping on a sweater.
“Why didn’t you do anything?” I ask, unable to control my frustration.
She turns to look at me, confused, when she asks, “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Ryan, please. Don’t,” she says and then walks past me to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Who is he?” I press, emotions getting the best of me.
She keeps her chin tucked down. Avoiding.
“Candace, tell me his f**kin’ name!” I belt out because sitting around and not doing shit isn’t gonna work for me.
“Please don’t do this,” she chokes out as she begins to cry.
“Why aren’t you more pissed?”
“I am.”
“You’re not,” I tell her as I stand in front of her. “I don’t see it.”
She doesn’t respond, and I plead with her, needing to make sense of all of this. “Tell me why I don’t see it. Make me understand because this shit is killing me.”