Again: Chapter 7

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Chapter 7

Chicago, 2012

"So, when did you move to the Windy City?"

I grab my martini and take a large sip, wincing as the vodka burns its way down
my throat. I look at my cell phone for what must be the fifteenth time, noting
that only five minutes have passed since my last glance. Resisting the urge to
roll my eyes, I plaster a smile on my face and answer the blue-eyed man sitting
across from me. "Six months ago."

"Wow, so you're really a newbie, huh? We've gotta get you out to Wrigley Field.
You like the Cubs, right? I have season tickets and there are two games in May I
could take you to …" The man—Garrett Denali, a 41-year-old divorced Virgo
with two kids and a summer house on Lake Michigan—prattles on about baseball
and Chicago style pizza. I try to listen, because that's the polite thing to do,
even when you aren't interested in your date, but I just can't keep myself
focused.

I'd been in Chicago for two months when Rose and Emmett suggested I give
online dating a try. That's how they had met, so they both swear religiously by
it. The love had died in my own marriage years before I finally got the guts to
end it, so moving on hadn't exactly been the hardest thing to start doing.

Garrett is my fifth date and just like the ones before, I'm bored stiff before our
appetizer even arrives.

I smile and nod my way through the next two hours, adhering to my two-drink
maximum on a first date rule. Garrett offers to share a cab home and I politely
decline, telling him I had a nice time and that I'll be in touch soon.

When I get back to my apartment, I peel my dress off and slip into my favorite
pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. Edward's letters sit on the kitchen counter,
begging to be read. I stare at the stack for five, ten, then fifteen minutes before
making my decision.

I tuck the stack of letters under one arm, pour myself a glass of wine, and dig
through my freezer until I find my Ben and Jerry's stash. When I'm sufficiently
armed, I make my way to the living room and curl up in my favorite oversized
armchair.

I've only read one letter so far, so I have no idea if there's any order to them.
Tugging an afghan up over my legs, I tear the end off one and spread the sheet
out on my lap. I take a big swig of wine and crack open the ice cream, then dive
right into Edward's words.

December 18 2003

Dear Bella,

Today is your birthday. I've been up all night thinking about you, wondering
where you're at, who you're with and what you're doing. Are you at a bar,
drinking cocktails, and laughing at someone's cheesy joke? Are you eating your
favorite cake, marble with the rich, strawberry buttercream frosting and
chocolate sprinkles? Are you dancing with someone, kissing someone … Are you
loving someone else?

My therapist wants me to write you these letters. She says it's an important part
of my recovery process, even if I never send them. The first two times I was in
this part of my recovery, I had really shitty shrinks, and I'm pretty sure that's a
big part of why I just stopped caring. Or maybe I never cared to start with.
Almost everything in life stopped mattering when I lost you.

This is my third stint in rehab. They say the third time's a charm, right? Maybe
this time I can really get my shit together and get on with my life.

That would require me to admit you're never coming back.

And right now, I can't admit that. It still hurts too much.

Love,

Edward

It's crazy how many details the mind can hold. I think back to that winter,
remembering every minute of the night. While Edward was tucked away
somewhere, writing letters to me as a part of his therapy program, I was out
with Ben, celebrating our one-year anniversary. The night ended with him
proposing to me. I remember the laughter and the tears, but also wishing it was
Edward who had asked the big question.

I slid the letter back in the envelope and grabbed another one from the stack.

January 18, 2004

Dear Bella,

The first time I used coke was at Jacob's 4th of July party. You were coming
back to the cities that week and we had all these amazing plans, and then your
mom went and gave the truck to Angela. I was so bummed, because I missed
you. I missed your laugh, your touch, seeing you almost every day, and sharing
my love of art with you. I spent the first half of the week moping around and
then Eric told me I had to get out and do something. I was depressing him, he
said. I tried to call Rose and Kate first, because I figured they probably knew
about a party or two, but I didn't hear back from either of them. Jake and Jess
seemed like the next logical ones to call, because I'd grown to know them both
over the course of the semester, and they seemed like good people.

Jake invited me over to Embry's garage for beers and burgers. There were so
many people there and I didn't know any of them. It only took twenty minutes
before someone brought out the drugs. I was used to blazing up, we did that all
the time, but I'd never done anything harder. This will probably sound stupid,
but I felt like the odd one out. So many of the people there were using, and so
when Jake offered it to me, I just went with it. I didn't want to be that guy who
shows up at the party and then came off like a judgmental asshole.

What I didn't know what was that snorting my first line would be a lot like
jumping out of an airplane without a functional parachute. I free fell into this
world I wasn't prepared to handle and got wrapped up in this habit I couldn't
break.

When you found my shit at Eric's, I was so humiliated. I'd been using on and off
for a month by that point. Your anger, your disgust with me, it was enough of a
wakeup call to get my head back in the right place.

You and I both know what happened. I fell from grace. My break from blow was
short lived. I hurt myself, yes, but I destroyed you, and that is quite possibly
the worst thing about this entire addiction.

I have to live with the knowledge that I single-handedly crushed your heart for
the rest of my life.

That is worse than any addiction could ever be.

Love,

Edward

Some of his letters tell the story of his addiction, while others consist of a
heartbreaking jumble of anger and angst.

March 15, 2004

Dear Bella,

I can't do this. It's too fucking much.

Every minute of every day, all I can think about is cocaine. The feel of it as it
travels up my nose and hits my bloodstream. The high that follows, the rush,
the elation, the feeling that I can fucking do anything and be anyone and …
Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I'm leaving this place. Tomorrow. I just can't take it anymore. The walls are
closing in on me and I'm drowning and I can't fucking breathe. I have to get
out.

Edward

I read through dozens of letters, gaining a somewhat better understanding of
what things were like for him—both during our relationship and the few years
that followed. As I pour the last drops of wine into my glass, I stare down at the
lone envelope left in my lap, a twinge of pain slices through me. It's with shock
and sadness that I realize I want to know more. I want to know every single
thing that Edward did in treatment, out of it, and after it. I want to know who he
is now, what led him to Chicago, and where he finds inspiration for the work he
does.

I want to know who else he's loved and if anyone has broken his heart like he
broke mine.

I want to know if there are any pieces of the boy I fell in love with in the man he
is now.

I slip the final letter out of its envelope and spread the page open.

October 15, 2004

Dear Bella,

It's been exactly 883 days since I last saw you. 883 days since you chewed me
out in the hallway of the art building and slammed the door—on me and on our
relationship.

For 883 days you've been the first thought I have each morning and the last
thing I see each night before bed. Even on the nights when I was so fucked up I
couldn't think straight, your face was there, crystal clear and waiting when I
closed my eyes.

I've spent 883 days beating myself up over what happened between us. I was
such an asshole. You gave your all to us, put up with my shit, gave me second
chance after second chance, and, yet, I couldn't stop fucking up. I had this
beautiful, selfless, amazing woman who would do anything for me, and do you
think that was enough? No, it wasn't.

That's what cocaine does to a person. It seeps into their veins and paints this
grandiose picture of life and all that it could be … if they just had one more fix.
One more bump. One more line. It takes over every aspect of life until it's the
only thing that matters. And that's what happened to me.

I loved you. God, Bella, did I love you. I still love you. The love was always
there, it just got overshadowed. And while this is by no means an excuse for the
things I did or the way I treated you, it's the only explanation I can give.

I hope that wherever you are right now, you're happy. I hope you know that not
all men are like me and that there's somebody out there who will treat you like
a queen. Who will take care of you, support you, laugh with you during the good
times, and cry with you during the bad.

I hope you know that what happened between us is the exception, not the rule.

Love,

Edward

I clutch the letter against my chest as fat, hot tears roll down my cheeks and
drip off of my chin.

I often wish I could go back and find Jacob Black and Jessica Stanley, and do
something really terrible to both of them. Get them fired from their jobs,
destroy their homes, strip them of every single thing and person they loved and
that mattered to them. I've spent hours fantasizing about what it would be like
to exact revenge on them in such a way they could feel as torn up and wrecked
as I did when I lost Edward.

I read the letter three more times before tucking it back into the envelope and
placing it on top of the stack of the ones I've already read. The last sentence
sticks with me for the rest of the night. The words bounce around my mind as I
hide the letters away and get ready for bed.

The last thought I have before sleep overtakes me is that Edward was wrong
about one thing: we were never the exception.

We were always the rule. Written in the stars, meant to be, fated, the end all be all for one another.

We weren't supposed to be a one and done deal. Our relationship should have lasted longer … forever. What we had between us should have been impenetrable, resistant to shitty people and horrible substances, and every other thing the world had to throw at us.

Edward and I were most definitely the rule.

We always would be.