Trials (Rock Bottom) (13 page)

He throws himself around quickly and walks towards the door. I want to open my mouth and stop him. I want to tell him to stay. But the words won’t come.
Because right now the only thing I can think about is him.

Jeremy…Jeremy…my Jeremy…

Even though I was used to Scott being away for business, the house felt empty and I felt lonely without him. I think it’s because I know what the ramifications are of his leaving this time. I know that the relationship is falling apart, if it hasn’t completely shattered already.

My father had come home shortly after Rich left and I told him what had happened. My mind didn’t once travel to Scott the entire night, until it was time for me to climb into bed.
I could barely sleep the night before, the sadness so overwhelming I was plagued with headaches.. Now, as I lay here in bed, watching the rising sun spill through my closed blinds, I have no idea how to proceed from here.

Unfortunately, I don’t have all day to spend wallowing in bed.
At the very least I have to get up, get dressed, and act as normal as possible so I can take my dad to the airport. I focus on that as I get up and run through my morning routine before heading out of the steamy bathroom to make coffee.

I catch my dad in the kitchen already,
hovering over the coffee maker. I smile. “Hey, Dad,” I whisper. He jumps.

“Oh, hey sleepy.
It’s almost ten, you know. Where’s Scott? I didn’t hear him come in last night. More business?”

Ouch.

I visibly fold in on myself. My dad eyes me warily. “Something like that,” I choke out. I suddenly can’t feel my feet very well and I’m dizzy. The nausea comes back in full force, rolling my stomach. I walk away from him, failing terribly at being nonchalant, and crash on the couch. I pull my knees up to my chest, resting my chin on them.

I try to leave my mind blank so I don’t throw up or hyperventilate. I’m so confused and my mind seems like it hasn’t been working the way it used to. I feel…so different.

I hear my dad’s slow and quiet footsteps coming towards me. I feel him sit down on the couch next to me and place his big hand on my back. “What’s wrong?” he asks softly. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

My dad sighs. “I thought you were, you know, happy. That the stress of the trial is over and now you can move forward.”

I know my dad means move forward with Scott. I’ve given him no indication to think otherwise. “Move forward,” I repeat. How can I do that when I don’t know which way to go?

“I can’t follow your moods lately. Sometimes it seems like you’re fine. Last night, you handled the news very well. Then you wake up this morning melancholy. Did something happen? What’s been going on?”

I really don’t have a good explan
ation. My moods have been all over the place, but I blame it on the situation. And I can’t very well tell him all the details of what happened between Jeremy and I during the investigation. He definitely wouldn’t want to know.

“I don’t know, dad. I guess I’m just confused. I don’t know what to do or where to go. I don’t know what to expect.”

“Dylan, look at me,” my dad commands. I look at him, startled at his demanding voice. He clears his throat. “I just want to tell you something important.”

I nod. “Okay, Dad.” My heart feels like it stops in my chest.

“This is hard for me to say. But I want you to hear it. Remember when I was talking about people who would never be happy?”

I nod again. My mouth is too dry to speak.

“I was talking about you, Dylan. You have so much of your mother in you. Not all of that is bad. But you were always so interested in what other people thought or what other people expected of you that you just kind of did whatever you thought would be best for you. Logically, you know? Not what you actually wanted to do.”

Was I like that?
I never thought of myself like that.

“I just want you to know that you need to do whatever is going to make you happy. Don’t do what you think is right for me, someone else, or even yourself.
Do what you feel in your heart will make you happy.”

We stare into each other’s eyes for a moment as he lets the words sink in. His eyes become t
eary and I furrow my brows at him. My dad is not emotional. At all.

“I know,” he begins, pausing when his voice catches. “I know I’m not your real father. But I am your father. And I don’t want to see you like this ever again. Whatever it is that’s troubling you, I want you to know, I’ll support your decision as long as it makes you happy.”

“Daddy…” I whisper. I throw my arms around him as I did when I was a little girl.

The problem is
, I still don’t know what’s going to make me happy. At this point, I’m not really sure that I have the final say in any decision. Scott’s left and Jeremy is, at this moment, still in jail. There’s still a chance that they may not accept the evidence, or that he’ll have to stand trial anyway even with the new evidence. My stomach tightens and I have to concentrate not to vomit.

My dad’s words comfort me to the point where I can get him to the airport and say goodbye, promising to see him soon. By the time I get back home again, it’s already six o’clock. I have yet to hear from either Scott or Rich.

I wake up the next morning expecting to hear some news about Jeremy. I’m also hoping Scott will at least call, if not come home. The only time the phone rings is when my father calls to tell me he made it in okay yesterday and is taking it easy at home. Otherwise, I hear nothing. I try not to bother Scott, assuming he needs the space. I know Rich will call me when he finds out anything. I mope around all day, sick with worry and stress, and tell myself I’ll hear something tomorrow.

When I wake up the next morning, I immediately check my phone and see that there are no missed calls or messages.

What the hell?

I can’t take any more of this. I’m going to lose my mind and all of my body weight from not eating and getting sick.

I text Scott.

Me: Do u want to talk?

A few minutes go by and he doesn’t answer. I will myself to get out of bed and shower, telling myself that I’ll feel better once I’m clean and dressed. When I get out of the shower, there’s still no answer from him.

I’m assuming he’s at his old place, which he still owns. I’m about to make my way over there to confront him in person when my phone buzzes.

Scott: Yes. I think it’s time to talk. Can I come over sometime on Saturday?

Saturday?
It’s only Wednesday. Saturday is days away. I wonder if he’s torturing me on purpose because he thinks I don’t care and wants me to suffer.

Me: If that’s the earliest u can come. I guess…

I put the phone down hard on the kitchen counter, angry that he’s playing this game with me. I decide not to look at anymore of his text messages until I’ve calmed down. But the phone buzzes a few minutes later and I just can’t help myself. I grab the phone, expecting to see either something snarky or an apology from Scott.

But I freeze when I see the name on the screen. The message is from Rich.

I unlock my phone as quickly as possible and read his short message. Then I read it five more times to make sure I’ve understood it correctly.

Rich: He’s home. They let him go. The news hasn’t broke yet, but I thought you should know.

He’s home? That’s it? Just like that?
I clasp my chest and place the phone down on the counter. I feel dizzy with the release of a major stressor that’s been weighing on me. I sit down on the floor of my kitchen.

Oh my God. He’s home
.

I immediately question what I’m going to do when he calls me. I’m sure his call is coming any minute. What will I say? Will he beg me to come to him? Will he have to beg me to come? Will I wait until my conversation with Scott?

I turn around and stare at my phone, wondering when it will ring. I stare at it for a few minutes before I decide to do something else to take my mind off of it. I watch TV. I do laundry. I clean my house. Still, no call. No text.

Wednesday turns into Thursday
, and Thursday into Friday. The only thing that has changedis that I’m running out of things to keep my mind occupied and the news story of Jeremy’s release broke on every major news station. I got two calls
,
which both almost gave me a heart attack. But they were both from my dad and Theresa, asking me if I had heard the news and how much I knew. I didn’t tell them much. I’m sick of thinking about it and talking about it. Theresa told me she had heard that since he turned himself in and formal charges had yet to be filed, the court let him go instead of making him wait for a trial.

I heard from
the news that Evangeline Carter had been known to use drugs socially by her friends when she was a sophomore and junior, but that late in her junior year she had found God and had quit using. I guess the disease held her tighter than anyone knew. Not many addicts can face a needle and a bag of heroin and win.

It’s now only a few short hours until my conversation with Scott. That makes my stomach tumble and cramp. I’m also upset over Jeremy not calling. What does that mean? Was everything he said to me bullshit? Was he just sentimental because he thought he was going to be locked up for a very long time?

I know I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight again, and I throw up relentlessly all day. I’m considering calling the doctor because I’ve been so sick and loosing so much weight, but I decide to see what the conversation with Scott will bring. Maybe it will relieve some stress, one way or another, and I’ll be able to get well again and move on.
Because my track record with moving on has been so good in the past.

After leaving an emergency meeting with Dr. Spritz on Saturday morning, I’m feeling a little more confident about handling the upcoming conversation with Scott and the apparent rejection from Jeremy.
I try to repeat the mantra that, “I am not defined by my relationships,” and that, “I’m whole as a person.” But when I enter my house and immediately run to the bathroom to vomit, I think that it’s probably not the way I actually feel.

I’m lying on the bathroom floor, my head on my arm, when I hear footsteps in the hallway. Before I can react, the footsteps stop in front of the bathroom.

“Dylan, are you alright?” I hear Scott calling through the bathroom door.

Great, just great. As if I’m not stressed enough.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I call as I peel myself off the cold floor and flush the toilet. I quickly brush my teeth and walk towards the kitchen. I see Scott waiting for me as I enter, his arms crossed.

“You really need to go to the doctor. You’ve been sick for a while now.”

I nod to appease him. I can’t very well explain that I’ve been so sick with stress and worry. No doctor is going to fix that.

We’re silent for a moment before he whispers. “Listen, we need to talk.”
             

Alright, here it is.

Scott steps backwards to lean against the kitchen counter. I take him in again. He’s so tall and handsome and muscular. He looks so mature in his suit and tie. Sometimes I wonder what is wrong with me. I should know he’s better for me. I should want comfort and stability. I should want simple.

But I never pretended to be anything but complicated. And I don’t really believe opposites attract.

He sighs heavily, his shoulders slouching in defeat. I hold my breath, preparing for his heartbreaking speech. “Dylan, I don’t think…I don’t know…” He begins, struggling to find the words.

A tear escapes my eye and falls down my cheek. I feel his pain, as if it’s vibrating across the air between us in waves and hitting me in the chest. There was a time, a very real time and not so long ago, when I truly believed I was in love with him and that things could work.
I admit some of those feelings still linger, but I know I will never love anyone the way I love Jeremy.

“Sometimes,” I whisper, my head down. “Sometimes, when things get hard and they often are, I wish that I had never gone to that concert. I wish I would have met you first. Because I think we really would have been happy.”

I peer up from under my eyes at him. I catch a small tear falling from his beautiful face. “Me too.”

Suddenly, my cell phone rings. The song and the loud, buzzing noise keeps us quiet until it silences. Just as I’m about to speak again, the message tone sounds. I dig my phone out of my pocket and look at the message.

“It’s Theresa,” I explain to Scott. “She said I should call her. That she has something to tell me.”

He nods. “Call her really quick if you want. I’ll wait.”

I feel ridiculous making him wait to talk about something as important as our conversation, but Theresa hasn’t called in a long time. And for some reason I feel like her text was serious.

I bite my lip and hit the “call back” button on my phone, placing it to my ear. It rings twice before she picks up. “Hey, Dylan,” she says.  I’m grateful she doesn’t sound upset.

“What’s up, Theresa? Are you okay?”

“Yes…” she says, skeptically. She must hear the stress in my voice. “I can call back later if you want…”