Beyond

Chapter Three

I know I can be better than this. Better than the constant glancing over my shoulder. I can exist outside of the otherness. Outside of the need to cry and scream and hide. I know I can.

He's in love with you. DeAndré's words echo through my brain as if he's yelled them across a canyon. In the year I've known him, he always expresses concern when it comes to my relationship status. But I swore off men. . . ...

I mean can it be possible that he's attracted to me? I like to believe the best of people and that's my problem. I never see the wolf hiding among the sheep claws out and teeth bare. It makes me uncomfortable to admit people have faults. Like saying out loud I know your intentions are maliciouswill cause offense. As if that is more important than my wellbeing. It's why I got caught living in the endless loop that is Bradley.

I shake him from my thoughts replacing his shadow with something . . . someone else. The man with the sparkling eyes walks beside me, the edges of his body fuzzy where my memory has to work a little harder to recall the more minute details. The buttons on his jacket. The fit of his jeans. The subtle hint of gray in his beard.

He laughs at something I say. The sound of his laugh filling me with warmth. He lightly places a hand on the small of my back. He won't grow aggravated when I tell him how The Perks of Being a Wallflowerchanged my life. He won't call me pathetic when I cry over people who don't exist. He'll smile, hold me, fix me a cup of tea. I'll fall asleep to him humming a song I love, but he doesn't and that's okay with him because he loves me.

We're partners. Equals. Two celestial bodies hurtling toward each other until we collide creating constellations across the sky.

I'm worth that, but my hand still hesitates at the door of the bookstore. He can still be there lost among the books. Taking a deep breath, I push open the door. Margie looks up from the register when I walk in. she has one of the other employees take over and she follows me into the office. I hand her the coffee and, smiling, she sits on the beige sofa.

I sit next to her and lay my head on her shoulder. I know she's curious about what made me need a code blue.

Code blue.

When things are too much for me and I'm sucked under an unforgivable tide of emotion unable to break the surface, I step out for a few minutes to get some air and clear my head. I struggle to breathe. So, she and I have this system and it helps. Mostly, it's knowing that someone gives a shit about me enough to let me have a moment to myself. I'm not being put down for my fears and insecurities. I'm not being told there is no validation—no damn reason—for me to be in my feelings all the time.

I had family. I had a fiancé. I should have been happy.

But that's the thing about poison . . . you never know it's in the glass, mixed with whiskey, until it's too late . . . until you've drank every last drop and the darkness is consuming you like a long-awaited sleep. You can only lose yourself in the peacefulness of it all.

It's not truly peaceful though. That's the lie they feed you. They don't tell you about the twist in your gut or how the peacefulness gives way to nightmares. I always tend to lose myself in these spirals of apathy.

Code blue.

Blue for how I feel when I remember they never thought I was good enough.

Blue for how he told me I was never pretty enough. I was lucky to have him.

Blue for eyes like blue diamonds.

Despite the curiosity I can see in her eyes, she doesn't press. She's like André that way.

"You know, I came here about a year ago from California," I begin. "I told you and André about part of the reason why I left. My parents are important people. The type of important people who want very specific things for their only daughter. Who use their daughter to strengthen ties to other important people. It's an archaic practice.

"Well, Bradley, I've never mentioned him, he's the son of other important people. Our parents set us up and, at first, it was amazing. Flowers just because. Breakfast in bed. Notes left on my pillow." I pause letting my words settle uncomfortably over us.

She grabs my hand and squeezes it lightly.

"I fell in love with him. I thought I was finally getting what I deserved. After never being good enough for my parents, I had someone who could see the real me.

"It didn't last. Of course, it didn't. he became possessive and jealous and just so incredibly mean. He never hit me, but he would always remind me that that was a conscious decision on his part. He could do whatever he wanted to me and no one would stop him. Our parents needed each other too much and their successes were worth more than me.

"So, he asked me to marry him and our parents were thrilled, as if that hadn't been the plan all along. So, I ran away. Before I got stuck in that nightmare. Before I could let it kill me. I haven't even told André about this."

Margie was quiet for a moment, sipping from her coffee cup as she processed my life story. "Shiloh, listen to me very carefully. You are worth more than a prearranged marriage and someone else's selfish gains. You are beautiful, and you are strong. Shiloh, you left. Some people aren't so lucky."

"I saw him in the store today," I confess. "He was here, Margie, and I was afraid the life I made here was going to be taken away from me."

"DeAndré and I will never let that happen. You've become a part of my family and we protect each other. No one will take you away from here without your consent."

I throw my arms around Margie. I'll never be able to repay the kindness Margie has shown me since I started working here. She's the woman I always wished my mother would be. Time after time, I was disappointed, but that's never the case with Margie.

DeAndré and I are wrapped in my down comforter on my bed watching Pride and Prejudice. Before André was even through the door, I was spilling the beans about Bradley. He was ready to track him down and murder him, but he's since cooled down.

Mr. Darcy is the only remedy for a heart done wrong, he said, afterword. So, I made popcorn and we settled into a comfortable silence as we watched the movie.

"Oh, I almost forgot," André says, rolling onto his side to face me as the credits roll. "You'll never guess who I saw at my audition."

"Denzel Washington?" I guess.

"Yes, actually, he gave me a million dollars and the keys to a Bugatti," he says, rolling his eyes.

"Okay, smart ass, you didn't see Denzel."

"It was Blue Eyes," he says, smiling.

"Blue Eyes?"

"Blue Eyes," he repeats. "I only saw him in passing so I couldn't do any wingman work. He's an actor, but I can't place him."

"That's cool, I guess," I say, awkwardly. "You didn't do anything creepy did you?"

"Nah. I didn't have time for creepiness. I was too busy slaying my audition."