“You’ve got a secret admirer,” she says as I reach the bottom step, holding out a bunch of yellow flowers.
My stomach drops, and I am transported back to the one time in my life I would rather forget, or rather a person—Aaron.
I thought he was the love of my life, and he saved me from living in a toxic home. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, but I was never good enough. I’m still not, but I have come to terms with that. Aaron used to bring me flowers to say sorry, but he was never truly sorry; it was a performance, a way to keep me quiet and sweep our issues under the rug. At first, I believed him, but then he kept doing it again and again.
I never saw the pattern. I wasn’t taught to look out for men like him. So when he commented on my clothes, it was in a way that made me feel good at first. He told me how beautiful I looked in certain outfits, but over time it shifted into how bad I looked. Without realizing it, I dressed in clothes he wanted me to wear, but I was so blind to his manipulation.
“Thank you,” I say to Mabel, then make my escape upstairs. I refuse to cry in front of anyone when it comes to him; he doesn’t deserve my tears.
The keys jingle in my hands as I try to open my door.
For fuck’s sake, Kayla, get your shit together. Aaron is long gone.
The air is thick as I finally push the door open and step inside,slamming the door behind me and backing up against it.
Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.
I repeat the mantra over and over, clutching the yellow chrysanthemums to my chest.
When I finally feel like I can breathe, I slide down the door and pull out the little white card, flipping it over.
I’m sorry.
Yeah, me too.
I’m sorry I let myself think I was ready. I’m sorry I could see myself falling for him. I’m sorry for the things I said. Yet I miss him, actually. If I’m honest with myself, I miss them all, and that pisses me off. Though I barely know them, a bunch of men with visible red flags have me all up in my feelings.
I compose myself and push up off the ground, muttering a curse—I promised myself I would never cry over a man again.
Even if I’m angry and hate apology flowers, they did nothing to me and deserve to be put in a vase. Since I don’t own a vase, I find a jug and fill it with water and put the flowers in there before finding a bottle of red I have been saving. I’m not really a wine girl, but it is my go-to when I feel down.
The flowers catch my eye as I take a sip of my wine. Aaron always sent me red roses, and I realize now they were never about me—it was all about appearances.
There is no way Vero could know I hate receivingflowers; he isn’t Aaron and has sent these because he is genuinely sorry. But due to my past, sorry is just a word to me, one I have heard so many times before.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.
I’m sorry, but you made me angry.
I’m sorry, but I did it for you.
Sorry, sorry, fucking sorry.
I spent years with a man who made me feel like his abuse was love, and I am still trying to unlearn what that taught me. I can’t think about the night in the bar and not worry. Not because I think Vero is dangerous to me like Aaron was, but because Vero loves hard—I see it when he is with Brawley. I can’t ignore that my life was simple for the first time in so long until these men bulldozed through that so easily and quickly, waving their red flags. Though I was okay with it, since I was in control—for the first time in my life. But that night in the bar it felt like I was back with Aaron, with no control. I can’t feel like that again.
I did the right thing, or at least I think I did. But then why do I feel so shitty about it?
One glass of wine turns into another and another until I pour the last of the bottle into my glass. I see my window shift, and I shake it off—maybe I’m tipsy and imagining things.
Then I watch it slide up.
I grab the empty bottle of wine, creep over near the window, and stand flat against the wall, my heart thumping in my chest.
The window slides all the way up. A leg comes through first, followed by a black skirt with chains jingling. Whoever this is, isn’t trying to be quiet in that outfit. The woman gets all the way in and smooths down her outfit. She turns to face me and takes in the wine bottle raised above my head.
Her laughter echoes through my loft. “A wine bottle?”
“It’s heavy enough to do damage,” I say, and I won’t lower it until I know why she is here.