Page 40 of From the Embers
Had the dinners all just been a ruse so she could see him and play footsie under the table I currently ate dinner at each night?
While my eyes had been glued to the game, was he plotting a moment to get her alone, maybe pin her against the wall in the hall I walked past every day?
I had to get out of there, even if it meant temporarily getting away from Bree too.
I needed downtime. A place to think and process. No peace would be found, but I’d lived without it for over a year. I could make it awhile longer.
I managed to secure a cabin just north of Gatlinburg with digital twenty-four-hour check-in. It was a small two-bedroom—perfect for me and Luna—with a killer view of the mountains.
I had no idea how long I would stay. I’d booked the place for a week, figuring I’d rather lose money and skip out early than be kicked out before I was ready to go back.
The first day, Luna and I explored the area. It was relatively secluded, save for a few cabins in the distance, but we found a grocery store about thirty minutes away and bought enough Goldfish crackers, crayons, and coloring books to keep Luna busy.
We hiked. We snuggled on the couch. I even managed to turn down the temperature on the hot tub so we could use it like a swimming pool. But when night fell, without the distractions of being a father, my mind assaulted me.
When was the first time? The first kiss? The first touch? Who initiated it? Who wanted it more?
When was the last time? The Thursday before the fire? Did he cop a feel in the kitchen when I was setting up Pictionary? Was she hoping I’d get drunk enough to not hear her fucking him in the bathroom?
How goddamn blind had I been not to have seen it?
Since the day I’d found music, writing had been my outlet. When times got tough and it all became too much, I’d settle behind my piano or drag a guitar into my lap and the chaos would flow from the depths inside me, through my fingers, and out into the world.
When news of the fire had spread through my connections in the music industry, a producer I’d been dying to work with reached out to extend his condolences. He ended the call with, “This kind of heartbreak should make an incredible album for you. Hit me up when you’re ready to start recording.” I wanted to reach through the phone and snap his fucking neck.
What I’d been through wasn’t a run-of-the-mill breakup that inspired heartache-filled ballads. I’d damn near lost everything. I wasn’t capitalizing on the death of my wife and friend. And even if I wanted to, writing meant reliving those emotions, dissecting them, tearing them down to a fundamental level, then piecing them back together in a way that was brutal and succinct yet still pleasing to the ear.
There wasn’t enough fame or fortune in existence for me to be willing to relive the night of the fire. I leaned on Bree, talked to a therapist, but I never wanted to live in a world where someone somewhere was singing lyrics like “I’ll be right back.”
Fuck. That.
But this… This wound. This pain. This absolute and utter betrayal. I needed to get it out, shred it, patch it back together, and then move the fuck on with my life.
So, with my guitar in hand, while Luna slept, I got to work.
By the next morning, I was no less pissed off or jaded, but at least I had something to show for the anguish. It wasn’t as much a song as a stream of consciousness in C minor, but it was getting there—and eventually so would my heart.
Over the last forty-eight hours, sleep had been an afterthought. I’d doze off, catching a few hours here or there, but reality didn’t allow my mind to stay silent for long. Though, when Luna’s nap time rolled around and she nodded off in my arms in the middle of her favorite cartoon, I started thinking it might turn into a snoozefest for both of us.
“I not sweepy,” she whined, already half asleep on my shoulder, her arms tight around my neck.
“Baby, you were already asleep,” I whispered, lowering her into the travel crib. “Daddy loves you. Get some rest.”
“Nooooo,” she drawled, but that was the last of her objections before she flipped to her stomach, tucked her blanket under her arm, and drifted off again.
I hadn’t made it two steps out of her room before there was a gentle rap on the front door.
“Bree?” I said, our eyes locking through the glass.
She lifted her hand in an awkward finger wave, and even with how surprised and physically drained I was, I still couldn’t stop the smile as it broke across my face.
