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.Like the day of their interment, I’m alone, remembering how all the sound seemed to have been sucked out of the world, as if I’d suddenly gone deaf, as if I had come from a boisterous, crowded party and walked into a soundproof cell.The sudden loss of something magnifies its absence.I feel that more now than ever before.I thought I could do this, but now, standing here, barely holding back fresh tears, I’m not so certain.“Mommy, Daddy,” I say, trying to keep my voice low so it won’t echo around the vault.“I fucked up.” I stifle a sad laugh.“I know you hate that word, but it’s the only thing powerful enough to express how badly I screwed up.” I clutch my medal, my other palm pressed to the cold marble.“I wish you were here,” I say, my lip trembling, starting to lose it.“To tell me to take a deep breath and stop making a mountain out of a molehill.” To hold me tight, and kiss my forehead, and tell me everything’ll be okay.A tear slides down my cheek, followed by another, then another.“Mommy, I miss you so much.” I sob.“I’m so alone.”* * * *I thought once I got back on the plane, I’d be okay.But sitting in first class—I’m one of the first to board this time—the seat beside me empty long after the final coach passengers have dragged themselves to the back rows—I feel worse than if I’d stayed.Avoiding Santiago wouldn’t be impossible, but the problem is, I don’t want to avoid him.And I worry if I see him again… No, much better to make a clean break.Fortunately my boss likes me and accepted my excuses for needing to leave early.But I can picture Santiago sitting beside me, his legs stretched out in front of him, looking at me with that characteristic grin.My stomach aches; I realize I haven’t eaten anything since dinner last night, and the Jack and Coke in my hands doesn’t help.But I relish the pain.It’s good to feel something other than the agony of a jagged, confused heart.I pound back the rest of my drink, and when the flight attendant walks by, checking the overhead bins and tray tables and other preflight conditions, I signal for her, gesturing with my cup.“I’ll have another when you can,” I say.She smiles that smile that only flight attendants have, forced while still managing to look friendly.I admire that smile.She’s disappeared into coach when a large, red-cheeked man with a beard stumbles on board and sinks into the seat beside me.He smells strongly of cigarette smoke, acrid and used.I grip my St.Anthony medal, trying to pull myself away from him, from everything.But all I can think of is Santiago: the smell of his hair, the taste of his tongue, the way my hand nests in his.A few stray tears track down my cheeks, and I hurry to brush them away.Santiago is a crush; I was just missing Stephen and displacing that loneliness.I suck in a breath, trying to convince myself that’s true.But if it is, why does my chest ache, physically hurt, when I think of never seeing Santiago again? And why does the expanse of my loneliness grow when I think of Stephen?Chapter TenThe house is dark.Lonely.Quiet.Empty when I finally arrive, dumping my bag and keys on the counter and leaning my luggage against the kitchen island.I cross to the freezer, pull out the vodka, grab a glass, and pour.I ended up sleeping through most of the flight, my plans to get drunk thwarted by a dreamless nap that’s left me more tired than I was before I boarded.How that can be, I don’t understand.I sip some vodka, grimacing at its fierce coldness, the burn settling comfortably in the back of my throat, before replacing the bottle in the freezer.Normally I’m the type of person who unpacks immediately when I get home, sometimes setting in right away to do laundry.I’ve always gotten a kind of satisfaction from this routine, as if it’s a celebration of my trip finally being over, an expression of my joy of returning home again.I sigh, looking around the barren kitchen, and fish out my phone, trying Stephen one more time.Then another.A third time.Nothing.Stephen’s notorious for keeping his phone off, or on silent, when he’s working, sometimes even leaving it in his briefcase so he won’t be disturbed.Especially since I’m supposed to be out of town for the rest of the week, he has no reason to expect me to call him now.I text him to let him know I’m home, then abandon my stuff in the kitchen, slinking to my office, vodka in one hand, phone in the other.This room is my sanctuary, one of the reasons we bought this house.I work from home almost as much as I do downtown, not that I do so much genuine telecommuting, but because I bring a lot of work home with me.And lately, I’ve been picking up a few stray freelance jobs for some extra money that’s just mine.Stephen keeps encouraging me to quit my job, go freelance full-time, but as much as I hate my commute, there’s something unsettling about spending so much time alone in this house, the isolation—since Stephen works his long hours—taking its toll on me.It’s probably one reason I like to blast my music so much: to pierce that penetrating, endless quiet.I sink into my chair, turning on my computer and sipping my drink, hearing it boot up, gears whirring.Otherwise, the house is completely silent.I need noise.Something to fill the void.To remind me I’m alive—I’m okay.I set my music to play—punk, of course—because I need its loud, upbeat melodies to boost me right now.Rufio’s “Anybody Out There” begins as the login prompt pops up on my monitor.I quickly enter my password, eyesight blurring.I concentrate on taking sip, sip, sips of my vodka, as if I have to make it last the rest of the week.You’re not supposed to drink alone, I know.But what if you’re always alone, or at least it feels that way?I open my word-processing program, shift to open a file, hesitating a moment with my finger poised on the mouse, ready to click, my drink in my other hand, cold seeping into my palm.My novel.I click.It takes the computer a minute to open the large document.I gulp some more vodka, teeth screaming from the cold, before setting it aside.I scroll to the last page of the document.Next, Rufio’s “Moonshine” begins to play as I start to read, as if in accompaniment to my prose.She stood on the shore, staring out at the horizon, slowly being lost by the night descending around her.Her skin tingled with the breeze as it blew over her arms, making each of the hairs stand briefly before falling back against her skin, as if waving their own good-bye.She cast her eyes up toward the sky, unable to find a single star, perhaps because the sun left behind too much light in the ebbing dusk, perhaps because clouds obscured her view.The soft sounds of the waves crashing against the concrete steps of the lake, the occasional sleepy cry of a lone seagull, the soft kiss of the breeze against the grass, her clothes were the only sounds
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