Hey your glass is empty
it's a hell of a long way home
why don't you let me take you
it's no good to go alone
She crawled out of bed, the ravages from last night's crying jag still apparent on her visage. Scrubbing at the remnants of tears crusting her lids, the sleep set deep in her eyes, and the smeared mascara falling into the circles under her eyes, she slowly tried to rouse herself. Reaching for her phone, she knocked over a couple of tumblers from the night before, one still half full of the vodka tonics she had used to soothe the pain and managed not to spill the remnants of vodka left in the bottle of Ketel One that she hadn't gotten to before her fitful sleep claimed her.
"Maybe it was a dream," she thought.
"It had to be a dream," she demanded.
Flipping her phone open, she saw the one new message and was startled by its brevity.
"No," he had written.
No, she wondered. "What is he denying me this time," she queried.
She tried to recall the events of the night before and was caught up in a haze of vodka, cigarettes, and him. She could still smell him on her, the stale smoke of his Camels, the musky aroma of his sweat, yet she could not recall the question.
Frantically flipping through her phone, she looked for clues, for reminders, but it all was a blur. Images, sensations all were there, but she couldn't reach the details. Those were elusive, playing cat and mouse with her all the while the panic swelled and the bile in her gorge rose.
She needed to know the truth, yet the truth did not want to find her. She should have known at that point that the truth would only hurt, that no good could have come from knowing the truth. But she didn't and, being a wanna-be glass is half full kind of girl, she wanted to believe; she thought that she had found something to believe in.
Oh how easily deluded she was.
I never would have opened up
but you seemed so real to me
after all the bullshit I've heard
it's refreshing not to see
She met him years and years ago. He was the friend of easy reconnaissance. She'd use him for her information discovery on boys; he'd use her when he needed a non-demanding woman. He always thought women asked too much of him. She asked for nothing from him but a calming presence, a gentle touch, and some reassuring nights.
It worked for such a very long time. They weathered college together, boyfriends, girlfriends, a pair of spouses, and even uncooperative pups and yet they still had each other in the way that they each accepted.
One day she looked in the mirror, glanced toward her husband in her bed, and what she saw reflected was someone that she no longer recognized. She loved her husband; they had a beautiful baby girl together and they were content. No one was ecstatic. He fell into her after another girl had ripped his heart from his chest; she sucked him up into her vortex that needed male attention and they got on well enough. Neither expected bibbity bobbety boo. Neither was looking for the pot of gold; having each other was good enough.
Yet when she looked in the mirror that autumn morning, she saw a stranger. A hollow being was reflected. She didn't have love; she adored her little girl, but she needed more. Her more was a known entity, but he was halfway across the continent, in Chicago, with his wife and their kids.
I don't have to pretend
she doesn't expect it from me
Don't tell me I haven't been good to you
don't tell me I have never been there for you
That same morning, while wrestling with his twins, he sighed deeply and was asked by his little boy, "Poppa, why're you so sad?"
"I'm not sad, boyo," he smiled at the lad, "You're just getting big and daddy's out of shape." In an attempt to distract the observant tyke, he growled and began tickling his son into submission. Cackling evilly, he then went after his little girl who was prepared for the attack. As the miniature redhead began her counter-attack, he sighed again and wished she was hers.
They'd played this game of cat and mouse for years, needing each other, wanting each other, loving each other. He'd met his wife long ago in college but didn't propose until a year after she married her husband. He had kept out hope that she instinctively knew he was in it for more than random booty calls and cuddles. Her marriage proved him wrong.
His life in Chicago was a sham; his wife was a decent woman and good mother who didn't understand him in the least. There was no ease of discourse, no bond between the two of them except for the two little creatures that now played at his feet quite like puppies.
He needed to make a change, to try to set things back on the course they should have taken back when both he and she were fresh, unjaded, and curious. He wanted her to be with him, to start over again. Occupying the munchkins with some Legos, he went to speak with his wife.
don't tell me why
nothing is good enough
Hey little girl would you like some candy
your momma said that it's OK
She started filling the emptiness with vodka. She wasn't picky, she'd settle sometimes for beer, cheap wine, hell, even wine coolers would do in a pinch; she was like a kid in a candy store, using booze to fill the void. Eventually, though, her husband started to notice the new harridan taking the place of the girl he married long ago.
She heard her husband say, "I'm drawing a line and I'm not above using the baby as blackmail." Hearing this horrified her. "Us or the booze," was his demand.
What she didn't hear her spouse say, what he kept to himself, was that he knew she was hiding herself, hiding someone from him. He didn't particularly care about that. He liked his wife well enough, but knew the deal. He harbored no false illusions. He just wanted her to straighten her shit out before it impacted the kid.
She knew she wasn't a drunk. Sure, she abused the drink, substituting it for her love that she assumed she could never have the same way some people embrace food. The drink wasn't the problem; her marriage, her soul, her tattered heart were the problem and she didn't know how to fix any of those things.
So she got better at hiding. She bore even further into herself looking for the missing purpose that would alleviate the pain of her loneliness and when that proved to be elusive, she returned to her trusty vodka.
The husband thought that she had picked him and the kid. Truth is, she couldn't even pick herself in the mess that her life had become. She was hidden within the hollow, tucked away in a safer place that might never be accessed again.
The door is open come on outside
no I can't come out today
it's not the wind that cracked your shoulder
and threw you to the ground
He returned to Forks with a custody agreement that allowed him to see the kids twice a year and a brand new job at his father's medical practice. He started looking for his girl who he hadn't seen in a few years. He knew where she lived, where she worked, but was terrified of approaching her lest she push him away, choosing her husband finally making the separation from him permanent. Instead, he searched for her in all the benign places he could think of every chance he had. He had his eyes peeled at the gym, at the grocery store, hell, he even patrolled the mall looking for her lustrous chestnut locks.
He had given up everything for her; he would do it again, but he needed to find her, to see her in the flesh so that he could make his declaration. A week after returning to town, he gathered his courage and appeared at her doorstep.
Her hulking husband answered the door, lugging a miniature female version of himself tucked into arms. Visibly annoyed, her husband rolled his eyes at him and stated, point blank, "The kid and I are on our way to the reservation," he was told, "but she's was out with the girls." His heart broke seeing her child for the first time. The little girl should be of from their love. He refused to believe that this beast had earned that right.
Unsuspectingly, the husband pointed him toward her likely destination. "We'll be back on Sunday. Let's catch up sometime," the husband cordially offered.
who's there that makes you so afraid
you're shaken to the bone
and I don't understand
you deserve so much more than this
She'd filed official divorce papers that morning. Finally having enough of the push-and-pull and emotional blackmail, she called a lawyer and made some life altering decisions. Shaken by her boldness, she headed out with some of the girls from the office, planning to thoroughly drown her sorrows. The thing is, when she started drinking and thinking and reflecting and pondering and questioning, she wasn't sad.
She was angry, ever so hostilely angry. She was angry at herself for wasting years on a treadmill while the world seemed to pass her by. She was furious that her husband, a man she truly cared for, would use the one good thing in her life as a tool of manipulation. She was livid that he would let her do all of these things; that he didn't care enough to try to help, even if that help would eventually be spurned; that she was good enough for a tumble, a fuck, but not good enough for him.
Fear fueled her fury, which grew exponentially as she stewed and drank while dancing with the locals It never occurred to her that he might be watching this display, wanting to step in and soothe her. She never imagined that it would be possible that he would give up everything for her. This never even crossed her mind.
She returned to her house, not nearly drunk enough to cope with her feelings, but adequately buzzed to encourage her to dig out the bottle of Ketel One she had stashed in her closet. Mixing her vodka tonic with a healthy dose of lime, she wanted everything to be better. She wanted a magic wand to erase the bad and divine the best.
As she thought, she clutched onto the idea that maybe she would have the papers withdrawn at the courthouse, maybe she could tell her husband that it was just a counter move to his pawning of their kid. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Should could do this; she could live with contentment. She had her kid and she had the occasional hotel fuck with him. It could work. She didn't need happiness. Contentment and a sort of companionship were far better than nothing.
So don't tell me why
he's never been good to you
don't tell me why
he's never been there for you
He watched her in the bar, a shadow of her former self. Her hair hung limply across her shoulders, the once lustrous locks now a dirty, dull brown that matched the sadness in her eyes. As she danced, with her ass pressed solidly to some yokel's crotch, he watched her eyes, which were empty, the sparks that would flash when she was being sassy were gone and it broke his heart, the heart that had just recently begun to beat.
She left the bar alone and strolled the three blocks to her house slowly and on only slightly unsteady feet. Following her to her destination, he stalked her house while she poured herself another drink and turned the stereo on and watched as she began to dance. He was guided inside by some unknown force; she wasn't shocked when he appeared, her heart had been hoping for this and she assumed that he was an alcohol fueled hallucination.
He recognized the album, Violator, which was the soundtrack to much of their relationship. Unable to restrain himself further, he walked up and into her, wrapping his around her solidly, grasping onto to her as the lifejacket she was to him. Pulling her as closely to him as he could, he began kissing her; his life depended on maintaining contact with this woman. Wordlessly, step by step, they undressed each other; she guided them into her bedroom where they rediscovered each other frantically, still without uttering anything. Words would only prove to be complications.
They fell asleep entwined; she woke, not long after, and grabbed a couple of tumblers and poured herself a drink. She was still half-convinced that he was an apparition. Sitting, naked on the bed, she drank and watched him sleep. She loved this man who had eluded her for so long. His even breathing, his peace, disturbed her even in her drunken reverie. Agitated, she started poking him in the shoulder, trying to wake him up.
"Whaaa?" He mumbled into the pillow.
"Wake up," she demanded. Refusing to take no for an answer, she pulled the pillow out from under him and pressed on his shoulder until he rolled over.
"Why are you here? Why now?"
She saw that he was waking up slowly; he'd never been an easy riser. She didn't care. She had to know why he had suddenly appeared. "Why are you here?" She demanded again.
"Here for you. That's all."
Terrified, appalled, and knowing nothing she questioned, "You are here for me? What the hell does that mean?"
Finally waking up and sensing that he was in deeper water than he had anticipated, "I'm here for you. I want to make things work."
Throwing down the last of her most recent drink, "Can't things stay how they are?" Lying through her teeth, knowing that was the last thing she wanted, she maintained her alcohol fueled front.
Dismayed and disheartened, he got out of bed and grabbed his clothes wordlessly. He knew that not a single syllable he said at the moment would be heard. Maintaining his silence, he left. As he was leaving, he texted her a single word in response to her question.
don't you know that why
is simply not good enough
so just let me try
and I will be good to you
The next morning was blur of undefined images and yet the one thing she could clearly remember was him. Reviving her foggy brain after a shower and some breakfast, she sat on the couch trying to figure out what had happened. He had left her. He never left in the middle of the night.
She felt the yawning gap in her soul open, she began feeling everything she had refused to previously let herself feel. The anger, the joy, the pain, the sorrow, the dread all rushed at her and she began to weep. Slowly, surely, constantly, tears rolled down her cheek onto her t-shirt. She made no move to staunch the flow. She simply sat and wept and fruitlessly tried to make sense of her life.
Around noon, she heard a knock on the front door. Reluctantly, she made her way to the door so that she could tell the interloper to go away. The intruder was not anyone new; it was the permanent visitor in her heart, the owner of her heart, really. There he was, standing, with the saddest of expressions on his face. "I'm divorced," he said as he stood there. "I'm here for you."
Stunned, she had nothing left. She was without fight, without bravado, without fear.
"Do you love me, Edward?" She asked.
"Of course I do Bella."
That was all that needed to be said, really.
The only thing good enough for either of them was each other.
just let me try
and I will be there for you
I'll show you why
you're so much more than good enough...