Sequel to Darling.
She thought about wearing black, and though few would believe it, her closet does contain one dress that would have been appropriate. It is colourless, characterless. It is just a black dress, so she is wearing something else, a statement about herself.
While the idea seemed natural when she was at the small room at the hotel, now she is not so sure. Her outfit is all conspicuous clutter, satsuma orange overlapping stark tribal reds where the purple does not blotch, and she usually likes when people stare. She is used to it, but not like this. These people stare and see tainted flesh, not a dress.
She is reborn in California. She is Morgan Garrity, she is her own person, responsible for her own choices and this is her pride and joy.
Here, she is only but an ex. An ex-neighbour. An ex-wife. An ex-mother. An ex-person, almost. Someone to be forgotten or scorned.
Her own mother is in her head, reminding her to walk tall, to never let small people upset her over small things, but her shoulders keep slouching. This community has power, and they know it. They always knew how to make her feel pathetic and not good enough.
She always knew how to fake it, though, so she forces the smile and flutters from group to group, leaving indignant anger and dredged-up memories in her wake.
"Jacob Calhoun!" She greets with pep. "It's been so long. How's Juliette?"
She died. Cancer.
He does not want Morgan to say she is sorry. He wants her to be the monster who abandoned not just her family but also left her friend behind when she needed her most, and she can do that. She can be dumb and selfish for him, anything to make Juliette's husband feel better. Juliette was one of the few who urged Morgan to go, who never judged her.
Her tilted head and wide, blinking eyes imitate innocence, and she can feel him laughing, trying not to let on that he knows she is acting. The timbre vibrates on her skin, almost under it.
It is not hard to remember how that laugh used to be enough to warm her. That was before she demanded the western sun.
He is moving toward her, and she feels the gravity, the steady. It was always constant with him, and ignoring it was futile. She had been drawn in, and as the moth with the flame, she had found that her own desires could engulf her. She could lose herself.
She still thinks she was lucky to escape with her life.
"Sawyer." She smiles.
He is the same, always the same. Even at their daughter's wedding, not two years ago, he had been exactly how he was when she had met him, when she had left. She was surprised and could not help but comment on how good he looked.
It is easier to remember him as small-town nothing in her memories, but he has never been that.
At first, he had been enough. Finally, a good enough of a man, of a living person, for her. Despite the rushing, the fact neither of them had even met Sawyer before, her parents were pleased. Her father nodded his approval, and her mother shook her head, this might be the one to keep her.
Morgan did not know why that was exciting, but it was. It said something to his power that a brush of his fingertips along her wrist or the gentlest incline of his head was enough to balm the crackling energy that exhausted her day in, day out.
"What do you do with it all?" He had asked once as they lazed on a sunny afternoon, Sawyer fishing and Morgan just being. "With all this energy? With all this life?"
"You wake up in the morning, and it's like you're buzzing with the desperate need to move." She explains it then. "Then I see you like this and have to wonder where all that energy went."
She had stretched her feet a little further into his side of the small boat, her dimples showing when he made no comment about her encroaching on his space, and made a show of luxuriating just a bit more in the Sweetridge's extensive sunshine, of letting him know what she hid beneath the tied flannel shirt she wore.
Morgan had shrugged then, dismissed the concern, deeming those thoughts required to answer the question not worth spoiling the lazy peace that hung between them.
Now she knows it is all very simple. It all went to him, always him. It gave him the will to smile wide, laugh deep, and dare to be more than happy, to be blessed. To leave for the rodeo circuit.
Emotions and adventure wore Sawyer out, probably still do, but she had had enough for the both of them. She was strong and could manage the loneliness and the doubt. She was sure.
So Goddamn young and sure.
Morgan is no longer so positive about anything. She was lucky to receive an email once a month from her daughter once she let her go, once that she let her get to know the father she barely ever met, and then she is a stranger to her whole life.
She cannot match faces to names of schoolmates. She does not know who went out of their way to be here today. She definitely does not understand what her baby girl was doing driving down that winding, snowy road without guardrails at night.
And she definitely does not have a clue who picked out Sawyer's tie.
Someone did. It is silk, classic and purple. Purple, for Christ's sake! A woman was involved.
Does she love him right?
"Will you love me right?" Her voice had trembled.
It probably should have been romantic when he fell to one knee, but Morgan had honed in on the crunch of bone meeting gravel and was having a hard time finding the ambiance.
"There is no doubt." He assured her.
She still was not convinced. "For always?"
It was cruel to draw it out, she had known, but she needed his love for her, not for her energy, her beauty or the fact she helped him with the ranch. The proposal had needed to be for Morgan.
If it was not, she had been sure she would not hesitate. She would take the drive back to Boston, her mother would begrudgingly take her back and help smooth things over with her father. Morgan and Sawyer would have waited until it could be about them.
She knew then and now: it was so, so wrong of her.
"I don't understand the question." He had said, and his lips twitched at the corners. They'd played out the same conversation so many times. "Is there another answer than for always?"
No, there was no other answer.
Sawyer tugs at his tie in sharp, awkward jerks, and Morgan is distressed to realize she still has the suffocating urge to fix it for him or to smooth back the fly-away strands of his hair. She still loves him.
She thought she stopped. She thought she made herself stop.
"Morgan." He greets, a resting scowl gracing his face. "I am glad you could make it."
It is not a jibe, but more like praise. They have never been the type of people to dance around her nature. Everything else, but never that.
Morgan does not want to think of her daughter as dead, just gone. She is just off with her rich pretty boy, gallivanting around Europe and living it up as the young should. Not dead. Not in the ground.
He was the son of a senator from Helena. They met in college, fell head over heels for each other, married as soon as they graduated. She was happy, hosting stately campaign dinners and flouting wealth through the city streets. Now, like a spell, she is just gone. Now, her son-in-law is there, looking straight ahead, black suit and sunglasses, speaking to no-one, acknowledging no-one.
Sue her for not wanting to face this. They can just go ahead and call her immature.
She is still brusque with Sawyer, still on the defence. "Of course, I'm here. Five years of her living up here didn't make me forget about her."
He just nods, holds a hand out. She wants him to argue with her. She has to be above everybody else, tell herself that their opinions do not matter, but his does. She can be offended. She can cry.
However, as if to spite her, he is just standing there, palm up, waiting. He always knows.
"That suit looks good on you." She tells him, and he half-shrugs, and then grins wryly.
"Always the surprise." He responds, as if incredulous with what she said. He is not.
"Can you blame me? My memories are of flannel and fishing gear. The silk's an interesting touch." Her focus narrows in on the scrap of violet again, and he's blushing. He looks like their daughter.
It is interesting. A week ago, Morgan would have said that she took her traits from Sawyer, not the other way around, but God, all she can see is her daughter.
They were so alike, both a blessing on her life, something she was never quite sure she deserved. Morgan had a lot of energy, she had a lot to give, but sadly not enough for both of them.
You need to stop crying. The baby had begun to shriek more, louder, higher. When had she started referring to her daughter as "the baby" and not by her name? She did not remember.
Probably when she first began crying. Morgan did not remember how long ago that was either.
Please, please, please. Shhh. She was supposed to be the girl that liked havoc, why should the chaos of children bug her? Yet, babies were proving to be different. They got to be a mess, and she needed to be constant; the young expected schedules and order from their caregivers. She had tried and tried, but she was always falling short, falling out of step.
Baby, you have to cut it out now. Your mommy needs her sleep. Morgan had been working hard in California, to make enough to keep a roof over their heads and food on their table. Her parents and Sawyer sent her money, of course, but it was not enough to cover everything, especially in such an expensive place like Berkeley.
Her parents lived in Boston, and her ex-husband was back in Montana. If she went to either of those places, she could have a respite. She could breathe easy, with the knowledge that, if she stumbles, there will be someone, anyone, to pick her up again. She does neither of those things. She grits her teeth and carries on.
She wanted to be independent. To be the ruler of her own life. To show her daughter she needed nothing and no one, just her own intrepid spirit. It had not worked out.
To be completely fair, Sawyer was not a bad husband, he did not actively oppress or mistreat her. He tried, he really tried, but he was still demanding. He would take care of the cattle, sure, but had Morgan washed his clothes? No? Didn't she usually do that? The flowerbeds looked neglected, and the apples needed to be boxed. Had she handled the phone bill? He could take care of it if she wanted, but she'd always said it was no trouble before.
So, she left. When she found out she was pregnant, she packed her bags and left without looking back. She wanted her freedom, she wanted to give a life full of opportunities, and not the dullness of country life, the weight of the responsibilities she herself did not want to take and certainly did not care for her baby to be thrust upon.
Then, she came back.
Honey! Shut. Up. Now.
Before, before, before. Before it was just him, and she had gestures of adoration to spare.
She eventually had started to hate "the baby".
Morgan still shudders. Maybe she does not have all the maternal instincts she should, but she is still human. She had hated herself for hating her daughter.
That only made things worse.
I'm sorry! I just don't know. I don't know what to do! She had done as all the books had instructed her. She had cleaned the scrape on her daughter's knee with hydrogen peroxide, and she had followed that with ointment and a colourful band-aid, but her baby had still cried.
Morgan had not made it better.
Sawyer had received a call with them both in tears, his wife near-hysterical. "Calm down, Morgan. She is only upset because you are."
He had not been there. He had not seen how utterly useless she had been. He just walked in and summarized, he just swooped in and saved the day. He was, after all, the town hero.
She had been the villain. She was a tragedy of a mother, and everyone knew it. She could not cook a proper meal to save her life, all the other children could talk before her daughter, most of the women were able to contribute to craft fairs and bake sales. Morgan just cried.
Depression, her nanny had said.
Stress, added the doctor.
Reality, her mother summarized.
There had been nothing physically wrong with Morgan. She had just given everything she had to Sawyer without a thought, and she did not know how to ask for it back now, and the many miles between them did not restore it to her. Then she had to draw on her own stores to nurture her. She needed those reserves. She was selfish, she is selfish.
That is why her following relationships worked. They did not need her love, and she did not care to give it to them.
She had the love to madness with Sawyer, and it had become vital that he know the extremes of her devotion, an addiction. The early days of their relationship found her peeling back layers of herself, rejoicing at each new discovery of how much she had to give. They had plateaued eventually, found a comfortable amount of love for her to shed.
Then, she became pregnant, and the baby would need more. She had a lot of love, but just not enough for both of them.
The casket is closed, and Sawyer assured her over the phone last week that it was with good reason. He had been to the coroner's office. You don't want to see her like that, Morgan. She is not sure about that. It might haunt her, but it would make it real.
"You're sure?" she asks him again. "It's her? Without a doubt?"
"No doubt." He's abrupt, gruff, and anyone else would pass it off as just his character. Sawyer Oakley does not show emotion anymore.
Except he does. Morgan knows that, knows him. He cried right along with her at the wedding, even if he hid it well.
"But how can you know?" She presses. "If the remains are truly that bad, she…"
"Morgan." He's looking at her with pity. "Don't delude yourself."
Delude?
This from the man who helped her construct an elaborate life for their daughter's pet dog because it was just too sad to think that she figured out that it died? From the man who kept quiet about his father's death, has yet to this day to acknowledge it, since it was easier to pretend that he had never had one than to deal with it?
Sawyer was never told her to put away her rose-coloured glasses before. It is her defence mechanism. He did not want her hurt, and he let her have it.
"Sawyer, you're telling me everything?"
"Of course. All there is to tell."
Final. Curt.
Lies.
"What are you lying about?"
"What?"
"Lying, you're lying. There's something you're not telling me."
"I think you're just a bit distressed right now."
"Of course, I am. You're hiding something."
"Morgan…"
"You have to tell me. She was all I had, Sawyer. I couldn't have you both, and I chose her. So, I need to know. You have to tell me."
"Is everything all right here?" The hand that the woman places on Sawyer's shoulder is thin, bony and possessive.
Morgan knows those hands knotted a purple tie earlier that day.
She is crying, near-hysteria, and useless all over again. She does not know anything about her life, but she chose her daughter. She is supposed to know. Morgan was supposed to pour everything into her after it was just them and she could be the sole focus of her affections. That was what would happen when she left Sawyer, she had been sure.
So Goddamn young and sure.
She spent two years of her life frantic over the idea that there just was not enough of her to go around, and she knows she will spend the next fifty wishing she had just let them take it all.
The citizens of Sweetridge watch the flighty woman come home and sob over the casket of her only child, just to remind themselves they are not sympathetic. She is an ex-neighbour. An ex-wife. An ex-mother. Just an ex.