Hello again dear readers! I can't believe it's already been almost a full year since I've last posted anything - and for that, I'm terribly sorry. This story is something that I've had on my mind for several months now, but could just never bring myself to start... That is, of course, until Nina announced her departure from the show. Then, all of a sudden, I seemed to have found that new, emotional, gut-wrenching inspiration that I was looking for.
This is my first all-human TVD story, and I must admit, I'm slightly nervous about it. So if this first chapter piques your interest, please, please let me know because I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Just a warning, this is going to be a long, slow, painful journey. I apologize in advance.
New York
I don't believe the things I say
About us when I'm drunk
And distance leaves a bitter taste
When you're gone, when you're gone
- The Boxer Rebellion
It started with a song and ended with a stack of boxes.
God, so many fucking boxes. How had we accumulated so much stuff? Still though, I can't bring myself to open them. My brother, Stefan, and his new wife, Caroline, said they'd help, but I declined. I know this is something I have to do alone.
The sound of the city below is therapeutic. I've missed it. Perhaps even more so than I'd originally anticipated. I run a hand through my dark hair, messing it up, if possible, even more than it was when I woke up a few hours ago, and take a deep breath.
The sun is about to set over Central Park. I've slept nearly the entire day. I suppose it's because I'm no longer being awoken to the crackling sound of vinyl, off-key humming, or the ocean tide. At least, that's what I tell myself.
Stefan thinks I'm spiraling or that I'm depressed. I'm not. Sleeping all day is just a side effect to my sudden lifestyle change; a change he, more than anyone, adamantly insisted I make.
But change is good.
I keep repeating this phrase over and over again in my mind, hoping that it'll eventually stick, that I'll eventually believe it. For my own sanity, I need to believe it.
Charleston is officially far away, and I tell myself, that is a good thing. She is far away and that is…
Well, I'm not exactly sure what that is yet. I'll get back to you.
A strong knock on the door, followed by persistent buzzing, pulls my gaze away from overlooking the bright, Manhattan skyline. I take a step back from the glass railing and make my way across the large wooden deck, through the sliding glass doors and into the large living room of my new four bedroom penthouse - a welcome home present courtesy of my narcissistic father - and hold my breath as I try to muster up the energy to deal with company.
I look through the door scope. My best friend of five years stands in the hallway, shifting on his feet anxiously and holding a large brand new bottle of bourbon. For a moment, I briefly wonder how he got passed Tom, my downstairs doorman who was gravely warned to never, under any circumstances, let anyone up. But at the sight of the alcohol in Ric's hand, I quickly forgive him and let it slide. I am in desperate need of a drink and bourbon is the one thing I've, ironically, not yet had the time to buy.
"I thought you could use this," he grins when I open the door. He holds up the bottle and invites himself inside.
"You have no idea," I sigh, reaching for it before closing the door and following behind him.
"Your doorman is a dick," he says casually over his shoulder as he passes through the oversize kitchen.
"Yeah. He can add that to his resume when I fire him. How the hell'd you get up here anyway?"
Ric chuckles, "It wasn't that hard actually. I just said you were having another quarter-life crisis and that if I didn't get this bottle of bourbon to you STAT, you were going to jump. Apparently, he's in cahoots with your mother to keep a watchful eye on you."
I gawk at him in sheer aggravation at the mention of my mother. "He's definitely fired." I let out a long sigh of irritation. "Jesus, is there anyone who isn't watching my every move, waiting for me to break? I'm fine!" I stress, probably more for myself than for Ric. "Besides, Lily Salvatore," her name feels like venom on my tongue, "is the last person who should be critiquing anyone's lifestyle choices at the moment."
"I know, I know," laughs Ric defensively as he holds his hands up in defeat. "I am purely the messenger and deliverer of alcohol." He bows his head mockingly.
I roll my eyes before turning my attention to a box on the granite countertop marked 'glasses,' and begin tearing into it. Ric slowly shifts on his feet as he begins to look around and explore the new house. "Nice," he whispers. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he suddenly stops dead in his tracks upon reaching the living room entryway. I hear him whistles at the sight of all the boxes. "Wow. I see the unpacking is going well."
I ignore him as I finally find what I'm looking for, and pull and unwrap two drinking glasses from the box before fixing us each a drink. "Splendid," I answer, my tone full of sarcasm and annoyance as I hand him his glass.
Ric takes the drink appreciatively as he studies the room. I know where his eyes land without having to ask. There's only one item that's been unpacked. The Linn Sondek LP12 record player, one of the best money can buy, and one of the first gifts I'd ever purchased for her – the only other her who's name I currently resent even more than my mother's - rests atop my currently empty, black bookcase. It looks lonely without her small fortune of vinyl albums filling up the shelves.
"So, how are you doing? Being back and all?" He asks, sipping from his drink and pretending he hadn't noticed it.
I shrug and head back outside towards the rooftop balcony. I rest my elbows on the railing and continue overlooking the damp streets of the Upper East Side. I wonder for a moment if New York's always looked this dreary and unwelcoming, or if it's just my mood.
"Well if it's any consolation," smiles Ric as he joins me, "I for one am stoked to have you back. Just wait 'til you see the office. So much has changed. After we beat out Mikaelson & Marshall, Giuseppe decided to start floor-by-floor renovations. New state-of-the-art conference rooms, computers, furniture, minibars, even these crazy Italian marble sculptures of nude women, which I for one, admire greatly," he chuckles, "the works. Oh and do you remember that girl Josette? The Litigation Associate from Virginia? Well I'm not even sure how it's possible, but damn, she definitely got hotter. I swear, I shoulda taken your advice and asked her out a year ago. I think she's engaged now though. Not that I should let that stop me, right?" he chuckles. "Damon?"
My mind begins to wander. It does that a lot lately.
"Marry you?" she giggles as she examines the question I've drawn in the sand. "But there's no music."
"Are you serious?" I chuckle as I watch her. She continues to kick and splash the water with her bare feet as she walks along the shore; her yellow dress reflecting in the moonlight as it becomes soaked by the Atlantic tide. Not that she cares.
"Of course I'm serious," she smiles back at me over her shoulder. I stand in awe, hands in my pocket nonchalantly, just watching her spin playfully in a dancelike motion. "It's all about the song. You know that."
And I do. I know better. It doesn't matter that my question is spontaneous and unplanned. It doesn't matter that I haven't gotten down on one knee or that I haven't delivered some long, romantically played-out speech. It doesn't even matter that I'm so unprepared I don't even have a ring ready. No, the ring doesn't matter to her. It's all about the song and the moment, and I know, I'll never get a yes without it.
"Well what song would you like?"
She stops and turns back to face me grinning, her eyes shining with mischief. In a few quick seconds, she is running towards me and jumping into my arms, her legs wrapping around my waist and her arms around my neck. She throws her head back in soft giggles as I hold her tightly and take a step back in an attempt to keep my balance from the unexpected surprise. When she finally stops laughing, I kiss her. God, I just want to kiss her for the rest of my life. Why does she have to make things so difficult?
When I finally pull away, I feel her whisper against my lips, "Surprise me."
"Damon?" Ric repeats, pulling me away from her and all the rest of the memories at Folly Beach.
"Sorry. Engaged. Yeah. That's great," I nod, taking a sip from my glass.
"Great?" Ric laughs. "No, this is the part where you're supposed to give me shit for not listening to you. I practically just hand delivered you an 'I-told-you-so' moment."
I feel him watching me curiously, but I just sip from my drink, unable to fall back into our usual shit-giving banter. It doesn't help that, for the life of me, I can not remember who the hell Josette is. Salvatore and Associates houses hundreds and hundreds of employees in offices all over the world. Faces become blurs and names become just words on a page. Not to mention, I've been out of the office politics game for well over a year now.
"What's going on with you?"
I sigh and run a hand through my hair again. I have no idea what's going on with me.
Wait. Scratch that. As the image of her doe-eyes and bright smile continue to flash through my mind, I do know what's going on with me and can instantly feel my demeanor growing tense.
"Listen, Damon," he begins, silently understanding where my thoughts lie.
Two-steps ahead and in no mood to be lectured, I quickly turn away from him and begin to make my way back inside. "I know that being back here is… an adjustment," he continues, following behind me, determined to pinpoint my bitter mood. "And I know that Stefan making partner instead of you wasn't exactly part of the plan,"
I huff in annoyance. Stefan receiving the promotion I had so rightfully deserved over a year ago had actually been the farthest thing from my mind. In fact, I hadn't even thought about it until this moment. God, tomorrow really was going to suck.
"But we've all missed you and, I don't know, I think if you'll just give it a chance, you'll find that you can be happy here again. I mean, when you're not being a dick, you are one of the best defense attorneys in the city." He pauses. "Hell, even when you are being a dick."
I can't help but smile, arrogantly knowing that he's right and it's killing him to admit it. But my pride quickly fades when he says, "I know your Father's thrilled to have you back."
I snort and roll my eyes. "I bet he is." I quickly finish off the rest of my drink before making my way back into the kitchen to begin preparing another one. I can't even imagine the amount of damage control Giuseppe's had to conduct on behalf of both his eldest son's disappearance, and his wife's recent stint in rehab. The thought makes me smile a bit.
"What happened with Elena was just a," he hesitates, "momentary lapse of judgment. It happens. You'll bounce back from this. Trust me, her leaving will eventually be the best thing that's ever happened to you."
His bluntness and the sound of her name quickly sets my nerves on fire. I slam down my drink on the granite countertop, possibly a little more forceful than intended, and turn back to look at him.
"Can we just not go there right now? I'm really not in the mood to rehash."
He throws his hands up defensively at the sudden sound of anger in my tone. "Fine. Then how about we talk about Katherine."
"Katherine?" I ask, confused and slightly annoyed that he's choosing this moment to bring up another one of my exes.
"Katherine," he repeats, grinning in amusement. "You remember her, right? I mean, how could you not? She's obviously your type."
I shoot back the full glass of my bourbon, growing angry at his unspoken comparison of her to Elena. Katherine is nothing like Elena. I had once, for a split second, noticed the similarities in their height, hair color and eyes, but other than that, they were most certainly on opposite ends of the spectrum. Elena, free-spirited, carefree and untethered; Katherine, intense, career-driven and attached to the right-hand side of my father.
"Well, she's been asking about you around the firm," Ric continues. "I told her you were back. I think she's missed you."
"The only thing that woman's missed is my last name."
"I don't think so," he says in seriousness, moving to stand beside me at the kitchen bar to refill his glass. "I mean, not to deflate your ego, but now that she's made Partner, I don't really think she needs you."
"Wow. She certainly has Giuseppe wrapped around her pretty little finger then, doesn't she?" I smirk, shaking my head in disbelief.
"Well, that and she did win the Robinson case."
"Yeah," I sneer, silently remember the morning I read the headline in the paper: "Jury grants $8.4 million in favor of Robinson. Pearce a force to be reckoned with." I also remember Elena quickly grabbing it out of my hand as she entered the kitchen and took a seat on the barstool next to me. I can still hear her sighs of disgust as she scanned the article over her blueberry bagel.
"Look," Ric grins, trying to ease the tension between us, "all I'm saying is that, getting back out there might not be the worst thing that's happened to you this year. If nothing else, it could lead to a nice, casual, no-stings-attached," he clears his throat mockingly, "fling." He chuckles, waiting for me to join in. "The Damon I knew used to like those, remember?"
"Well the Damon you knew used to also do body shots off the receptionist in my office, remember?"
Ric nearly chokes on his drink as he attempts to suppress a laugh. "I'd almost forgotten about that. Yeah, what the hell happened to that guy? I really liked that guy!" I ignore him, silently hating that version of myself.
"I haven't been that person in a long time."
"Oh, come on! What's the point in having a hot ex if you can't still hook up with her from time-to-time?"
My mind wanders again.
"Ex's are the best thing to ever happen to us," she smiles as we drive down the historic French Quarter with the top down in my blue 1969 Chevy Camaro. The soothing sounds of Allie Moss, her artist of the day, plays calmly through my stereo as she begins to hum. She extends her right arm out the window, waving her hand in the breeze, and tilts her head upward to soak in the warmth of the summer day.
"I beg to differ," I argue, looking over at her through my shades, resting one arm casually on the steering wheel and the other across the back of her headrest.
"No, I'm serious. How else are we ever supposed to get to where we're meant to be without them? How else are we supposed to know what we want?"
"Well where exactly are we supposed to be?" I smirk arrogantly as I stop at a crosswalk to allow pedestrians to pass. I silently wonder if her use of 'us' and 'we' is literal or general.
She rotates her head to look at me and pauses for a brief moment before slowly crawling across the middle console. Her hand finds my thigh and she leans in.
Slowly and seductively, her lips draw closer to mine. "Do you hear that?" she smiles. Her eyes find mine for a brief second before she looks down at my lips.
I hear the sound of a car horn behind us, urging us to move forward, but she seems unfazed.
"Forces are at work greater than you know," she quotes the song that's playing before her lips finally find mine. My hands tangle themselves into her hair, desperate to pull her closer. I no longer care that we are in the middle of a town square, surrounded by dozens of onlookers or that we are seriously annoying the shit out of the car stuck behind us. All I care about is her, and this moment, and all of her strangely beautiful, lyrics and epiphanies.
"You're doing it again," groans Ric as he heads back towards the living room, annoyed by my inability to focus on our conversation.
"I'm sorry," I say. And I am. I have to get it together.
Ric sighs and leans against the doorframe. His gaze wanders back to the boxes. "What are you going to do with them?"
I shrug, knowing the 'them' he is referring to.
"I can help you donate them if you want? Hell, I'll just hire someone to get rid of them. You don't even have to open anything."
My eyes land on a box labeled "2012 Singer-Songwriters" and another labeled "2013 Acoustics." Every album has been assorted by year and genre, causing the need for dozens of boxes. Then finally, I see the small stack labeled "Elena's things."
The sight makes me angry. How dare she leave behind even a shred of evidence that she'd ever existed, let alone enough to fill up over half of my living room? My mind replays the note; the note I'd read so many times I could now officially recite it word-for-word from memory.
'Damon,
-"The smartest thing I've ever learned is that I don't have all the answers, just a little light to call my own."-
I'm sorry I couldn't be what you needed me to be. Please keep the records. I can't take them with me, and I think, perhaps, you may need them more than me. After all, they hold many of the answers that I'm afraid I'll never be able to give you.
I'll always love you.
Elena'
"Donate 'em, sell 'em, burn 'em," I scowl. "I don't care."
"You lived together for over a year," says Ric calmly. "You care."
"Well she as fuck sure didn't!" I feel my rage growing as I step towards the record player on the shelf. I glare at it in loathing, unsure of why I felt the need to ever unpack it. "God, it was just supposed to be a business trip! How did a fucking business trip turn into all of this?"
I examine the room as I run a hand through my hair again. Ric watches me nervously, unsure if he wants to add in his two cents or not. He finally does. "Well, I won't lie. Getting a call from you, asking me to let movers into your place so that they could pack up everything you own and ship it to Charleston so that you could move in with a girl you'd barely known for six weeks wasn't exactly the most… rational thing I'd ever heard, but hey. Who am I to judge? I'm a 34 year old man who drinks bourbon for breakfast, and whose most romantic gesture has been attempting to steal an engaged woman."
I can't help but chuckle; more from being exhausted than from actual amusement, but still, it was a valiant effort on his part. Hearing Ric verbally recall the abruptness of my decision does little to help my pride though.
"God, I was an idiot."
"Maybe a little," Ric smiles as he places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "But in the plus column – at least you gained some quality bartending skills," he smirks mockingly as he shakes his empty glass at me. I roll my eyes before forcing a smile and taking his glass to once again pour us each another round.
"What was it called again? The Blind Cat?" He laughs.
"The Blind Tiger," I finally smile, giving in at Ric's attempt to cheer me up. "And for the record, I was a damn good bartender before Charleston."
"That, my friend, is up for debate."
"Yeah well, Harvard says otherwise."
"Pity tips and flirtatious bribery doesn't count," he laughs. "Besides, that was just supposed to be a temporary hobby, not a career choice."
I smile and shake my head, remembering a time in which the long nights at the bar, and the even longer days in the library, had been some of the most difficult of my life. But in retrospect, I wouldn't change them for anything. Absolutely nothing had been more rewarding than the satisfaction of refusing my father's money, and thereby his manipulative control, as I completed my education on my own dime.
It had also been one of the few times in my life when I could strongly remember feeling free. I can still remember the smell of that old dive bar in downtown Boston. I can still hear the sounds of the rambunctious crowds on a Saturday night and the steady melody of the jukebox on a Monday afternoon. The bar scene, as I quickly discovered, suited me more readily than an Armani tie and oversized courtroom ever would, but it didn't change the fact that Salvatore and Associates would always be in my path, and my father would always be the dark shadow looming in my every doorway.
"Why not just walk away then? Quit. Leave it all behind. Find something you actually enjoy doing?" She smiles as she pulls the basket of beer-battered French fries we are currently sharing closer to her side of the wooden table. The rolling tide and squawking sound of seagulls echo around us, but other than that, we are left completely alone at the end of the pier.
"I do enjoy what I do," I quickly defend, "and I'm damn good at it." I smirk arrogantly back over at her, taking a fry in the process. But she doesn't buy my deflection.
She arches her eyebrows at me as she bites into a fry. I don't have to say anything for her to know exactly what I'm thinking – which I find slightly bizarre considering she's only known me for about three weeks now. I sigh, giving into her look as I lean forward and stare off into the distance, using the ocean as an excuse to avoid her eyes.
"I don't know, I mean, I used to enjoy it. I used to enjoy everything about it. I got paid to think, talk and argue – all things I would do anyway." We both smile. "Not to mention, it's provided me with about a hundred opportunities to really get under Giuseppe's skin." She doesn't bat an eye at me calling my father by his first name, even though I know it makes her sad. "But I guess, somewhere along the way, it just became this thing that I was supposed to be doing, as opposed to something I really wanted to be doing."
"Okay, so what do you really want to be doing?"
She asks as if it's so easy, as if it's such a simple question to answer. I smile, shaking my head. "You first."
"Who said I wasn't happy working at Blu's?" she quickly replies, looking offended.
"Oh, shit. No, I didn't mean it like that," I quickly try to recover, feeling like such a dick for just insulting her. "Waitressing is great. If that's what you,"
"I'm just messing with you," she smiles, playfully hitting my shoulder. I smile and shake my head, feeling relief and, in an attempt to retaliate, reach forward to take the last fry. She glares at me in playful demeanor. "I'll get you back for that."
"Maybe. Maybe not," I challenge.
She grins, moving in slightly closer towards my face, before finally resting her elbow on the table, her head in her palm, watching me intently. I return her gaze, watching as her long brown hair, wavy from the day at the beach, brushes against her sun kissed shoulders. The glow of the sunset is illuminating her every feature and, for a brief moment, I wonder how I'll ever be able to walk away from her when the time inevitably comes. God, she is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful women I've ever met.
"I want to be a doctor."
I suddenly snap back into our conversation, taking in her words. I quickly find myself wanting to know why, where, and when. I want to know absolutely everything about this girl - her hopes, her fears, her dreams. Everything. As though she's reading my mind, she continues on.
"My dad had his own practice when I was growing up. He was a GP in a small town in Virginia. I remember as a kid, I just always wanted to be around him. He was always smiling, always helping. He was the kindest man I'd ever know."
"Was?"
She smiled weakly. "Both my parents died in a car crash a few years back. It's just me and my younger brother now."
"Geez," I whisper. "Elena, I'm so sorry."
She shakes her head. "Don't be. It's not your fault."
Still though, my heart aches for her. I feel my hand involuntarily moving in to hold hers. She smiles at the touch. "I want to be a surgeon," she continues, "and someday, I'll get there. I've just got to wait for the right moment. I'll know it when it happens." She smiles brightly and confidently, making me believe her.
"What's the right moment?"
She shakes her head. "Nope, I've shared too much already," she laughs, sitting up straighter and running her fingers through her hair. "Your turn! Come on! What would you be? If you could be anything, absolutely anything in the entire world, what would you be?"
I let out a long sigh, turning back to face the ocean to avoid her gaze. I know the answer, but that doesn't make me feel any less like I'm giving her some cliché answer.
"I'd like to own a bar," I finally say.
She pauses. I can feel her watching me intently, possibly waiting for me to say I'm just kidding, or possibly because she's contemplating on what joke to make about the Harvard lawyer, slash wannabe bartender. But instead, I'm almost taken aback by the sudden feeling of her fingertips against my face, the gentleness of her caress as they slowly ease their way into my hair.
I slowly turn my head to face her, noticing that she's now moved her body even closer than before. She's close enough that I can smell the salt that still lingers on her skin and what remains of her herbal shampoo.
"So do it," she sighs seductively against my lips. I lean forward, brushing mine against hers, desperate to kiss her, desperate to finally taste her skin. "You could walk away. Start fresh. Move on. Maybe even to Charleston." She whispers playfully, but somehow, there's seriousness in her tone.
And as her lips finally crash into mine, as I taste her tongue and feel her fingers lightly trace my jawline, and as the waves crash around us and the salty-sea breeze blows through her long hair, I find myself actually considering the possibility.
"I think the worst part is that maybe she was right." I ignore Ric's previous comment, as I continue to stare at the record player. "Maybe I was just using her. Maybe we were both just using each other. It was an escape. Maybe it was all just a lie."
I hear Ric sigh, again indicating his uncertainty in speaking up. He does. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're home, Damon. We need you back at work and I know that your brother and Caroline have all really missed you but," he trails off.
"But what?"
"But," he drags out, "I find it really hard to believe that you would have just given up all of this," he indicates to the penthouse and city view, "for just some fling. I know you, possibly better than anyone, and commitment has never exactly been your strong suit. I mean, for God's sake, you were going to fucking marry her! You tolerated her strange taste in music," he taps a box labeled '2010 Indie,' "and ability to only speak in lyrical quotations!" We both laugh slightly. "Now, if that's not love, I have no idea what is."
And I know he's right. No matter what I want to tell myself, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind… I did love her. In fact, I can even remember the exact moment I knew.
"You know how some people are afraid of clowns and spiders and stuff? Or how others are afraid of never finding the perfect love or having the perfect family in the perfect house with the perfect white picket fence?"
I smile and nod as I chop vegetables, watching her as she studies the screen of her MacBook that rests on the island in the middle of our tiny kitchen. She's much more concerned with selecting a playlist than the smoking stovetop behind her. Suddenly noticing, I attempt to intervene and save dinner by quickly rushing to pull the, now completely charcoaled, chicken away from the flames.
"Well I don't think I'm afraid of any of that."
I can't help but chuckle at how completely oblivious she is to the chaos behind her as I quickly turn off the stovetop burner, throw the scorching pan into the sink, which sends a cloud of smoke into the air, and try to somehow still salvage what was supposed to be, according to her Pinterest recipe, Chicken Marsala. No luck – it's burnt to a crisp and now soggy as hell. I silently wonder if she'll notice if I slip out and pick us up a pizza.
"So you're saying," I grin slyly, calmly stepping away from the madness to turn and wrap my arms around her waist, "that if a spider was crawling up your neck right now," I gently kiss her neck, causing her to shiver, "you wouldn't totally freak out?"
She giggles and leans her head against mine, "Okay, well maybe a little." She turns around to face me, wrapping her arms around my neck. "But that's why you're here: to protect me from creepy-crawly things. So there's really no need to be afraid of them, now is there?"
"I feel so used," I chuckle. "Then tell me then. What is it? What does the beautifully, strong and confident Elena Gilbert have to be afraid of?" I tuck a loose strand of her long brown hair behind her ear, studying her face.
She smiles, but her eyes are serious. "I'm afraid of never finding the perfect moment. All I need is one."
"Well this is a pretty good one," I smile, kissing her.
She smiles, but shakes her head. "No, I mean like, a real heart-stopping, breathtaking, beautifully-perfect moment; one that makes the earth stop and time stand still, one that changes everything and forces you to re-evaluate everything you've ever believed in. And of course," she grins, "don't even get me started about the song."
"It's all about the song," I finish for her.
She nods, smiling. "I'm afraid I'll never find it. The perfect song to fit the perfect moment."
I stare at her and shake my head. I have no idea how I found myself here. I have no idea how, what should have been the worst night of my career, had led us to this moment; a moment that I myself find to be pretty heart stopping. I am in awe of her. I am captivated by every syllable that leaves her mouth. I am hooked. I am officially in way too deep and in so far over my head that I am absolutely powerless to turn back.
"I love you," I finally say, the words falling effortlessly from my lips.
Her breath catches slightly and she stares at me. Her favorite José González song plays softly through her computer and I think I have her. I think we've found the moment.
But instead she smiles and shakes her head. "Almost," she whispers, kissing me deeply. "But I think we're getting closer."
I smile, kissing her for as long as I can before she finally pulls back, her nose and eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "Is something burning?"
I am angry and there is no stopping my rage. The record player is suddenly being pulled from the shelf and thrown clear across the room. The sound of it shattering against the wall feels good. I need to break something else. I quickly reach for a box, tearing it apart in an attempt to reach the nearest record.
"Damon!" Ric shouts, attempting to intervene. I feel his hand on my shoulder, pulling me back. I shrug it off, refusing to be deterred from my mission. I grab the first album in the stack, Abby Road, and prepare to smash it, but it's quickly pulled from my hand.
"Hey now! Not even I can condone the smashing of The Beatles!"
I ignore him and reach for another, but he quickly grabs my shoulders, shaking me and forcing me to look at him. "Damon, stop! What the hell are you doing?"
I pull away, throwing his hands off of me, and begin to pace. "I hate her."
"You don't."
"I fucking hate her, Ric!" I head back to the kitchen and reach for the bottle of bourbon. It's finally starting to kick in. I feel it coursing through my bloodstream, but I need more.
"Then why did you bring it all back then, huh? Why not just leave it in Charleston? She obviously didn't give two thoughts about leaving it all behind, so why did you?"
I'd been asking myself those questions for months now, unable to find the answer. I should have tossed it all out. I should have burned everything, including our tiny, one-bedroom rent house, to the ground. I should have smashed every record and destroyed every memory and then been on the first flight back to New York. But I didn't and I hadn't.
There'd been a fight, one fight that had changed everything. I'd walked out, unsure of when I'd return, and when I finally did, she was gone. Just gone, as though we'd never happened, as though we'd never existed.
She'd taken only her most essential belongings: clothing, jewelry, her phone, iPod, passport and a few photos that had once hung above her dresser – none of which included me. No, those she'd left behind for me to stare at, which I had…for days.
And just like a fool, I'd waited for her. For months I'd lived in denial, drinking all day and night – sleeping only when my body betrayed me enough to demand it- until one day, finally, my brother had shown up and threatened to kick my ass all the way back to New York unless I was on the next flight home with him. Not that I couldn't have taken him, but I guess, I just didn't have the energy.
We hired movers and, when they'd asked what I wanted to take, I said nothing… except the records. For whatever reason, I just couldn't leave them behind. I suppose in hindsight, I had completely contradicted myself – as indicated by the enormous stack of boxes now residing in my living room, mocking and taunting me.
"I have no idea," I finally answer, attempting to calm down. "But it doesn't matter now. Just get rid of them."
Ric nods. "How about you get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow? First day back and all…"
I agree, even though I'm anything but tired. The idea of work in the morning has me taking another swig from the bottle.
"And take it easy on the bourbon, will ya? Your father's going to kill me if you show up hung over."
The mention of my father has me wanting to down every last drop, but I nod in agreement, for Ric's sake.
Time seems to be standing still as I remain motionless in the kitchen. I feel him pat me on the back, and I hear the sound of the door opening and closing as he leaves. I find myself thinking back to Elena's description of moments again, and how they can change everything.
There's no music playing, but I'm sure this is what she was talking about. This has to be that moment when the world just stops spinning and you're forced to re-evaluate everything you've ever believed in. It's definitely not beautiful, and it's sure as fuck not perfect, but it's most certainly real. It's painful and it's truthful.
As I turn and stare back at the records, I silently wonder which song she would have chosen for this kind of pain.
But it doesn't matter now. Much like the smashed LP12, we are irreparably broken. We are beyond repair and unfixable. We are left with no choice but to pick up the pieces, move forward and learn to appreciate the silence.
Here we go, my friends! I'm so excited to start a new adventure with you, and we certainly have a long way to go, so if you're intrigued, I hope you'll stay tuned. Please subscribe and review! xx
