It’s finally happened. I’ve cracked. There’s something irreparably wrong with my brain.
And I am alone while my mind deserts all higher reason.
Despite my pride, I pull out my cell phone, my voice catching as I wait for my brother to answer. “Declan?” There’s no point holding a stiff upper lip now. “Declan, can you come over?”
“Of course. Am I picking up ice cream?”
“No. I need… I think there’s something wrong with my brain.”
The second the horrible words hit the air, an agonized cry rips out of me.
“What? Coco, what happened? Did you fall? Are you taking your meds like you should?”
I nod, but then remember he can’t see me. “Just come over. I’m scared.”
I’m scared because I made cookies? I’m scared because apparently it was buried in my brain that I know how to make caramel popcorn? I’m scared because… because…
I end the call before my brother can bear witness to my complete mental breakdown. I want to run away from the batter, but there is a need to finish this project. These cookies are important, more so than anything I could be spending my focus on. The “why” doesn’t seem to be an issue for the urgency of the moment.
The second the two sheets of cookies slide into the oven, I fall to my knees, holding my face in my hands so I can have a good cry.
These tears are not for Mister Valentino. They shouldn’t be for him, at least. I should only be mourning the loss of my higher brain reasoning that has led me to this madness.
The nasty voice in my head chirps in my ear like the middle school bully who never left me alone. “You’re going to die alone,” it tells me, kicking me when I am already sufficiently down for the count.
I catch my sob in my hand, unable to talk myself away from this ledge from which I have clearly already jumped. Sanity seemed so important, but now it’s a distant memory. I am going to be the woman who does odd things she cannot explain because the voices in her head told her to.
This time it’s baking cookies. What will my brain make me do next?
And I can’t seem to stay warm. The tea Orlando gives me heats me back up, but by the next night, I start to get icy again.
I press my palms to the outside of the oven, willing the heat to ground me as much as it is able.
I cannot keep going like this. My body finally has turned stable and steady, but my mind has clearly cracked in some irreparable way.
I can’t lose my mind now. Not when the officials of Mayfield are starting to listen to reason. There is too much to accomplish, too many wrongs to right.
When the cookies come out ten minutes later, the urge to throw them in the garbage tempts me. Instead, I move them to the cooling rack and drag myself into the shower. I wish my tears would stop, but even as I soap up, they fall down the drain with the remnants of my pride.
This is the problem with extreme compartmentalizing. The goal is to run away from sadness, so it doesn’t have a chance to touch you. Apparently, I can run for a solid three weeks, but then I hit my breaking point. Even after I am clean, I sit in the tub under the hot spray, willing it to warm the parts of me that have iced over. I don’t want to be cold to the brighter things in life. I don’t want to be numb to opportunity and call it peace. I want…
I want…
I hate myself for wanting Mister Valentino. Even now, after he’s left me and has made it clear he has no intention of coming back, I miss his face.
The way he smiled only for me.
The way he towered over me.
The way his presence made it seem like there was nothing at all in the universe that needed fixing if he was near.
I even miss his fangs. I never thought I would say that to myself, but it’s true. The ridges I felt when his mouth was pressed to mine felt like we shared a secret that was dangerous to the world, yet sacred to us.
I sit in the shower until the water runs cold, reminding me that I cannot hide in here forever. Though, that notion holds a glittering appeal.
It’s an effort to hoist myself up, dry off and get dressed. I miss my mother horribly, even though I’m sure that’s not quite the sentiment weighting me most. I cling to the idea of having a mother, someone to shoulder the burden of heartbreak and hardship without fear of judgment. I picture her having an antique handkerchief with her initials embroidered on the corner with which she would blot my tears.
Maybe that’s not how all mother-daughter relationships go, but in my imagination, ours would be exactly that.
I pull on my fuzziest pink pajama pants—the ones I only wear when I can barely move. Though my limbs haven’t locked up on me at all (in fact, they feel more flexible and strong than ever), my soul took a beating today. My silk camisole does its fair job of convincing me I’m a woman, but the conviction is muted when I push my arms into the sleeves of my bathrobe.
I don’t want to wallow, but it seems a night of devastation is unavoidable.
Declan lets himself in, calling through the house for me. “Coco? I’m here, kiddo.”
A deep inhale and exhale are necessary before I move down the hall into the living room. “You’re going to regret coming over. I’m not very good company tonight.”
Declan takes a pint of premium ice cream out of a grocery bag. “I’m really okay with that. What I’m not okay with is you going through this alone.” He sets the ice cream down on the coffee table and motions me forward. My brother’s arms fold around me while he rests his chin atop my head. “You’re new to breakups, so you don’t know the perks.”
“I cannot imagine any possible perks right now.”
“You’re so lucky I’m here. Tonight, we’re eating our weight in ice cream. We’re going to burn all his things. We’re going to talk about all the reasons we hate him and why he’s not good enough for us. Then we’ll get all sad remembering the good times.”
I snort at his plan. “Then what?”
“Then we wait for the sun to rise. May not happen tomorrow, but one day, it will.”
I burrow my face into my brother’s shoulder. This was something I missed terribly while I was overseas. Declan and I are the only huggers in the family, so we cling to each other perhaps a little too tight. I don’t want to need a hug to tether me to the planet, but without one right now, I fear I might float away on a sea of depression.
Declan seems to understand me enough not to let go. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s find a comfy spot in the living room and unpack it all.”
Declan leads me to the couch, careful with my body as he helps me sit down. He is used to my form being fragile, but tonight it’s my insides that feel on the verge of shattering. He is careful with both, for which I am grateful.
Over the next half an hour, I fill my brother in on the bits of my relationship that he missed when I was still hiding it all in the beginning. The sweet touches, the first kiss, the many secret rendezvous at the beach—each moment once something to treasure. Now it’s an embarrassment I cannot believe I tolerated.
“If this is what being in love feels like, I think I’m a one and done kind of girl. I am not putting myself through this again.”
Declan brought the ice cream for me, but I’m not hungry for it, so he has polished off a third of the carton on his own. “Enjoy your lukewarm life, then. Did you feel anything so strong as when you were in love with him?”
I motion to my face and then bunch up my hair to wind it into a bun atop my head. “No, but a punch in the face is strong. That doesn’t mean you should pursue it.”
Declan snorts as he stands to put away the ice cream, which is now mostly mushy. “Next time, maybe you’ll find a boyfriend who is a human. Might make things less complicated. Also, not to start in on bashing your ex so soon, but he has no idea how to be in a relationship. He’s psychotic.” Declan holds up his hands. “Not that I think that’s always a bad thing. Part of that is par for the course, being that he has to clean up the mess his father left him. But just because he’s good at his job doesn’t mean he knows how to turn all that off and do a relationship right.”
My nose scrunches. “I guess I never thought of that before. You’re not wrong.”
Declan’s hand goes over his heart as he feigns a swoon. “I love to hear you admit that. Better than a birthday card.”
When a key jangles in the front door, Declan immediately stands and puts his hand on his belt. I hate that he carries, but I get it. I don’t like that he’s on edge in my home.
Not that I can blame him. Wherever I’m at is usually the worst place for a person to be if they’re looking for an uneventful haven.
Declan’s shoulders lower. “Oh, it’s just you. Hey, Orlando.”
Orlando nods once to Declan. They slap each other’s hand three times in greeting. “I’m still staying here tonight, Declan. I told you that I would be taking over the shifts from now on.”
It’s slightly less than a cheerful greeting, but that’s my big sweetie pie for you.
Declan moves toward the kitchen. “I’m getting some water. You want any?”
I shake my head.
Orlando toes off his boots. “I’ll make your tea in a minute. Let me warm up first.”
“You don’t have to do that, Orlando. You barely stepped in the door.” Though we both know my words are just for show. All I want, all I’m thirsty for is the tea Orlando makes me.
Orlando doesn’t reply, but continues on as he pleases, which is to move to the kitchen the second his shoes come off so he can set the kettle brewing.
Gotta love him.
Declan sits back down, his hand coming off the hilt of his gun. I wonder when my brother’s life will be peaceful enough that he won’t reach for his weapon when the doorknob rattles.
My angst softens the smallest bit. It’s weird that Orlando’s presence adds calm to the room. I’m sure I am one of the few people in the world who feel a sense of serenity in the formidable enforcer’s presence.
“When was the last time you ate a meal?” Declan asks me. “You didn’t touch the ice cream. You’re thinner in the face than when I saw you last. Should I be worried?”
“I’m all grown up, Declan.” I chuck his shoulder good naturedly. “I had lunch. I’ll have dinner later. Had to put off my meal to accommodate my breakdown.”
I ate the lunch Orlando packed me, but I don’t mention that. I make Orlando and myself breakfast, and he makes us sandwiches for our lunches. He sends over a decaf cinnamon vanilla latte halfway through the day, and we take turns fixing dinner. Odd that we never discussed any of this; it just happened. It’s this pleasant little rhythm that makes breathing a little easier.
“Colette!” Orlando’s volume is rarely raised, so when he shouts his alarm from the kitchen, I’m on my feet and darting toward him. He sounds scared, like he’s seen a ghost.
“What? Orlando, what’s wrong?”
Declan’s hand is on the hilt of his gun again, which amps up my nerves as I move through the house.
Orlando is staring at the cookies on the cooling rack as if I’ve baked a bucket of snakes and called it caviar. “Who did… Who gave you the… Why did… How…” He turns to me, his face ashen. He looks like a scared little boy, raw and anxious. “Did you make these?”
I swallow hard and nod slowly. That’s all I am willing to admit to. Anything else will make me sound crazy.
Orlando looks at the cookies as if they are the key to his soul—a thing most people would debate he was born without. “My mother used to… Are these oatmeal raisin cookies with caramel corn in them?”
Declan’s face pulls. “What? Why? That sounds way too sweet. Gross.”
I gnaw on my lower lip. “I just felt like making cookies.”
“But who told you to make these? Is this how your family makes oatmeal raisin cookies?”
Declan snorts. “Dad’s never made cookies in his life. He’s a meat and potatoes kind of guy.”
“Then who? Did one of my cousins find a recipe for these and give them to you? Did my uncle teach you how to make them?” Then he frowns. “But he never made these. They were only my mom’s.”
I tug on my fingers, anxious because it feels like I did something wrong. “I didn’t know they were your mother’s recipe, Orlando. I never cooked with Aunt Gianna, and I don’t remember her making these for me.”
Declan frowns. “That’s a weird coincidence.”
“I’m sorry, Orlando. I hurt your feelings, I can tell. Made you think of your mother out of turn. I didn’t know. I just had the urge to bake cookies, and this recipe popped into my head. I didn’t even know how to make caramel corn, but apparently I’m a natural at it.”
Declan plucks up a cookie and pops it into his mouth. “You made caramel corn? That’s a step up from store-bought. Look at you, fancy chef.” His eyes roll back as he lets out a noise of indulgence. “Mm. These are amazing.”
“Oh, good. I was too afraid to try them.”
Orlando turns his chin toward me. “You wanted to make cookies—my mother’s recipe that you didn’t know—but you didn’t want to eat any?”
I shrug. “You know my taste buds have been off lately.”
Orlando reaches out and lifts one off the rack, sniffing it with his eyes closed. The first bite makes his shoulders droop, his chin lowering in reverence. It’s strange watching Orlando enjoy a cookie. It’s akin to watching him ride a kid’s tricycle, or perhaps it’s like watching him attempt to pray.
He takes off his suit jacket and drapes it across one of the seats at the counter. He sits on the stool beside it, his eyes on the granite. “I wasn’t sure what was happening, but that seals it. It can’t be happening. There’s no frame of reference for it, but there’s no other explanation.”
The tea kettle whistles, so I turn it off and cast around for the teacups he set out. I pour the hot water in, but the fragrance isn’t the same. How is it Orlando pours hot water in a fashion superior to me? “Orlando, you’re going to have to stop speaking in code.”
My big sweetie pie shakes his head, looking positively haunted. “We shouldn’t talk about this. But I don’t see how we can get around it. It’s impossible, but…”
“What?” Declan is on edge now. He steps closer to me, readying to shield me from mere words.
“You might want to sit down for this one,” Orlando warns. “If you thought life couldn’t get worse, I’m about to prove you wrong.”
My stomach drops while I wait for Orlando to break my world all over again.