The Way We Loved Read online

  The Way We Loved

  The Way We Loved

  TINLEY BLAKE

  Copyright © 2019 by Tinley Blake

  All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any portion thereof,

  may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  ISBN: 9781688123922

  www.tinleyblake.com

  For Riley

  The Way We Loved

  The stars were blacked out the night you left

  It was an omen of things to come

  Your departure left me bereft

  And stole my happy ever after

  There will be no one but you

  No one will ever come close

  This is the story of us

  And of

  The way we loved

  -K. Moore

  1

  #freshstart

  Blake

  My feet hate me.

  To be fair, I don’t blame them. I shove them into tiny holes with high arches and then force them to support me for hours on end. Which they do, without fail, until today. Today, the most important day of my career, of my life, they protest.

  Halfway through the podcast, I can’t stand it anymore. I press a toed heel against the back of the other, wedging my foot out. They fall to the ground with a thump, one after the other. I can’t concentrate on anything with my toes screaming at me. Tony, the producer, raises his dark brow. I shrug and read back over my lines.

  Six years ago, I started the Fresh Start morning podcast. It focuses on real-life women, men, and children and how we can help each other become the best versions of ourselves. Each day, I wake at the crack of dawn and go live, answering questions submitted by listeners or touching on topics no one else cares to broach. Each day, the number of people I reach grows.

  In the beginning, I couldn’t take a photo without screwing something up. There was a lot of trial and error in the early days of my Instagram account. It took me a month before I gained a hundred followers. My Facebook account contained thirty-seven friends. It’s maxed out at five thousand now.

  But what started as a dream and an Instagram page morphed into multimillions of followers and unlimited open doors. I wanted to step through every single one of them and take my place on stage. To shout from every rooftop and scream down every alley.

  You can do this. You can do anything. Take today and make a Fresh Start.

  Today was the next step. When I first received the call about doing this segment, the call went to my voicemail. I listened to that voicemail over and over at least twenty times before jumping on the kitchen counter, shaking my fists in the air, and screaming at the top of my lungs.

  It wasn’t every day you got noticed by Carl Brighton, CEO of Brighton Industries, the largest and most well-respected platform in LA. And they wanted me. Or at least, they thought they did.

  The call was an audition of sorts. Carl himself wanted me to come to LA as a guest on his podcast and speak about relationships. His focus at the moment was on particular types like marriage and the ways to be successful in creating a healthy relationship. I had already done a similar screening on my channel, which went over well, so I broke out my notebooks and started brainstorming. If Carl wanted to put me on stage, by God, I’d give him the show of his life.

  If only I had worn socks, then maybe my feet wouldn’t interject with cries of pain during every thought I attempted to have. The podcast was meant to be an hour long. We lost track of the time and ended up going over by fifteen minutes. I call that a win. Any time you’re so caught up in something that time passes without notice is time well spent. Carl himself thanked me when I finished.

  “Wonderful work today, Miss Smith.”

  “Thanks for having me. I look forward to the possibility of working together in the future.”

  “You can count on it,” he says, brushing a hand against my lower back. “Maybe next time you’re out, I’ll have my secretary schedule lunch, or better yet, dinner.” Carl Brighton doesn’t seem like the type of man to be told no about anything, and even if I wasn’t dying for the opportunity to pick his brain, I wouldn’t deny him lunch. Only a fool would. The man is a bucket of knowledge. An overflowing bucket, and I am parched.

  “I look forward to returning. You’ve been an inspiration for years. I hope to one day achieve a percentage of what you have.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s risen several octaves and it’s taking everything I have to not jump up and down like a starstruck teenager.

  “With your tenacity, I’m sure you will continue to climb the ladder of success, Miss Smith.” He opens the door leading to the street. “Until next time.”

  One day, I hope to see women succeed in this world without men tearing them down and using them for steppingstones on their path to success. Some of the most brilliant people I have ever met were women. One of my favorite authors included. She hates all men, and the longer I’m in this business, the more I see why, but then I meet someone like Carl and the tiny flame of hope reignites within my soul. We can work together. It doesn’t have to be a competition, men against women. We can support one another and push each other to succeed.

  The drive to the airport is short, even with traffic. Everything I brought out with me is tucked neatly into my rolling suitcase that doubles as my briefcase. Over the years, I’ve learned to pack lightly and efficiently, which allows me to skip the lines at check-in. At the gate, I scroll through my phone, adding photos to my favorites folder for future posts while I wait for my group to be called. The entire flight takes less time than security at LAX.

  Just landed. I text Brad while the plane taxis on the runway. Young couples stand before the light dings, opening overhead bins and pulling their suitcases free. A child cries at the front of the plane, irritated and ready to run. I understand, kiddo. I hate sitting here too, but still, I sit and wait. As soon as the plane doors open, the aisle fills with bodies. It’s a rushed, chaotic affair to exit the plane. I’m one of the last to stand, preferring to wait for the crowd to clear rather than fight my way through it.

  Brad and I haven’t spoken since this morning before I went live. At the time, I’d planned to stay in LA and sightsee a little before heading back home, but the segment this morning, coupled with Carl Brighton’s comments on marriage, had me missing him. Brad would never assume that I could only succeed by climbing the ladder, an innuendo for sleeping my way to the top, even if he was upset with me. Things had been weird between us since he proposed, and a lot of that had to do with me, but he supports me and believes in my dreams. It’s hard to agree to spend forever with someone when you aren’t sure what course your own life is going to take, but we’ve been dating for three years and he felt it was time to solidify our futures.

  I could have waited another three years. The thought of planning a wedding right now terrifies me. My career is my number-one priority. I don’t want to take any time away from that. Brad has his future planned out in ways that often remind me of sixth-grade little girls. He wants the wife, the nice house, the required one or two kids, and summer vacations in the same spot every year. He wants to put down roots and start traditions. I want those things too, just not at this point in my life.

  When he doesn’t text back, I schedule an Uber and make my way to the pickup location inside the airport parking garage, then I sit and wait for the white Ford Fusion to pull in.

  Today’s topic of marriage and the ways to put your best foot forward in every relationship made me realize I’ve been pulling away from Brad. He’s been
an amazing support for me while navigating the business world and has stood by me while I was finding my way and growing my brand. He hasn’t minded my long hours or the fact that half the time, I forget our dinner dates. Some days, I wonder why he stays. His life would be a lot simpler without my forgetfulness.

  I look up his favorite Thai restaurant and place an online order and then update my route for Uber, smiling to myself. I would surprise him today with food and then spend all night making up for my distance.

  It’s going to be great. I text him when I’m almost home.

  I’ve missed you.

  His car is in the driveway. I see it as soon as my Uber driver turns on Cherry Street. I check my phone once more before thanking my driver and climbing from the backseat. The sun is making its descent for the evening. Pinks, purples, oranges, and reds streak across the horizon, casting a golden glaze on the hood of this red Camaro. I run my fingers along it on my way to the front door. He keeps it so clean you can’t even see my print.

  Brad’s shirt is on the floor just inside the entry. It’s the first thing I see when I step across the threshold. Followed by his belt at the bottom of the stairs. I climb them dazedly, unable to process what I’m seeing. My eyes blink rapidly, but with every open and close, the items remain, scattered like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that I can’t connect. I step around a pair of four-inch black heels before reaching my bedroom door. My hands are trembling so badly I can’t grasp the door handle.

  I push the door open with my foot, my heart beating so hard I worry it will jump out of my chest. I can’t hear past the thump, thump, thump of it. I fight the urge to squeeze my eyes shut, to block out the scene before me. My stomach sours. I can taste the acid in the back of my throat.

  The room is empty.

  In the corner next to my bed is a lime green chair I bought at a yard sale two years ago for five dollars. It doesn’t match any of my décor, but I love it. That chair is my catch-all for clothes when I’m trying to find something to wear. I cleaned it off before I left, hanging everything back in the closet nice and neatly. I wanted to come home to a clean space so I could unwind and relax from the plane ride. It was a ritual of mine.

  There’s a black dress laid across it now.

  My black dress.

  I hear him now, in the bathroom, and take the four steps across the room on silent tiptoes. Outside the door, I pause. My whole body is shaking with the effort it takes to move. My eyes burn, unshed tears fighting to fall. I pull in a breath through my nose and hold it for the span of three thumps of my heart before blowing it out between clenched teeth.

  There is no denying what I will see when I open the door. I know because I can hear them now, laughing and grunting. The sound of flesh hitting flesh. She moans and calls out his name in a rushed breath, the way you do right before losing yourself to all thought.

  I know because I recognize the black dress tossed across my favorite lime green chair in the corner of my bedroom. The silky black dress I’d loaned to my best friend the night before I left.

  She had a hot date with a guy she was seeing. I hadn’t met him yet, or at least didn’t know I had. It would appear that I was engaged to him.

  I can’t open the door. There are a few images you don’t want seared into your mind. At the top of my list was seeing the two people I should be able to count on most betraying me. Not exactly knowing how to react, I stand there, momentarily lost and searching for answers that are nowhere to be found. A guttural moan brings me from my thoughts, and I turn to toss the bag of food on the bed. It spills open and one of the lids comes free, covering my white comforter with the spicy Thai chicken and rice. It’s out of the bag. Pun intended.

  The engagement ring comes off with remarkable ease, and I place it on the table by the front door and take a deep breath. My chest feels lighter. The ceramic bowl clinks as I grab my keys, and I stop. I should be upset. I should be crying my eyes out, overwhelmed and inconsolable. But I’m not.

  All I feel is relief.

  Have your things out by morning.

  You can keep the dress.

  The first text I send to Brad. The second to Cindy. Then I block them both and back out of the drive. It doesn’t make any sense to leave the house I am paying for, but it’s the last place I want to be. I don’t know if I will ever want to be there again. I still haven’t been back to my mother’s house, and I lost her over a decade ago. When I feel pain, I connect it to an object and then avoid that object forever. Plus, I only bought the place to placate Brad for a little longer in an effort to avoid the wedding talk. It worked for a year.

  I drive with no destination in mind. Maybe I’m in shock. I hold one hand up to check whether it’s shaking as badly as I feel like I am, but it’s steady.

  In control.

  Until it’s not.

  As I drive, the scenario replays over and over in my mind. There are a hundred things I’d do differently if given the chance. It was a telling sign for our relationship that my first reaction to his betrayal was relief, but as I drive with no destination in mind, relief quickly morphs into anger. I might have been relieved to get out of the predicament that was our future marriage, but he was the one who wanted it to begin with. So why would he throw the potential of that perfect white-fence life with me away—with Cindy, of all people? Why would he do that? How could he do that?

  A part of me wants to blame myself for this. I’ve been distant and self-involved. I could have made more time for him. At the very least, I should have shown him more attention.

  Shoulda. Coulda. Woulda.

  Great. Now I sound like a country song.

  The more I think about their betrayal, the angrier I become. Regardless of where I was mentally, I still cared for Brad. I may have been finding it hard to come to grips with the whole marriage thing, but I was coming around. So why would he risk it all for a quick lay? Why would he throw our future away?

  The logical part of my brain knows this all falls on him. Brad chose this, and he knew what he was doing when he did it. What’s worse is he knew I would find out. I’m a nosy person. I dig for shit that isn’t even there. If I have a hunch something is off, then I’m worse than a hound treeing a squirrel. I won’t stop until I figure out what is triggering my obsessiveness.

  Today, I gave the best speech of my life about love, trust, commitment, and how to create a lasting, healthy relationship. All the while, my own relationship was complete and total trash. I’m a liar. A fraud. I’m your sweet Aunt Sally who goes to church Sunday and swears by Jesus, cursing sinners to the brink of hell, but then goes home Monday through Friday and lives like the Devil’s mistress. I have no business teaching other people how to be better versions of themselves. I can’t even keep my own life together.

  “So much for having a great day,” I mumble, turning into the hotel. “And my damn feet still hurt.”

  2

  #goinghome

  Blake

  An amethyst-purple tint invades the late summer sky as I crest Highway 77. My windows are rolled down, and the sweet fragrance of honeysuckles saturates my senses. The sound of humming locusts fills the air. Summer is fading and with it the long, endless days.

  Arriving back in my hometown is similar to finding an old sweatshirt from college and curling up in front of a warm fire with a bottle of wine. I wasn’t expecting the familiarity, but I’m so glad for it.

  The air smells fresher, cleaner than the stuff back west. My lungs fill with it, and for the first time since catching my fiancé cheating, the tightness in my chest eases. I can breathe.

  The drive from Arizona to Alabama is long, a fact reinforced by driving 1670 straight miles. Almost thirty hours in my Malibu, packed to the brim with whatever I couldn’t stand to leave with the movers. I labeled all the items I wanted to keep, and Brad could have the rest. His taste had never lined up with mine, anyway, and the last thing I wanted was a room full of his crap. The rest of my belongings would be here in three weeks as long as the
moving company didn’t run into any hiccups along the way.

  Expect the best. Prepare for the worst.

  One of my mother’s favorite sayings. I thought of her more on this trip than all the days of the last year combined. It seems fitting that thoughts of her follow me back into town, considering it was her memory that had chased me out of here to begin with.

  I can’t help but wonder if she were alive, would she be disappointed in me? I’ve made a real muck of things.

  Brad made his grand appearance the night before I hit the road. It was the first time I had seen him since that fateful day almost three months prior, although I guess technically, I didn’t see him that day, either. The morning after my drunken stay at the hotel, I returned home, and he was gone along with all of his clothes and toiletries. My schedule at the time had been set in stone, so for the next couple of months, I traveled, giving speeches and trying to come to grips with my new normal. I had lost something, and I didn’t know how to get it back.

  Brad appeared surprised to see the house packed up, but he didn’t comment on it and I was glad. I didn’t want him to know I was going back to my hometown—didn’t want him under the impression that I was tucking tail and running away because of him. I never let an opportunity to tell him how much I hated Alabama go to waste. How happy I was to be gone. Now look at me. Don’t get me wrong. I was still fuming at the betrayal, and thinking his name made me want to puke, but I wasn’t going back home because of him.

  I need to come to terms with the mess my life has turned into, and I didn’t know how to do that in the house that reminded me of how screwed up it was. A house I never wanted to begin with in a city I’d rather not live in. At my core, I thought I was on a good path. I thought I was doing well. If someone had asked me while doing the podcast how to handle a cheating spouse, I would have spat out ten thousand answers, all of them centered on forgiving and how to grow from it, but when I walked in that door, all of that went out the window. I couldn’t talk flowers and rainbows and mending broken bridges when all I wanted to do was set fire to the whole place. Hell, if someone came to me right now and said the things I know I would have, I would be hard pressed to not slap them. Who the hell did I think I was, telling women and men that their pain wasn’t justified, that they should let it all go? A joke, that’s who I was.