Unbroken

my tongue.
    I go to the sink and turn on the faucet, gulping the cold water straight from the tap. Then I slide to the floor with my back against the cabinet and clench my eyes shut, waiting for the nightmare to end.
    “Please, let it be over,” I whisper to myself, rocking back and forth. “Please let it be just a dream.”
    I can see it in my mind: how this all was supposed to go. I wake up back in the cabin this morning, with Emerson wrapped around me. He whispers sweet things in my ear, and tells me how much he loves me. How he’s sorry for last time, and will never make the mistake and hurt me, ever again. How we’re going to be happy together, always. And then he pulls me into a long kiss, his hands sliding lower down my body until we’re gasping and moaning all over again.
    Together. Happy. Safe.
    But it’s not real.
    I stay there crying on the kitchen floor until my head aches and my throat is raw. I weep for the teenager who had her heart broken, and the stupid girl I am now, hurtling into that same disaster zone as if it would work out any different. I weep for all the hopes and dreams I had last night, nestled safe in Emerson’s arms, and the cruel slap of reality now in the harsh light of day. I weep for the twisted cruelty in his gaze, as he teased and touched me, and how my body flared to life under his fingertips all the same.
    I weep because I love him, I’ve always loved him, but that’s never enough. I weep until I’ve got nothing left in me, until I’m numb and emptied out with grief, and I can feel the slow drag of chemical buzz snaking through my veins.
    I take a shaky lungful of breath, and open my eyes to find an empty house, silent and still. My heart-rate is slowing now, and that thick sense of calm is sweeping through me, fuzzy and detached. It’s a false equilibrium, I know that, but for the first time, I’m glad of. Anything to stop the darkness rearing up and dragging me under completely. Anything to stop me falling apart again.
    There’s nothing left here for me now.
    I pull myself to my feet, and find my purse and jacket. I stuff the last of my belongings in a grocery sack, and look around the house. Soon, all this will be rubble.
    I take a long moment on the front porch, just breathing in the scent of rosemary and sea air. Then I lock the door behind me, load up the car, and drive out of Cedar Cove for the last time. Past the harbor, and Jimmy’s Tavern, past the worn-down tourist stores on Main Street, past the public beach, now deserted in the howling wind. Rain starts to spatter at my windscreen, and I feel relief I’m on the road early enough to avoid the worst of the storm. It’ll take me a few hours to make it back to Charlotte, but at least I’ll be more sheltered inland, away from the ocean.
    I’m driving over the bridge out of town when my cell starts to ring. Lacey.
    “Hey babe,” I answer, putting the handset up to my ear, “What’s up?”
    “Daniel called.” Lacey says, her voice thick with worry. “He told me…”
    “That it was all just a sick game to Emerson?” I finish for her. “Yeah, I was there.”
    “I’m so sorry,” Lacey tells me, “I know how much he meant to you.”
    “My mistake, huh?” I say, hollow. I’m wrung out, all the turmoil of emotion receded like the tide, leaving nothing but blankness in its place. An empty shore. I sigh. “Guess I should have listened to you.”
    “Babe…” Lacey sighs. “It’s not your fault. You weren’t to know he was some kind of fucking twisted asshole—“
    “Don’t.” I cut her off.
    “You’re defending him?” Lacey’s voice rises in outrage.
    “No. I’m not, I just… I don’t want to talk about him anymore. I’m on the road now,” I add, “I’ll be home tonight.”
    “And then we’ll go get falling down drunk.” Lacey declares. “And eat our weight in ice-cream. No, scratch that, this calls for the serious shit. Gelato!”
    “Sounds good to me.” I manage a faint laugh. Then I catch sight of a petite figure ahead of me on the highway, heading towards me, in the direction of Cedar Cove. The girl is huddling and braced against the winds, wearing a thin hoodie pulled up over her head, and a short skirt with high-heeled boots, like she wasn’t planning to be out walking. As I drive past, I catch a glimpse of her face: it’s Emerson’s sister, Brit.
    “Fuck,” I swear, speeding past her.
    “What is it?” Lacey demands, still on the other end of the