Page 90 of Severed Heart

She stares at me for long seconds before her eyes drop to the letters flowing out of her cigar box. Her features pinch in anger as she grabs a fist full of them into her palm.

“This,this.” She lifts the clenched paper eye level. “This is proof enough that ‘love the fucking liar’can make a fool of you. Make you weak, pathetic.”

“So what is it about those letters that haunts you so much?” I ask, my investment in her pain obvious in my tone. “Is it regret?”

She takes another drag of her cigarette, considering me as she lowers the letters, the anger fog dispersing as she slowly exhales her answer. “So much regret, Tyler. So much.”

“For?”

She bites her lip, her eyes blurring. “For trusting men who made me believe their own ideas of themselves and punishing me for reminding them of who they told me they were. For letting them punish me.”

“And you can’t come back from that?”

“Look at me,” she challenges.

“I am,” I state with an edge in her defense.

“I am what failure looks like,” she admits hoarsely.

“Not to me,” I whisper back, unable to help my question, eyeing the letters as a few heartbeats pass. “Delphine, what happened with your ex-husband?”

She pauses for a long moment, and for a few of those tense seconds, I think she won’t answer before she finally speaks. “I woke one day, andpoof,he was gone . . .” Her eyes cloud. “As if he never existed.”

I frown, knowing that can’t be the whole truth of it.

“You don’t know where he went?”

“I don’t knowanything.” She shakes her head in frustration. “My fucking mind is a battlefield. Every day I wake up at war with it, fighting this fucking haze I cannot escape, and I do not remember any of it!” she croaks as she lowers her eyes and the letters on her lap. “Pieces, tiny, tiny pieces, but never a clear memory anymore, and I read . . .” She releases an anguished sob, and my heart flinches at the sound. “I read these fucking letters so many times, but the haze will not clear to let me understand what happened to me. To understand where the Delphine who came to America went and why. I spend so much time trying to remember, Tyler. So much time in the fucking bath, in the battle, and fail every time.” She cries openly now, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“AndI hateher,” she sniffs, her voice filled with venom, “the pathetic girl who wrote these letters. I despise her. I want to erase her from existence because the girl cannot be me! I don’t understand her.” She voices my own questions aloud, seemingly having no idea of the answer. “I cannot forgive her. I refuse to forgive her.” Her jaw shakes as her eyes turn murderous. “Every day, I fight to benothinglike her, to never again be deceived by ‘love the fucking liar.’Being a brash bitch is better. Anything is better than that fool.” She nods toward the letters. “But even she fucks up her life and has become a failure.”

Pushing the scattered papers off her lap, she sinks into bed. Head resting on her pillow, she turns toward me as my hands twitch to grab her—to pull her into me and shield her from herself, from her own abuse.

Instead, I slowly lift my hand to palm her crown, gently sweeping my thumb along her hairline as she levels me with the despair in her voice.

“The truth of what happened to me, to my husband, died with Celine and Beau in that fire, and maybe ... I died with them because I feel like a ghost to myself now.” Her breath stutters as she bares herself to me, gutting me. “I am so tired of losing,” she whispers hoarsely, “of failing. So very tired, Tyler.”

“You’re not losing, Delphine,” I whisper back.

She shakes her head to rebuke my words as I press in.

“I’m not just saying that to make you feel better.” Sliding my hand down, I cradle her face, tucking my fingers between her cheek and her pillow, running my thumb along her jaw.

“I heard you. I swear to God I heard every word you just said, and now I want you to listen to me,” I urge. “For once, I want you to listen to me and try to take my words to heart. Will you try that for me?”

She nods, her eyes focused on me, no longer searching.

“All today was, was just another bad day. Nothing more. So don’t give it any more power than that. The sunset you love so much is proof you fought bravely, so keep remembering that on your bad days ... and remember that when the clock ticks past midnight, it’s another chance to win. I’ve seen you on good days, and you have them. It’s just that days like today are good at making you forget them. But you have them. I’ve been there. I’ve seen them. I’ve seen the bold, vibrant, life-filled, beautiful woman on days she’s won that battle. So, don’t believe the lie a bad day is telling you. And truth be told, you’re winning every day you show up.” I press in. “Fighting for yourself willnever befailing.”

I continue to run my thumb gently over her cheek as her breathing evens out, and her chest bounces slightly in the aftermath. “Do you want to tell me why you went on a date tonight?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Many reasons.”

A notion comes to me, but I bite the question away and ask another, keeping my thumb running lightly over her skin in a soothing motion as she further sinks into it, her eyes softening as her lids lower.

“Swear to me he didn’t hurt you,” I implore her.

“Non,” she whispers, “non, I scared him.” She laughs without humor.