Untethered

30 | Regrets

The heavy front door slammed shut behind her with a resounding thud, and Julie inhaled sharply. First part done. Glancing around to see if anyone was watching, she turned toward the house next door, and darted across the shared driveway. Taking one more look around, she tried to calm her frantic heartbeat, before pushing the front door open. The house was silent as she entered, but it did nothing to calm her still-racing heart. It was like stepping into a crypt, cool, dark, and too still. A place where one feels the need to hold their breath.

When had she started to lose her nerve?

Except for Edie's wake, when the house was full of mourners and everything was rearranged to make room for them, it'd been years since she'd been inside. Now, with everything back in its place, it was eerie how familiar it was. Though more worn, it was the same furniture, even the same general layout. She felt like she was twenty again, coming here with Frankie for the first time.

When they were first together, he'd still lived at home. It was a close-knit family, all the more, because he was an only child. She moved in with him when she found out she was pregnant, and they didn't get their own place until Evan was almost one. His mom never welcomed her, but his dad was sweet. She didn't care what anyone thought as long as she had Frankie, though.

God, that man was magnetic. One of those rare men with old-fashioned values—chivalrous. The proverbial "Knight in Shining Armor," minus the hammered steel plates and gallant steed.

The first time she saw him, he nearly knocked the breath from her body by his mere presence. He was swarthy, darkly handsome in the way of a classic film noir star—his dark eyes intense and probing, his body broad and strong, but surprisingly gentle. And passionate. Best of all: he was in love with her. Wholly and completely. They were drawn to each other like the needle of a compass and magnetic north. He bore a heavy, masculine aura that was intoxicating and made her foolish enough to believe he was powerful enough to save her.

A wave of morbid shame washed over her.

She should've known better.

Mentally shaking herself, she returned to the present. This house was like a time vortex, and she didn't have the time or the wits to handle getting sucked down memory lane.

Starting in the kitchen, she quickly rifled through the papers and mail on the counter. Nothing. Re-stacking them as neatly as she could, she turned, and headed into the living room. Pulling the curtains open a crack, she peered through them. There was still plenty of people at the Cameron's, so she should be safe for a while yet.

She climbed the stairs ponderously. Welcome or not, she was being bombarded by a melee of memories and emotions so old that she thought they'd died when she pulled the trigger all those years ago.

Frankie kissing her. Frankie making love to her. Frankie whispering his undying devotion in the darkness. Suddenly, she wanted to scream. Why did everything have to stay the same here? Why did they never even paint the walls?

She was certain this is what her own personal hell would look like. Forced to wander the hallways of the one place in her life where the sum-total of all of her screw-ups were displayed. To anyone else it would seem like a quaint little house; a home filled with a plethora of life and love and memories. For her, this mausoleum was a testament to every evil and selfish thing she'd ever done. The way she'd killed any chance at happiness she'd ever had. It was fucking poetic.

All the emotions she'd so carefully buried over the years were swiftly coming to the foreground, pulling her under with the force of a riptide. Unconsciously, her feet led her to the room to her left. Stepping forward, her breath caught.