My beautiful girl.
I scoff at the memory and at the tears welling in my eyes. But those three whispered words feel like they’ve been stabbed between my shoulder blades. They sting and burn and ache, and I’m not sure how I’m going to dig them out of my flesh.
Except, the more I think about it, the more foolish I feel. Beauty is not respect. Beauty is not loyalty. Beauty is not even affection. Beauty is only skin deep. He was never interested in me.
The weight in my chest grows heavier. I’d glimpsed something great inside Scott, I’m sure of it. It’s so unfair that what he’d seen in me hadn’t meant the same to him.
I’ve often wondered if there’s something intrinsically flawed about me. Is it just my poor judgment of character or is there some essential piece of me that’s missing? The piece that motivates people to care about me on a less superficial level.
I know better than anyone that wondering and wishing do nothing to change the unfairness of life. I’m going to have to tough it out . . . but lying here in my bed with only the light from the street to keep me company, I know that toughing it out is going to be impossible. If I’m going to get around this . . . setback, I’m going to have to grieve.
The tears start to fall and they’re soon joined by pathetic sobbing. God, it hurts so bad to know that I’m going to have to forget him, that I’m going to lose his laughter, his touch, his warmth.
Hours later, the dinging of an incoming message wakes me from a restless sleep.
Scott: Please talk to me.
I blink. And I blink again. What? What would we even say to each other? Does he think I’d sleep with him again? Is that what he’s after?
Rolling off the bed, I hold my temples that throb with the ache of crying my heart out. In the bathroom, I find some ibuprofen and stand under the scalding water of the shower for an eternity, trying to erase the last month from my memory.
Standing in front of my closet, I dig out the gray hoodie. The one that he covered me with so many months ago. Initially, I’d worn it all the time – slept in it even – until I’d felt stronger. It had served as a much-needed reminder that there are good people out there who are willing to help others . . . that there was a good person out there willing to help me. Today will be the last time I put it on. Today I’ll purge Scott McCarthy from my system and then make plans for the future.
I’m going to need coffee though. Lots of it. So once I’m dressed, I get in my car that’s pitifully low on gas and stop off at work.
When Vanessa sees me, her eyes widen with alarm. “Oh, no, Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
I only have enough energy for a half-hearted shrug. “Eh,” I tell her, waving her worries away because I don’t want to get emotional here in front of her and Jake. “Nothing that a little caffeine won’t fix. Will you make me up an extra-large double shot latte to go?”
“Of course I will,” she says, full of concern.
“Hey, El,” Jake says. “You seemed kind of down yesterday, so I got these for you.” He slides a package of Twizzlers across the counter.
“I . . .” Shit, tears are rising. “Thanks, Jake,” I whisper as I take the candy and put it in my purse.
And damn it, it’s after the morning rush and before lunch, so they’re not busy and they’re both coming around the counter to give me hugs and tell me that everything will be okay and that if I want to talk they’re here for me. Despite my embarrassing tears, it actually makes me feel better.
“Thanks, guys.”
So, armed with my coffee and my candy, I drive up to my spot near Coyote Point and make every attempt to reconcile myself to life without Scott. When he texts me again, I know I’m going to have to block his number. Soon, I tell myself. Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow.
Scott: You’re pissed at me?
Another tear leaks down my cheek as I shake my head. Pissed? I place my phone face down on the bench beside me and go back to staring out over the water with another licorice in my hand.
Twenty minutes later, my phone is ringing. For fuck’s sake. Turning it over, I hit decline and then toss it back down.
“So, there’s nothing wrong with your phone, then.”
I jump at the sound of his voice. The glare I’m going to level him with falters when I look up. There he is, standing over me, his beautiful face serious in the natural light. His very presence sends a knife piercing through my chest.
The hurt of it has me turning away like a coward.
“You’re not going to talk to me?” he asks quietly, sitting beside me.
I feel my shoulders curl in to protect myself. “Don’t see what there is to say,” I tell him, hating when the end of the sentence hitches.
He just sits there for a minute completely oblivious to my fervent wish he’d just leave me in peace.
“Just listen then?” he asks, sounding uncertain. “I, uh, I’m sorry I ghosted.”
Maybe he’ll go if I assuage his guilt. “Okay, apology accepted.” Because he needs to go . . . the hemorrhaging around this knife in my chest isn’t letting up.
But after more strained silence, he keeps talking. “I’ve got a lot of stuff going on right now, and uh . . . yeah, a lot of stuff.”
“Fair enough.” My voice is flat, not showing him an ounce of the pain he’s causing me. I refuse to give him any more of myself than I already have.
“Look at me, please.”
His pleading tone yanks the cover off my simmering emotions. “Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be, okay?” I whisper, hating that I feel a tear sliding down my cheek.
“I said I’m sorry, El.” His earnestness twists the blade in further. “I really am. You just don’t understand how much pressure I’m under.”
I huff out a disbelieving breath and turn to him, a spark of indignation fueling the steadiness in my voice. “I do understand, Scott. I understand perfectly. With everything you’ve got going on, I don’t rate.”
I watch the beginnings of alarm register on his face. Good. It goads me to continue.
“I don’t even rate a simple text to cancel our plans. You’ve made yourself very clear.”
He’s completely taken aback. “What? Of course you . . . rate. And what plans?”
I snort with derision. “We’re done here, Scott. I’d like you to go, please.”
“Done? What does that mean?”
He can’t really be this obtuse, can he? “It means that we’re at an impasse. You feel that I’m not worth your time and effort and I disagree. Let’s leave it at that.”
He’s offended or horrified or maybe shocked, but I don’t know why.
“That’s not true. I just got overwhelmed, I –”
“Stop. Please stop.” Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I decide to explain my point of view, so there’ll be no room for later re-interpretation. “You let me go all day Saturday thinking that everything was fine.” I swallow hard. “No, not fine. You let me believe that everything was wonderful. That was shitty.” I’m on my feet now, the rawness of my emotions swirling with the humiliation and the anger I’ve been stewing in for the last day. It’s potent and it drives me on. “I wasn’t expecting a marriage proposal or anything, Scott, but I thought . . .” I falter “. . . I thought it was good between us.”