The Locker Room(91)
Packing the punches: two can play at this game.
“Get off your soapbox, Emory. Just because you’re at the ground floor, doesn’t mean you’re Joan of Fucking Arc. I do what I can, given my schedule. And I show up to events like today because I want to, not because I’m forced.”
“You sure looked forced today,” she mutters while turning away.
“I was off my game because my ex-girlfriend came out of nowhere. So excuse me if I was a little stiff.”
“You’re so quick to blame me for everything.”
“Because you’re to blame. Why can’t you see that? Do you not remember that night? Faking a migraine, going back to your place, punching me in the gut as you delivered your decision. You are one hundred percent to blame.”
“I don’t see it that way,” she argues. “And it’s astonishing that you’re so blinded by rage that you can’t put yourself in my shoes for once—”
“Put yourself in my shoes,” I shout, pounding my chest. “Put your fucking self in my shoes, Emory. See if you’re able to hold your cool and act like nothing happened.”
“I was in your shoes,” she shouts back. “I felt the same pain, the same heartache, even worse because I was the one who had to be a grown-up and make the decision.”
“You think you were hurting just as much as me? Unbelievable.”
She puts her hands over her face and shakes her head. “This was pointless. I don’t know why I invited you here. You’re never going to see it my way.”
“Yeah, this was pointless.” I take a step back, my heart sinking in my chest as I do.
“Just leave, Knox. I don’t have any fight left in me.”
“That was clear in college, giving up before we had a chance to fight for what we wanted.”
Her eyes snap at mine, defeat quickly replaced by rage. She walks to the door, opens it wide, and says, “Before I met you, I was emotionally abused by a man I thought was supposed to love and protect me. When I arrived at Brentwood, I was barely held together by sticky tape. Remembering to take deep breaths was a labored task for me. And then I met you. You wanted something right away, but I was still broken. Knowing how special you were, I took my time, making sure I could slowly build myself back up and be the type of woman you deserved, someone as selfless and kind as you. I grew and I built and I slowly started to feel worthy . . . of you.” A stray tear falls down her cheek, and my heart wants me to reach out and wipe it away, but my head refuses to show any weakness. “After Christmas break, I knew I could be everything you needed, the strength, the rock, and then I found out you were being drafted. And that you had made that decision before we got together. I was whole. I knew I was still being held together by tape, stronger tape, but tape nonetheless. I knew I’d cause more damage to you than you needed. I knew my neediness would distract you, our distance would irritate you, our lack of communication would affect your game, and I couldn’t have that. You deserved more. That’s why I ended it, because you deserved more. And you got your more, Knox. You achieved your dreams. And as you’ve pointed out, my life is much, much smaller and insignificant in your eyes.” She takes a deep breath and then points out the door. “And right now, even though seeing you again has drilled a crack in my barely dried concrete self, I know I deserve more than your insults and misunderstandings. Leave . . . please.”
I chew on the side of my cheek, contemplating my next move, but when nothing comes from my mouth, I know what to do.
Turning my back on her, I take one step toward the door, then another, then another until I’m out of her apartment, and once again, out of her life.
Chapter Thirty-Five
EMORY
The door slams, I fall to my knees, and I sob into my hands.
I put my heart out there and he stomped all over it.
But honestly, do I have the right to be mad at him? Not really, because although I didn’t admit to it, I have thought about putting myself in his shoes and how I would’ve reacted if he had done what I did to him. The rational part of me says, oh, I understand, he was trying to help me, to serve me in the best way he could.
But the passionate side of me, the side my heart dictates, would be just as angry as he is, because what we had was special. What we had was unlike any relationship I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never been so consumed by another human, nor have I ever felt more worshipped.
We were the perfect match.
And yet, sometimes the perfect match has to be separated.
Trying to lift myself from the ground, I take a deep breath, calm the ragged sobs escaping past my lips, and start to peel myself off the ground.
I steady myself and head to the kitchen for a napkin to blow my nose when there’s a slight knock on my door. I whip around to stare at the entryway, wishing at this moment I had X-ray vision.
Is he back? Does he want to fight more? Is it one of my fellow neighbors from the connecting building? We do have paper-thin walls.
Feeling slightly embarrassed from the shouting match and who possibly heard it, I walk to the door and open it to find not a concerned neighbor but . . . Knox once again standing on the other side. Both of his hands are gripping the molding of the door and his head is hung low in defeat.
Pulse picking up, my hands shaking uncontrollably, I try to find the words to say something, but nothing comes out. Broken with a tiny ounce of hope, my mind questions why he’s standing there, why he’s back at my apartment after such a bitter shouting match. Instead of finding the words to greet him, I wait for him to speak.