Fight or Flight(102)

For good.





Thirty


What’s that song that guy sings? You know, the one with those lyrics …

I’m only human after all.

Well, I am only human after all, and that’s why, after saying that I wouldn’t, I gave myself permission to wallow.

I told Harper I was allowing myself a week and then she had to drag me out of my gloom.

It didn’t quite work out like that. After seeing Caleb, I couldn’t return to the office; instead, I called in sick and asked Stella to explain to any clients who called that I’d be back in the office the next day. I went back to my apartment, curled up on my bed, and cried until I passed out from exhaustion.

Harper woke me later that evening calling to check on me, and that was when I told her about my confrontation with Caleb and how I was probably going to need a week to get over him. She acted like she thought it made sense, but I’d soon realize she was just appeasing me.

Although I dragged myself to work the next day and the day after that, the pain didn’t lessen. In fact, I had to retreat to this numb place where I didn’t let any kind of emotion in, in order to block out my grief. I was a black cloud of heartbreak, depressing everyone I met.

I was vaguely aware that Stella was quietly losing her mind over my passionless interaction with the clients and Harper kept subtly suggesting I should see her therapist.

By the end of week two I was not getting any better.

When I turned up to work on that Friday I was surprised to find Patrice waiting for me in my office. “Stella called me. She’s worried about you.” Patrice’s gaze drifted over me and she threw up her hands. “What are you wearing?”

I glanced down at myself.

I had on the skinny jeans I loved so much.

But that wasn’t really the problem.

I was wearing a white T-shirt with a giant coffee stain on it.

Oops.

Patrice hurried at me, her eyes searching my face and growing wider by the second. “You’re not wearing any makeup. And your hair—” She gestured to me.

I patted my head where I’d tied my hair up into a messy bun.

“When did you last wash it?”

Oh, and I might not have washed it in a while.

My friend sighed. Heavily. Then she grabbed her purse off my desk, and then came back to me. Taking hold of my arm, she led me out of the building, calling good-bye to Stella before I could say anything.

“Where are we going?” I asked, totally confused.

“Back to your apartment.”

I didn’t need to ask why.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“What has gotten into you? This isn’t like you.”

I’m wallowing. I gave myself permission to wallow. “A month tops,” I suddenly said.

“What?” Patrice frowned at me as she marched down Beacon Street.

“It was supposed to be a week of wallowing. Allowing myself to grieve for the bastard. You know … get it out of my system before I move on to bigger and better things. But I’m thinking—” I glanced down at my stained T-shirt and my unmanicured fingernails as they clutched at the T-shirt. “A month tops.”

“I’m thinking neither. It stops. Today.”

I glared at her as she marched ahead.

You couldn’t just tell your heart to stop wallowing! And I never allowed myself to wallow over Nick, probably because he wasn’t worth the time. But it was my right now to wallow over he who shall not be named!

Pain constricted my throat as I rushed after Patrice.

By the time we got to my apartment I was beginning to panic that she might actually force me to stop my pity party before I was ready.

“Keys,” she demanded when we reached my place.

I handed them over and then, like a sullen teenager, followed her in and up to my apartment. When she opened the door, she gasped with all the melodrama of someone walking onto a murder scene.

As she stared dispassionately around at my space, I realized in a way it was. A murder of neat freak Ava Breevort.

Every inch of the place was covered. In dirty clothes, food wrappers, soda cans, takeout cartons, and the kitchen sink was overflowing with dirty dishes.

What?

I was wallowing.

“Oh my God.” Patrice gaped at everything. “This is not your apartment.” She took a sharp inhale of breath at finding a curry stain on my cream carpet. “Have you seen this?”

I shrugged.

Her eyes widened in horror and she reached out to grab me by the upper arms. “Ava, are you in there?”

I rolled my eyes. “Patrice.”

“The Ava Breevort I know would die at seeing her apartment like this. There is never an inch of you or your apartment out of place. This … Oh my God, what is going on?”

Seeing mold gathering on my dishes for the first time, I began to feel a niggle of shame. “I should clean.”

“Yes, you should. But more importantly, why aren’t you losing your mind over the state of your apartment?”

Now it was my turn to be disbelieving. “Really, Patrice? Really?” Tears burned my nose and my lips shook as I waved at the place. “I should care about a stain when I feel like my insides have been torn out!”

The words echoed around the room and I bit my lip, wishing I could pull them back because they’d acted like a huge sledgehammer against my comfortable numbness.