Fight or Flight(103)

Patrice’s eyes shone bright with sympathy. “Darling … I’m so sorry I ever thought matchmaking you with Caleb was a good idea. Still, I never thought I’d see the day when nothing else would matter to you but a man.”

Not sure if I was being reprimanded, I stared her down. “I’m allowed to be heartbroken. It doesn’t make me weak.”

“I never meant that.” She stepped over a pile of laundry to take hold of my hand. “I just don’t want you to lose yourself.”

I nodded, wrinkling my nose as I saw the apartment from her perspective, and repeated, “I should clean.”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t think it’s a bad thing to stop caring about the things that don’t really matter. So much of my life felt out of my control that I became obsessed with the little things I could control. Like my apartment and my appearance. I wouldn’t even buy a pair of skinny jeans, for God’s sake.”

“Uh … you’re wearing a pair of jeans.”

“Yes. I am. And I intend to wear more. I’m going to clean my apartment and I’m going to wash my hair … but after I wash it I might just throw it back up in a messy bun. And I might not wear mascara if I don’t feel like it. Or high heels.”

Patrice seemed unsure. “To work? Events?”

I laughed softly, the act of it a relief. “Don’t worry, Patrice. I’ll be my immaculate self for work and to any of your wonderful events. I just might give myself a break on the weekends if I feel like it. And I’m changing my carpet because there’s a stain on it and I live my life tiptoeing around my own apartment, worrying about my guests leaving stains on the carpet with their footwear and following them around with coasters. It’s exhausting and I’d rather spend my time on things that matter.” I gazed at the floor. “I think I’ll put down hardwood and a nice big rug.”

“Oak.” Patrice nodded, tapping her mouth in thought. “It’ll warm the room up. And I’d get rid of your white sofa.”

“I hate that sofa,” I agreed. “It looks pretty but I can’t eat cheese puffs on it.”

“Then it should go.”

I locked eyes with my very understanding friend. “I’ll stop wallowing.”

“Good. You can be as heartbroken as you want for as long as you want. There is no magic number of days or weeks or months, my darling. But wallowing makes you look and sound just awful.”

I cracked a smile at her bluntness. “I’ll jump in the shower.”

“And I’ ll …” She made a face at the kitchen. “Call my cleaner.”

“I can clean my own apartment,” I said as I made my way into my bedroom.

“Yes, but Stella said she needs you at the office. Hello, Anne-Marie? Yes. I have an emergency … right now … I’ll pay you double …”

I rolled my eyes as she talked on the phone presumably to her cleaner. But I did as she asked. I stripped and got in the shower.

And as soon as the water poured over me, I let go of my numbness and let the pain back in again. I muffled my sobs, squeezing my arms around my chest to try to stop the harsh racking of my body.

I missed him.

So much.

Knowing I’d never touch him again or feel him smile against my skin while he was kissing me all over.

Knowing I would never be able to turn to him again when I needed him the most, that he would never be a strong, supportive presence to help bear the weight of future burdens.

One day I’d have that again with someone, but it wouldn’t be the same. I couldn’t imagine anyone ever making me feel as safe as he did. And I’d lost him before I ever really had him.

I never knew anything could feel so unbearable.

Finally, the sobs slowed to tears and I wiped them away, still shaking but feeling calmer. And I promised myself that that would be my last meltdown.

I had to let him go.

I just … I had to.

Not wanting a serious relationship because of Vince isn’t healthy,” I said the following night.

I was doing my best to act like I was moving on by sharing a celebratory drink with my best friend. Harper’s cast had come off, much to her relief. Not only could she return to work in a full capacity, but she said the cast coming off was the last physical reminder of what had happened to her. She still had Vince’s trial to deal with, and it wouldn’t be for months, but for now she could move on.

We were in a down-to-earth dive bar on Pearl Street. I was wearing new skinny jeans and a Ralph Lauren tee I got on sale, and my hair was washed. Moreover, I was wearing strappy sandals, because some things didn’t change. I liked my heels.

Harper looked gorgeous as always, her bruises gone, and the dark marks from the cuts that had needed stitches covered up with makeup. However, having been informed that she planned on only having casual physical relationships from now on, I felt an uneasy sense of déjà vu.

“My therapist says it’s okay if that’s what I want.”

“Are you going to try to win every discussion with, ‘My therapist thinks it’s okay’? Because I may regret asking you to make an appointment with the shrink.”

Harper gave me her best dirty look, but her quivering lips gave away her amusement. “Now I am.”