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Thetruthcut deep.
And the truth was, it wasn’t Cal; it was me.
It would always be.
* * *
After hugging me awkwardly, my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—held me at arm’s length as if he no longer recognized me, gave me a weak smile, and left. I watched him disappear into the distance before I strolled back through the park, arms wrapped around my waist, holding myself together as I went.
It was a warm evening, which usually brought out a crowd. People walked their dogs, couples in love walked together, making plans for their futures, and families played with their children.
And here I was again.
Alone.
Despite the pang of regret stabbing at my heart, I knew it was for the best.
I’d tried—really tried—to make things work.
Cal was my third attempt at a normal relationship. A year older than me, he had a steady job, a nice apartment in Indian Springs, and he was motivated. If Mom were still around, she would have called him the perfect guy.
I knew there was something different about him when I had let him touch me. It had taken four months, a lot of persuasion, some Dutch courage, and two panic attacks, but we had finally managed to be intimate in ways I hadn’t been with anyone else. In the end though, it wasn’t enough.
Cal had wanted more—something I couldn’t give him.
And although I’d seen the signs long before today, when he started to pull away, I let him.
I didn’t blame him. What twenty-four-year-old guy wanted a girlfriend who struggled with a simple touch, let alone deeper intimacy? Besides, I wasn’t planning to stay in Clintonville forever.
Really, our relationship was doomed from the beginning.
Just like your life.
By the time The Oriental Garden came into view, the sun had set, taking with it the last shreds of my deteriorating mood.
I’d lived above the takeout restaurant for almost two years, but it still didn’t feel like home.
Nowhere ever did.
When I’d viewed the supposedly renovated one-bedroom apartment in Clintonville, the owner had failed to mention the dirt-ridden kitchen and damp-infested walls. Add to that the lingering smell of fried egg rolls and the window overlooking the back alley of the local student bar, dumpsters and all, and it wasn’t exactly homey.
But it was all my meager wage from Vrai Beauté, the boutique where I worked, could afford, and it was better than the last place I’d lived, and the one before that.
After trudging up the stairs around the back of the building, I nudged open the stiff door with my knee and stumbled into the apartment, immediately assaulted by the scent of grease and lavender. The walls seemed to absorb it from downstairs. I’d tried everything I could to mask the grotesque smell. Lavender was the only thing that seemed to make it bearable, but I still spent as little time here as possible. If I hung around for too long, I ended up smelling like Chinese takeout on legs.
Picking up the pile of mail on the doormat, I headed straight to the small kitchenette in the corner of the room and heated some leftover lasagna. While I waited, I sifted through the mail and worked out some of the kinks in my neck.
The scent of garlic and parmesan wafted in the air as I grabbed my dinner and made myself comfortable on the threadbare couch. It wasn’t much, but I’d done my best with the place.
A thrift store rug covered the stain on the carpet, and a few well-placed art prints hid most of the damp patches on the walls, but it was like putting a Band-Aid on a festering wound.
Despite my grumbling stomach, I couldn’t bring myself to eat. Between seeing Cal and having to face my boss, Tiffany, tomorrow, my nerves were shot.
At the thought of work, my gaze drifted to the calendar hanging on the wall next to the refrigerator. Sixteen black crosses stared back at me, which meant fourteen more days, and then I was out of here for the summer.
No more egg rolls.
No more damp, flaky walls.
