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My chest burns with indigestion from last night’s wine as I stand to my feet and scoop my things up off the table. I have to go to the bathroom and get myself together, and quite possibly, throw up some chicken parmigiana. I’m an emotional eater, and I had my dad’s house and refrigerator all to myself for lunch, okay?
I weave my way through the crowd, careful not to bump or shove anyone or otherwise alert them to my presence. I have a feeling my face tells a huge story right now, and it’s not one I’m particularly ready for anyone to read.
Once inside the bathroom, I head for the biggest stall and lock myself inside. I need a moment to collect myself before looking at my own reflection.
Truth is, even I’m not ready to see what my face has to say.
Almost out of habit, I put my notebook in my bag and hang it from the hook on the back of the door before going to the bathroom. I break off lengths of toilet paper to line the seat, and then sink into the seat like it’s a cushion of solace. I dig my elbows into my knees, and my head finds its way right into my hands.
Why do I feel this way? And better yet, why have I allowed it to get this far?
I should have called myself off this contest long ago—a woman who’s been cheated on and recently betrayed by the man she’s been with for more than a decade should not be doing anything even remotely related to love.
She should be writing articles on carb-loading and finding yourself through fitness. She should be writing a travel blog about solo travel around the world. Real Eat, Pray, Love kind of shit.
She should not, under any circumstances, be allowing herself to become so involved with the man at the center of her assignment that she can’t see beyond him anymore. She should not be even entertaining the idea of love.
No way.
“Fuck,” I whisper to myself before finally allowing myself to move.
I finish my business on the toilet and make my way out of the stall to the sinks. The lighting is bad, and the sinks are disgusting, but let me tell you, I put both of them to shame.
Dark circles mar the skin under my eyes, and red-bloodshot lines ruin the white sheen of my corneas—or whatever that part of my eye is. I’m not an ophthalmologist, so I can’t say for sure.
But I don’t need a medical degree to see the truth: I look like a woman who’s been through it—not like the professional reporter I should.
Quickly, I wet a paper towel under the faucet and put the cool paper to my forehead. It’s soothing to my hot skin, and I can’t seem to get enough. I wet the paper again, bringing it to my forehead again, but this time rubbing it around the entire surface of my face.
“You’re a strong woman, Holley,” I peptalk in the mirror. “Get your shit together, go out there, and write some damn notes to help with this damn article.”
I laugh to myself. I can order seventy-five pounds of Chinese food and gorge on it when I get home.
In fact, that sounds like a plan.
Decided, I finish up with my face, wash my hands, and make my way back out of the bathroom and over to the lane where I know I’ve left Jake and Lucy. Their scores are still on the board, but neither of them is anywhere that I can see. I scan the snack counter and the front desk, but in the end, I find nothing.
Is it really possible they just left? Together? Already?
I feel physically sick to my stomach, like the acid within has turned into the stormy seas on that fishing show Deadliest Catch.
I run back for the bathroom, making it into the stall just in time. I’ve never found myself in an emotional hollow so low—not even when I found out about Raleigh.
It’s ironic, really. I dated Raleigh for well over a decade and he cheated on me for over a year, but getting attached to Jake—and sleeping with him last night—while he’s in the middle of trying to find love with someone else makes me feel like so much more of a fool.
I sink down onto my knees on the bathroom floor and allow the tears to flow. My hands shake and my heart hammers.
I’m scared…scared to fall in love with someone only to have it all fall apart again.
I just didn’t realize until now that the alternative is even scarier.
Did I just let the best guy I’ve ever met slip through my hands on purpose?JakeI slam the garage door behind me and toss my keys onto the counter with no finesse whatsoever. Then, I grab a beer from the refrigerator and put it to my lips and take a swig.
