“You do not have to forgive Mac right away. You can take all the time you need to heal from your hurt, but once you’ve healed, you don’t have to be as hard on him as you’ve been on yourself. And while we’re at it, stop being so hard on yourself.”
“Being hard on myself is the only way I got my grades back up. If I stop then I’ll slip again.”
Even as I’m saying the words, I don’t believe them. I’ve taken enough psychology classes and done enough therapy to know negative self-talk doesn’t actually help anyone.
“That’s just not true, Jessie.” She reaches out and puts her hand over mine.
I meet her gaze, but I’m overwhelmed by the love in her eyes.
“Plenty of people do well in school without being an absolute ass to themselves.”
The temptation to tell her she’s wrong, to insist I have to do things my way and that she doesn’t understand, is so strong, but I catch myself before any words come out. Jade is right. Her words and the truth of the matter settle on me like rain, pelting and pooling until there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t believe her.
“The way I see it, you just need to do a little work on yourself, and I wish I meant that in the dirty way, but I just mean you should forgive yourself and then forgive that poor, sweet man who just wants to bone you.”
“What did I say about being Sad Jessie? No laughing.” I fight a smile through the tears forming in my eyes.
“Sorry, you know I’m so bad at this.”
“You’re not though. You’re actually stupidly good at it,” I mumble.
“Oh, good. As long as you still want me to be your friend.”
“You’re stuck with me,” I say.
“Thank god.”
“Thank you.” I reach out to hug her, and we hold each other until I remember I have to leave for work.
Jade’s words ring in my head, clanging around during my whole shift.Forgive myself, forgive Mac. Forgive him, forgive myself.
Mac never stood a chance against my expectations. I barely stand a chance against my expectations. I’m always swimming with my head barely above water, paddling for my life under the surface, and even when I meet my goals I don’t celebrate. I tell myself all the ways it could have been better and move on to the next thing. I am never enough for myself, so how could Mac have been enough?
Even if he’d told me within the week it was him at the party, I probably would have found a way to be mad at him about it. I would have found a reason to decide he didn’t measure up.
My own mother is held captive by her mistakes. She admitted to me that she went to college, that she has loans she never told me about. Have I forgiven her? Of course not. Because Jade is right. I can’t forgive others because I can’t forgive myself.
The shame of this settles heavily on me. I don’t recognize this version of me that I’ve become. The kind that holds onto resentments and expectations as if I acquire them for sport.
Should I continue to keep my mistakes in pretty cages? Feeding them, making them fat, never setting them free. If I keep other people’s mistakes too, by the end of my life I’ll have become a true collector, surrounded by a menagerie of resentments. A regular Mrs. Havisham, locked away in my home hoarding unforgiveness as I rot from the inside out.
My stomach turns, sour at this image of myself. I don’t even know if I’m capable of letting go, but the cost of holding onto it all feels too high. I don’t want to lose myself to my bitterness, but I don’t want to get lost in unfamiliar territory.
What is the cost of unlocking all the cages, opening the windows, and setting my mother, Mac, and myself free?
The only answer is this: I won’t know until I try.
CHAPTERTWENTY
MAC
I’ve never had a problem with being the extra wheel in the family. When my brothers started dating and getting married and our Christmas festivities grew from our original six to seven, and then eight, and now nine, it was never an issue for me.
Except this year.
Jessie’s presence—or lack thereof—haunts me. She and I still haven’t spoken since she left my apartment three weeks ago. We’ve somehow avoided seeing each other on campus for two weeks, except for the classes we shared, and even then we both acted like the other didn’t exist. Or rather, she acted like I didn’t exist. I fought every instinct and urge to sit by her, to talk to her, to stare at her from across the room, to text her, to brush past her—to do anything for a second of connection with her. Anything had to be better than silence. I did nothing, of course. I played my part and kept my distance, and I hated every second of it.
The only company I have in the silence is my guilt. And that is pretty shit company. I deserve it, I know I do. I just thought—I hoped—maybe by now we could have had a conversation. I know it’s too much to hope she might forgive me, and I’ve all but given up on reconciliation. At this point, all I want is a few minutes of her time so I can apologize properly, but I’m losing hope for that too.
