But that was before he decided he wanted a career in hockey more than he wanted me.
Almost the same way Todd decided he wanted a life without me more than he wanted a life with me.
I’ve only had two serious relationships, and both times I was blindsided by the end. Todd and Miles don’t have a lot in common. Miles is fire and energy. Todd is calm and orderly. And in both relationships, I thought everything was fine until it wasn’t. Todd and I never fought. I thought we were happy. He said he thought we’d both be happier if we found people who suited us better, as if I were holding him back from some better future. I thought Todd suited me just fine, but I guess I thought that about Miles, too. We did suit each other, though—in college, anyway. His sporty, boyish charm was fun to be around. The art world always felt so serious, but Miles brought levity and movement to my otherwise still world. In the end, I guess I was too still for him, like an anchor holding him back.
The dark bubble in my chest grows and threatens to burst. I sip on my daiquiri in an effort to distract my body from the rising tide of emotions inside. It’s been six months since Todd left, eleven years since Miles left, so why is all this sadness coming up? It feels like the anesthesia is wearing off a tooth that’s been numbed, pain returning in small doses of awareness.
“Strawberry daiquiri, huh? Since when are you a fruity drink kind of girl?” Miles asks.
“Since always, Miles. But no one makes frozen drinks or margaritas at frat parties.”
“The girl I remember used to double-fist vodka shots and shout the words to every song that played that she knew the lyrics to at parties.”
“That girl also could wake up the next day without a hangover. She was wired differently.”
“I bet that girl is still in there somewhere. Should I get us some shots?”
“No.”
It’s snippier than I intend it to be, but I’m agitated. He’s carrying on like we’re old buddies reminiscing, and we could not be any further from friendly former acquaintances.Sure, let’s talk about the good old days, and while we’re at it, should we reminisce on how I could barely get out of bed for three months after you left?
The bubble in my chest continues threatening to burst, and I know I’m going to start crying. I will not cry in front of Miles. He’ll try to get me to talk about it or, worse, try to comfort me. He used to be that person for me—my source of comfort—but it’s been a long time since that was true.
“So how long are you—” he starts, but I get up, tossing my e-reader in my pool bag and picking up my drink and towel. “Hey, where are you going?”
“I…sorry, I’m not feeling well.” I hate that I’m lying to get out of this conversation. I wish I were brave enough to just be honest, but how am I supposed to look him in the eyes and tell him I simply don’t want to be around him right now?
It’s honest, but it’s too mean. He would do it, but I just… I can’t.
“Oh. Do you have a migraine?”
I nearly stumble at his words. He remembers that, too?
Then I tell myself it’s not that impressive, given that I had a migraine just about every three days in college.
He stands too. “Can I get you anything?”
The unexpectedly kind question tips me over the edge. Tears blur my vision, and without another word, I hurry away.
By the time I get back to my room, that sadness bubble has burst. Miles doesn’t know he’s poked right at the most tender place in me. The hardest part about being single is dealing with my migraines alone. There is no hell like being nauseated and needing water and having to get it for myself but knowing that getting up will mean making the throbbing pain in my head worse.
I don’t mind being single, unless I’m in pain. And then I don’t want to be alone.
Could he really remember that after all these years?
I remember plenty of things about him, but I wasn’t distracted by hockey while we dated.
My hands are still shaking as I dig around in my bag for my key. Before I can find it, I hear footsteps behind me. Probably my neighbor. My room is tucked back into a small hallway with one other room across from my own.
I glance up to give them a friendly smile, hoping my eyes aren’t red-rimmed from the tears. I’m not one of those people who can easily hide when I’ve been crying. I end up doing a double-take.
No.
“Did you follow me back to my room?”
Miles laughs, a deep, loud guffaw. “This is my room,” he says, pointing to the door across from me.
Room 1077.
