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Well, I wasn’t actually hoping for that last part. Well, I mean, of course I WAS. But I didn’t really think it would HAPPEN. I would have settled for just his forgiving me.
But it turned out none of it happened. Because Michael’s flight was taking off as we got to the ticket counter.
We were too late.
I was too late.
Now Michael’s gone. He’s on his way to another country—another CONTINENT—another HEMISPHERE.
And I’ll probably never see him again.
Of course, I did the only sensible thing I could, under the circumstances: I sat down on the airport floor and cried.
Lars had to half drag, half carry me to the limo stand, where we’re waiting for Hans and my dad to come pick us up. Because Lars says over his dead body is he ever getting in another taxicab.
At least there’s a bench here, so I can sit on it and cry, instead of on the ground.
I just don’t understand how any of this happened. A week ago—five days ago—I was so filled with hope and excitement. I didn’t even know what pain was. Not real pain.
And now it’s like my whole world has come collapsing down around my ears. And some of it I didn’t have anything to do with—like Michael’s decision to go to Japan.
But a lot of it is my own fault.
And for what?
How am I going to go on without him? Seriously?
Oh. The limo’s here.
I’m going to see if we can go through the McDonald’s drive-through on the way home. Because I think the only thing that might make me feel even slightly better is a Quarter Pounder.
With cheese.
Friday, September 10, 7 p.m., the loft
When I got home, Mom and Mr. G were just getting ready to order dinner. Mom took one look at me and was like, “Bedroom. Now,” because Rocky had pulled all the pots and pans from the kitchen cupboards and was banging on them (a trait he no doubt inherited from his father, whose drum set still has a prominent place in our living room).
So I dragged myself into my bedroom and collapsed onto my bed, startling Fat Louie, who was so surprised when I landed on him, he actually hissed at me.
But I didn?
??t care. I think I have dysthmia, or chronic depression, since I have all the symptoms:
Emotional numbness
Perpetual, low-level melancholy
Feeling of merely going through the motions of everyday life with very little enthusiasm or interest
Negative thinking
Anhedonic (unable to savor or enjoy anything; except cheeseburgers)
“Your father tells me you were sent home from school in the middle of the afternoon,” Mom said, after shutting the door, so that the sound of at least some of the banging was lessened. “And I understand from Lars that you went to the airport to try to say good-bye to Michael.”
“Yeah,” I said. Seriously, I have zero privacy. I can’t do ANYTHING without the whole world finding out about it. I don’t know why I even try to keep anything secret. “I did.”
“I think that was the right thing to do,” Mom said. “I’m proud of you.”
