Page 5 of Lucky 14

Finally, once home, I shove into my apartment. My knee is definitely bleeding, which makes me angry. This skirt is white, and if I get blood on it, it’s toast. Roughly, I wipe the blood away with wet toilet paper, remove my skirt, and throw on some sweats. Then, I grab a pint of ice cream from the freezer and turn on the TV.

As I’m settling in, there’s a bang in the hallway, and it makes me jump. My heart rate accelerates, and I look around, expecting to see the gray locker-lined walls. I can almost taste the sweat again. Can hear the screaming. I clench my fists, ready to throw a punch, and scan the room for threats. I’ll make them bleed. I’ll make their nose crunch under my fingers and laugh when they cry.

But no one’s here in my familiar apartment because this isn’t real anymore. There’s no one to fight.

I manually force my eyes to close and open again. Then close, then open again.

I try to talk my nervous system down. Notice five things I can see. Four things I can hear, and so on. After that, I take a breath. Why would anyone be getting hurt? No one wants to hurt me. No one is coming after me.

Slowly, I unclench my fists. If anyone were coming to hurt me, I’d throw my ice cream at them and give them a brain freeze via their asshole.

That makes me huff out air through my nose, and I feel a bit better.

I’m safe. No one immediately close to me is getting hurt. That’s all in the past. I’m safe.

And so, I settle in with my ice cream.

I’m being stupid. No one is trying to hurt me.

CHAPTER THREE

The club lights are flashing, and the heavy base vibrates in my chest, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. That dark weight is still sitting heavily in my chest.

It’s been five days since Poppy left. Not even a text or a call back. I’ve tried to leave her alone. Tried to give her the space she thinks she needs. But the ache in my heart is screaming at me to chase her. To catch her before she can get too far away.

We need to talk. I know everything could be better if she’d just talk to me!

I throw back a swallow of my third drink. Or is it fourth? I don’t know. At this point, the lights are going fuzzy. They erupt in bursts of color like I rubbed my eye too hard, which definitely means I’m drunk.

But if I’m drunk, why do I still feel like crying?

I came to the club Poppy likes to go to, and now I’m sitting alone at the table where we sat the first time we came. We had our first swingers’ experience here. This is the seat I sat on with Poppy on my lap as we watched a woman dance on the stage. I liked this seat ‘cause I didn’t have to leave the room to get a drink, which we got plenty of. Specifically, lemon drops, and Poppy drank most of them.

I came here because I wanted to feel close to my girl. Also, because I’m pissed. I can be exactly what she wants if she’d open her eyes to see. We’re still a thing. She just needs to stop believing all that bullshit that she needs to be alone.

Who needs to be alone when they’re suffering?

Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket. We aren’t supposed to have phones in here—I’ve seen people get thrown out and banned for using them. But I know that buzz. It’s Poppy. She’s finally responding.

My heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest as I pull it out of my pocket. Then, it sinks right back down.

It’s not a message from Poppy. It’s an email telling me I can get fifty percent off my phone bill if I upgrade to the latest device.

I stare at the screen. I feel like an idiot. Still, I check Poppy’s messages anyway.

Nothing.

My leg bounces. I’m letting her get away. I’m sending her the message that I don’t care by just rolling over and taking it.

I can’t just let this happen; I have to do something. Anything. It’s been five days. I’ve had my notes app open for five days, looking to write down any indications that she’s coming back. So far, all I have is:

Tuesday made my heart soar for a bit. She was thinking about our taco Tuesday nights. She went out of her way to grab more seasoning. But then the next day happened. Then the next. And the next.

Poppy doesn’t have any ‘taco seasoning’ from me—no sign that I was thinking about her. No hope unless I reach out.

Darting from my seat, I stride to the bathroom. It doesn’t have a door to the main room, but the stalls at least have doors. Closing myself in on one, I dial Poppy.

As the phone rings, my heart thuds in my chest. Will she pick up? She has to pick up. It’s me. The therapist’s lies can’t erase our history. The love we have is real.