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When he’s moved on.
This is him moving on, isn’t it?
So it worked then, what we did. What I made him do. All my lies and misdirection worked and he’s done with me. He’s fucked me out of his system and as I’ve been saying, it’s a good thing.
I just don’t know why I feel so angry.
Why I want to go in there and punch him in the face. Why I want to cry and sob and curl into a ball.
So for the next couple of weeks, I try my hardest to get rid of this anger, this pain, this sadness. I try to distract myself and stay busy.
Busy, busy, busy.
With classes, with homework, with school activities, with gardening and counseling sessions. Days are easier to pass because there’s always something to do and I have my girls.
But nights are harder.
I have a solution for that as well though. Wyn’s stories.
When I can’t sleep, I ask Wyn to tell me stories. Especially that one story that I love.
It’s about a man she met one night.
The one she calls her dream man.
We don’t know who he is. All we know is that a year ago when Wyn came here for the first time, that summer, she met a man. She says he was older than us, like in his late twenties or something. And somehow, crazily enough, that man became the reason why she came here to St. Mary’s.
She hasn’t shared this with anyone else except me; she’s too shy, but I love hearing about this mystery man and making up theories about him.
With moonlight streaming through the barred windows and lying on my side on the bed to face her, I ask her one night, “Tell me about his eyes.”
In the same position from her bed, she bites her lip and says in her soft voice, “Um, okay. So his eyes are blue. Like yours. But I think a little darker. Like navy, maybe.”
“And his hair?”
“Dark from what I could see. It was night, way past my curfew. But sometimes I think there might be some light strands in there, I don’t know. Maybe dirty blond.”
“Like Coach Carlisle’s?” I ask, referring to Salem’s crush.
Wyn sighs. “Oh yeah, that would be awesome.” She puts her hands under her cheek and continues, “And well, he came out of nowhere. Like one second I was alone and the next, he was there. I was sitting on the sidewalk, crying because I’d had a fight with my dad and suddenly there was this huge man and his shadow covering me. And I got really scared but then he talked.”
I grin. “And what did he say?”
She smiles as well. “He asked me if I was okay and I told him that I was. And I thought that he would leave after that, anyone would have, but he didn’t. He stayed and I still can’t believe he stayed. And he didn’t even try anything with me, you know? He just sat on the other side of the road, opposite to me, and told me that he had a sister my age and that if I wanted to, I could talk to him. And I did. I told him about my dad and how he was forcing me to go to law school instead of art school and all that, you know? And then he said something.”
I love this part. “What?”
She looks at me and I know her eyes must be shining right about now. “He said that I’m a dreamer. And that I should keep dreaming and I should do what my dreams tell me to do. Because it’s important. For some reason, I felt like he didn’t, you know? He didn’t do what his dreams told him to do, so…” She sighs. “So yeah, that’s what he told me.”
“And so you drew graffiti on your dad’s car. Because he told you to follow your dreams?”
She chuckles. “Yeah, and all over the siding on the house. But also because he called me Bronwyn.”
I laugh. “And you let that happen, Wyn?! Come on.”
She laughs as well. “I know. How could I, right? I told him not to, actually. I told him that people call me Wyn but he didn’t listen. He walked me back to my house — I could barely look at him all through that walk — and as he was leaving, he said, ‘Good luck, Bronwyn.’ And I just stood there because I never thought I’d like it. I never thought I’d like someone calling me by my name. Bronwyn.”
“But you did like it.”
“Yeah.” She nods, her voice all dreamy now. “Because he said it. In that voice that somehow reminds me of summer days and cotton sheets, cut grass. Deep and lazy like Sunday mornings.”
“You should’ve asked him his name, Wyn,” I almost whine because I want to know his name myself.
