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“Kaitlyn, whatever you want to tell me, I want to listen to.”
So I told him just about everything, minus the more intimate details.
And my heart gradually began to heal because of it.
26
As I began to heal, I was able to listen to Derek’s voicemails and not get plunged into despair or rage. Depression and anger, yes – but not their soul-shattering extremes. Finally I could read his texts and not have my heart break into pieces all over again. I would get sad, yes, and sometimes cry – but I wouldn’t feel like I wanted to curl up into a little ball on the floor and never move again because it hurt too much.
I got a lot of practice, because the one thing Derek
didn’t
do was let up on the voicemails and texts. He was freaking obsessed. A minimum of eight voicemails a day, and at least twice as many texts.
Once I wasn’t entirely a slave to my emotions, I began to listen to what was under his angry words and self-pitying diatribes: hurt. A lot of pain. And bewilderment. Like he couldn’t understand why I was acting this way. Or how I even
could
act this way. I’m sure he’d never been like this with any other woman in his life – trying relentlessly but futilely to get her back – and it was driving him insane. Other women would have come crawling if he beckoned with his finger, and here I was, cutting off all communication whatsoever.
I started to feel bad about the anguish I was putting him through.
Not that the bastard doesn’t deserve it,
I thought savagely, but then I would remind myself that my goal was to get free of him, not twist the knife in his back.
I thought about calling him… I thought about texting him… but something always kept me from doing it: the fear that if I did, he would charm his way back into my life.
It wasn’t such a farfetched notion. No matter how many times he had called me a bitch, every time he pleaded with me in a voicemail to forgive him, my resolve melted a little bit more. I could just imagine what he might be able to do if he actually got me on the phone.
And then one day his voicemails and texts changed completely – from
Why won’t you call me back?
to
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!
Twelve days after my abrupt departure from Vegas, he had apparently flown to New York. (
About time, jackass,
I thought bitterly.) Except I wasn’t there.
His first voicemail was wary.
“Uh, Kaitlyn… look… I was going to surprise you, but… I’ve been standing outside your apartment building for three hours, and I haven’t seen any sign of you. Please – please, I’m begging you – just talk to me. Don’t run away. I promise I won’t pressure you or anything. Even if you won’t see me face-to-face, at least just talk to me… I came all this way…
please,
Kaitlyn… just call me.”
For the first time, the truth dawned on me:
He doesn’t know where I am.
He doesn’t know I’m in South Dakota with Ryan.
Which should have been obvious in retrospect, because he never once mentioned Ryan or South Dakota… but when you’re in the depths of grief and heartbreak, you tend to skip over an obvious detail here and there.
The fact that he didn’t know where I was made me feel… weird.
Guilty, actually.
Like I was doing something wrong.
Even though I wasn’t! Doing anything wrong, I mean.
I wanted to run out and corner Ryan immediately and ask him why he hadn’t told Derek, but I couldn’t stop listening to the voicemails.
The second one was upset.
“Kaitlyn, what the fuck?! I just talked to the manager, and he said you haven’t been in your apartment for almost two weeks! Where ARE you?! Are you even in New York?!”
The third voicemail was frantic.
“Holy shit, Kaitlyn… please… if you’re listening to this, PLEASE let me know you’re alive… I just called Shanna and she doesn’t know where you are, either… babe, please, PLEASE, I’m scared… look, I know you probably can’t stand the sound of my voice – ”
Not true, unfortunately.
“ – but I’m fucking imagining you dead in a ditch somewhere, or in a hospital in a coma, or some serial killer… Jesus Christ, I can’t even talk about it… please, PLEASE just let me know you’re okay – PLEASE. That’s all I ask. Just let me know you’re okay.”
My heart was breaking all over again – but for another reason this time.
He was terrified.
He really did love me, and he was terrified that I was dead or injured or in danger.
And I was hurting him with my silence.
