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And I’m realizing at this moment it never changed a thing. Realizing that everything I sacrificed didn’t change or fix or solveanythingbreaks me. Once and for all.
And on the couch of the man I’m pretty sure can’t stand me but seems to like to save me and possibly likes kissing me, I start to cry.
Not sweet tears.
Not the kind that you take a photo of and then share on social media.
Not the kind you wipe away with a handkerchief.
Kim Kardashian-level ugly cries. Body wracking, chest heaving, painful cries that break a wall inside of me I didn’t realize had been constructed.
I cry.
I cry for myself.
I cry for Mom, who never would have seen this coming.
I cry for Lilah, who never had Mom, not really, and who lives in the shadow of her mistakes.
And I cry for Dad, who can’t see past his grief to realize what he’s doing to us.
And as I’m crying in my puddle of pain and shame and embarrassment, I feel arms pulling me out of it.
Not out of my puddle—off the couch, into his arms. Solid arms, a solid body.
Ben.
And then I’m sniffing into his shirt, crying there and attempting to get it together.
It’s easier than I would have thought with him holding me.
“What do you want, Lol?” Ben asks long moments later, his face in my neck, holding me tight as I sit in his lap.
I don’t answer for a while, and he lets that happen. That silence. When I finally break it, I ask, “Can I just . . . pretend? For tonight? Pretend I’m carefree and don’t have this shit over my head? Pretend that you’re just a hot guy taking me home?” I mull my words over. “I’ve never had that. That’s what I want right now.” He waits, deciding his own answer the same way I did.
I let him, waiting in the comfortable silence to hear his answer.
“Will you talk to me about it tomorrow?” He’s hesitant to agree.
“Tomorrow?”
“Here.”
“Here?”
“You’re not going back over to your apartment without me until I know you’ll be safe, babe.”
“My place is fine.”
“You also thought your bakery was safe.”
“It is,” I say. My response is automatic, and I realize even at this moment how dumb that sounds.
It’s the furthest thing from safe.
I’ve been playing dangerous games for weeks, living in my own world and pretending it was sprinkles and powdered sugar.
I sigh.
