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Which is why the only emotion anyone ever sees me express is anger.
Anger at situations. Circumstances. The World.
Mostly, at myself.
It’s my defense mechanism and I’ve perfected it over the years.
I haven’t always been this way. There was a time in my life when I was naive enough to believe in happily ever after and my smile radiated rainbows as glitter rained down around me.
Those days are behind me now.
Locked away in the past where they’ll stay.
Along with every ounce of pain I’ve ever felt.
See, stronger than anyone knows.
Except when it comes to him.
He’s been my weakness since I was in middle school. A girl with wide eyes and a pure heart. Standing in front of a boy who was looking at me like he worshiped the very ground we were standing on.
The grimy, stained tiles of the cafeteria floor.
I remember that day like it was yesterday. The way I felt when I first saw him walking in my direction, like all the air was sucked from my lungs just from the sight of him. He was clean cut, handsome, and so much taller than me. I was intimidated… until he spoke.
That voice.
So deep and sultry.
No boy should sound like that at his age. What happened to boys going through puberty, their voices cracking and their face covered in acne? Because this boy, this almost-man, looked as if he’d skipped those awkward years and I was still in the middle of mine.
My chest has blossomed but I was still a stick figure. No curves to speak of. My butt was flat. And if I hadn’t watched enough videos online to learn how to apply my makeup, he would have been able to play connect the dots with the pimples on my face.
My knees threatened to give out on me as he led me across the open room, all eyes on us, to an empty table in the corner. He talked while I nibbled on the overcooked food and sipped my water. I listened intently as he told me all about himself. About the town. The school. And when his words finally trailed off, my heart sank, missing the sound of his voice.
I should have known then that I would fall in love with him. It was clear to everyone around us after only a few weeks of hanging out. Looking back, I fought against admitting what I was feeling until years later when lying to myself became impossible.
Kane Howell was the one for me.
At age twelve, I met my future husband.
At age eighteen, I pushed him away because I lost myself.
And now, at age twenty-two, I hate to admit it, but my heart still beats for him. Only him. The way I’m afraid it only ever will. Because even though I pushed him away, he refuses to leave me alone. He refuses to give up on me. And with graduation six months away, he’s pushing me more than he has the last three years.
Which is why I stare at his text, reading between the lines, before carefully responding.
K1: I’m heading back to campus tomorrow.
ME: Drive safe.
Knowing him, his phone is in his hand, waiting for my reply. It’s after midnight. I’ve been laying awake in bed for hours, my stomach in knots after spending the day with his family. Playing the part of the happy girl they once knew.
Why my parents invited them over for Thanksgiving I have no idea. It was a shock to walk into the kitchen and find Mrs. Howell putting together a charcuterie board while my mother laid out toasted french bread around her famous spinach dip. The smell of the turkey cooking in the oven permeated the air, bringing back memories, almost enough to cause me to flee out the back door and straight back to the Zeta house.
If my mother hadn’t spotted me, a sincere smile on her face as she tried to decipher what was going through my head, I may have actually entertained the idea.
We haven’t spent the holidays together since Kane and I went away to LSU. Since before I broke up with him, severing the connection our families once shared. Yet here they were. Kane and his father in the living room watching football with my dad and brother, Beckham. Our mothers cooking together the way they use to, chatting and sharing a bottle of wine.
