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But when I thought she willingly slept with Christopher, it fucked me up worse than when I first saw my father fucking a woman who wasn’t my mother. Worse than thinking Nicole somehow got ecstasy to fuck another man.
It was the first and only heartbreak I’ve ever experienced, and the pain I had from it still beats inside me like a different being.
So I moved on, or pretended to, for a whole eleven years.
I made it my mission not to look for her, ask about her, or even mention her name. Whenever Astrid did in a fleeting manner, I would change the subject faster than her next words are out.
And I was doing so well, avoiding blondes like the plague and filling the hole she left behind with fucking and working, and pretending I’m living the best life possible.
Until she came back into my life.
The moment I saw her again, everything, every single fucking coping mechanism I tried over the years smashed right in front of my eyes.
And the vicious cycle restarted.
I wanted to get revenge, to hurt her as much as she hurt me, but I’m the one who’s in pain.
I’m the one who’s all alone in a park, like some lonesome old man who lost everything and is reminiscing about the past.
The same park I walked through with Nicole yesterday.
No. I’m not going to think about her laughter or the way she blushed when I held her hand.
I simply won’t.
It’s been exactly thirty-five minutes and twenty seconds since I’ve been sitting here staring at the box that she threw away and told me she’s done with me.
I stood right in front of the room as she cried, stopping myself from going in there and wrapping her in my arms.
I couldn’t.
I didn’t have the right to.
Not when I’m the one who ruined her life. I almost forgot about it during the bliss I felt these past three days. Almost.
But her words slapped me back into the reality that, as the scum Christopher said, she will never forgive me for pushing her into his arms.
One day or another, she’ll wake up and be grossed out with me.
And I can’t do that to either of us.
But I did go into the room when her cries subsided. I carried her to the bed, my gut wrenching at the tears on her face.
Then, I picked the box and key and left. I should be at the airport for my plane back to New York, but I won’t be able to leave without knowing what’s inside this box.
Slowly, I insert the necklace key and turn. The sound of the lock penetrates my skin instead of my ears like a life-changing premonition. The feeling is tenfold heightened when I find what’s inside the box.
The first thing I see are pictures. Of her birthdays and mine that our mothers forced us to attend. From our eighth birthday until our fifteenth—since then, they couldn’t force us to do anything. In every single group picture of my birthdays, she was always looking at me. All eight pictures of them.
In all her birthday group pictures, I was always looking at anything but her. The boy in front of me. The camera. The cake. The presents. Anywhere she wasn’t.
The contrast between the two sets of pictures isn’t only obvious, but it’s also a little sad. From her perspective, at least.
Because she doesn’t know that I didn’t look at her for the sole reason that she unnerved me, threw me off balance. The fact that I avoided her of all people isn’t because I hated her.
It’s because I wanted to hate her.
And sometimes, I thought I did but that never lasted.
