Page 52 of Bossy Mess

“Sloane!” It was Wesley. Of course it was Wesley. I barely had a chance to open my laptop and get started on the email before he showed up to try to save the day and sweep me back up into his arms like the hero he was. Oh, it was tempting to try to let him save me.

I could let him inside and he’d take me to bed. I’d cry into his chest, and he’d kiss me on the forehead, and everything would feel alright. And the screen would fade to black, and the credits would roll as we lived happily ever after.

That would be our happy ending in a movie. But life wasn’t a movie. I couldn’t let him pretend that it was.

It would have been selfish.

Just because I wanted him to be my happy ending, it didn’t mean that I could be his. Not with a baby.

I messed things up for him. He always said he never wanted to end up like his dad and the first step to that would be fathering a child. But that wasn’t the only thing. I’d fucked up his life from the moment I got involved with him. If I hadn’t been around, he wouldn’t have gotten involved in the deal for the Dyer house. And, while things were looking like they would somehow work out, that was a combination of luck and him working his magic to make sure that it happened. That was Wesley’s skill — he could fix any situation and turn it from disastrous into profitable. He was my own personal Superman.

He shouldn’t have to be, though. Imagine how much money he could have made on that house if I hadn’t screwed it up for him. Had I not gone over to his house drunk that night and gotten soaked in the rain…

I’m not saying I regret a minute of it. I truly believe that everything happens for a reason. But I couldn’t just fall back and rely on fate to make things alright. Because it wasn’t fate that would be making things right: it would be Wesley.

“I know you’re in there,” he said. He wasn’t angry — it wasn’t like he was about to axe his way through the doorway like Jack Nicholson inThe Shining— just stating it as a matter of fact. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body. I knew that about him now, but that wasn’t always the case. I remembered meeting him my first day at work and thinking he hated me. That thought only grew in the weeks that followed, reaching a peak when he called me into his office to threaten to fire me.

It was in those threats that I first saw the cracks in the image I’d had of him. He talked a tough game — or maybe it was just a professional mask — but deep down, he couldn’t hurt a fly. And he especially wouldn’t hurt me. Not intentionally anyway.

“I heard you typing,” he said.

He was, however, hurting me now, though I doubt he realized it. The best thing he could have done was walked away and left me in peace, just like I’d asked him to do. I told him I needed time to myself and, sure, he’d soon realize that I needed that time to write him this letter, but the longer he stuck around and tempted me, the harder this would be for the both of us.

While I was trying to rip the bandage off, he kept pushing it back on.

The only solution was to force myself to ignore him.

I put my headphones in and turned on some AC/DC — the loudest music I had on my phone at that moment — and that mostly drowned him out so I could pretend he didn’t exist long enough to finish working on the email.

In fact, you’re a better man than any other man I’ve ever met. And that’s why this can’t work. I will always feel like I’m taking advantage of your kindness, and I refuse to do that anymore.

I suggest you take that kindness that you so generously directed towards me and apply it to yourself. Show yourself the compassion that’ve given me over the past couple of months and you’ll be the happiest man alive. That’s the truth, you know. You told me that I make you happy, but, in reality, you could have made yourself happy that entire time if only you learned to not hate yourself so much. So please, Wesley, learn to love yourself the way that you loved me.

Or don’t.

I suppose it’s none of my business anymore.

I won’t be coming in tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or any other day in the future. Consider this a letter of resignation. Anything in my desk is fair game to whoever wants it, and the rest can be tossed into the garbage.

The music was interrupted by a phone call. Of course he’d try to call me. Of course he’d refuse to give up. Well, I could be twice as stubborn as he could be. Eventually he’d have to leave and, once he did, I would be gone. I’d make sure of it.

Please don’t come looking for me or even try to find me. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not twenty years from now. For my sake, I need to pretend you don’t exist. I suggest you do the same, but, again, it’s really none of my business what you do. Not anymore.

It seemed dramatic, but it was what I felt. I worried that, perhaps when the baby grew up, they would want to meet their father. And, if that happened, I would deal with it then.

For now, I would be leaving for my sister’s apartment in North Hollywood — my refuge in times of emergency.

I received a text on my phone: Please don’t do this.

And then another one: I’m giving you space, but please come back.

I looked out the window and saw him get into his car. The phantom zone where his walls first came down. As he drove off, I wiped a few tears off of my cheek.

I care about you deeply, I wrote. I would have loved to take that cruise to Iceland with you, but no matter what happened, it would never be just the two of us ever again. Everything was so perfect; I’d hate to ruin that in my memory.

Don’t be sad. Don’t be grumpy. Be the little ray of sunshine that I know you can be. Don’t try to hide it. I’ve seen it.

There I go again, telling you what to do when it’s none of my business.

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