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“Kyle!” I shout back while Ruby winces. I know how this looks. I’ve become the girl who screams for her boyfriend and makes a big scene in the middle of an apartment building. The neighbors will probably hear. I can’t bring myself to care. “I know you’re in there, damn it!”
There’s a lot of shuffling and banging in there before the door swings open and the girl appears, wrapped in a sheet, eyes bulging. Her hair is tousled and her lipstick smudged. She even has a hickey on her neck. “What the hell do you want?” she demands, breathless and flushed.
“Sorry to interrupt while you were fucking my boyfriend.” In an act completely unlike me, I push my way into the apartment and through the open bedroom door. The bed is messy and there are clothes all over the floor.
And gathering his things is none other than Kyle, gripping the sheet wrapped around his waist and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else than where he is now. “You piece of shit,” I whisper, shaking.
“Harlow—”
“Do not speak to me. We’re finished. I’ll let you know when to come get your things—show up when I’m there and I’ll call the cops.” He’s sputtering as I turn away and march out again, almost blinded by pain and the knowledge that I was stupid enough to let him get away with it until now.
That’s much easier than thinking about my broken heart.
3
HARLOW
I'm pretty sure a truck hit me at some point in the middle of the night. I can barely pry my eyes open when I wake up sprawled out on my bed, lying on my stomach with dried drool on my cheek. My face feels like I fell asleep wearing a mud mask—my skin is dry, stiff. I'm sure all the crying I did until I finally fell asleep is the reason for that. I cried until it hurt, until I couldn't breathe, until I was sure my head would crack open from all the pressure in it. Or the pain.
The piles of balled-up tissues lying around me are a monument to all the wasted emotion.
All that wasted time. Four years of it. Time that was supposed to lead to something better than this.
Here I am, supposedly moving into the best part of my life. Everything was supposed to go more smoothly now that I've finished defending my thesis and earned my PsyD. All that work paid off, and it was finally time to reap the rewards. Interviews all over the place with teams looking for a sports psychologist—the Dodgers, the Trail Blazers, San Diego State. There was a sense of excitement and anticipation. I couldn't wait to move on to the next step.
And we were supposed to be taking that step together, damn it.
Now, here I am, trying my hardest to keep the morning sunlight out of my eyes because that's easier than trying to muster up the strength to get out of bed. I can't believe I let him do this to me. How many women has he slept with in the four years we've been together? I don't even want to know. I can't believe I even have to think about it.
The funniest thing happens when my phone rings. On one hand, my heart stops for a second because I'm sure it has to be him. If anything, I'm surprised he waited this long. I don't want to hear his voice, but at the same time I want him to hear mine. I want him to know what he's done. What he's done to me, to my sense of self, to the way I look back on the years we spent together.
On the other hand, my stomach pretty much flips over, since the idea of hearing his voice makes me sick. I don't think I can handle his excuses, which I'm sure he has plenty of. I've heard them all before, anyway. He's stressed, tired, busy with work, feeling neglected, on and on and on. He had a new excuse for every day of the week.
Finally, after the third ring I check the screen to find not Kyle, but my mother. And for some reason, I sort of wish it were Kyle, instead. I don't have it in me to tell her the truth right now—we’d be on the phone all day, and I'm still barely conscious as it is. I'm going to need all of my energy to sound awake and alert and reasonably happy, the way I should.
Her chipper voice might as well be an ice pick in my ear. “Hello, my doctor daughter.”
There I was, thinking I didn't have a drop of moisture left in my body, but the sound of her happy greeting brings tears to my eyes. I wish I were a little girl again, and I could curl up in her lap while she strokes my hair and tells me everything will be all right.
“How long do you think it will be before you get tired of that?” I ask with as much energy as I can muster.
“Are you kidding? I never will. And if I were you, I would demand people greet me that way. What you did was a true achievement.”
I'm not going to argue with that. I can't count the number of times I told myself to quit during undergrad and grad school, pulling every extra night shift I could to support myself while taking classes during the day. Then came my internship and all the late hours and weekends I spent there while working on my thesis every night, all weekend long.
“What can I do for you?” I have to stifle a groan as I sit up, my muscles stiff after so many hours spent in the same position. I must really have passed out cold after all that crying—I don't think I moved once.
“I wanted to talk about your graduation party.”
“Oh. Right.” Because I needed another reason to feel lousy. The last thing I feel like doing now is partying, even if the party is for me and especially because I know Mom is going to want me to be happy and cheerful and as full of hope for the future as somebody in my position should be. I have everything in the world to live for, everything to be happy about. At least, as far as she knows.
I should tell her. I should really tell her everything, get it all off my chest. I might even feel better. She always knows the right thing to say, even if it's not as easy anymore as pulling me into her lap and stroking my hair and suggesting we get ice cream once I’ve finished pouring my heart out.
“Do you think ending the party at four o'clock would give you guys enough time to get to the airport? I’m worried. Maybe you should plan on leaving earlier, even if you are the guest of honor.”
She has no idea how she's driving the knife deeper into my chest. “I… think four should be fine.”
“Because nobody would mind if you two left early. I hate to think of you missing your flight because traffic is heavy or there’s a long line at security.”
