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He’s just so good at holding me, and right now I feel so small and ashamed and alone.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I hope.
I hope so damn hard.
West: Fuck, that was awful. I’m so sorry, love. Are you okay? What do you need? How can I help? Tell me, and I’ll do it.
The knot in my throat tightens impossibly more, and tears slip faster down my cheeks.
Such a simple question.
So hard to answer.
But as much as the wounded part of me wants him right here, right now…
Gigi: You need to kick Hawley’s ass in the contest. I’m going home. Just need to be alone for a while, but I’m fine. I swear. And I’m rooting for you! Talk later.
I add a gif.
*GIF OF SASSY WOMAN SAYING GO KICK ASS*
I close my phone, stuff it into my purse, and head to the subway entrance, proud of myself despite the black hole of pain in my chest.
This is my fault, and I should be alone with my misery and broken dreams. No need to drag West down with me.
Especially when I suspect he wouldn’t really understand my devastation.
But I don’t care if it’s just a contest.
It wasn’t just a game to me.
This was a chance to prove myself—to my community, my family, and myself. And I let it slip through my fingers by forgetting that contests have rules.
You can’t just buy any property you want on Monopoly. You have to land on it. And you have to have the money.
You don’t get to make up words in Scrabble.
And you don’t get to enter contests you’re desperate to win without studying the fine print.
“Stupid,” I mutter. “Stupid girl.” But as I’m about to round the corner and start down the steps to the train, I spot a taxi stopped at the light.
Unoccupied.
Rush hour has died down.
I can grab that cab and let it whisk me home without baring my mascara-streaked cheeks to dozens of strangers. Or, knowing my luck, one of my regulars will be on the train, and I’ll have to explain why I’m a mess to a concerned patron who will, from this day forward, think of me as a crybaby loser.
Thrusting a hand into the air, I hail the cab with a whistle added in for good measure.
As the light changes, the yellow car jerks out of its lane and shimmies toward the curb. I jog the ten feet to the door, praying I won’t tumble and crack open my chin.
Stitches would be the cherry on this shit ice cream sundae.
I grab the door handle with a rush of relief and slide into the taxi, give the driver the address, and slump down in the sticky, cracked leather seat.
Then I turn to the window, and hope grips my heart, squeezing it harder than I expect with the wish that I’ll see West coming after me.
28
GIGI
There it is.
My secret, selfish wish.
To find West running after me.
Racing along the sidewalk, flagging me down. Hell, maybe he’d even dart onto the street, bang on the window as the cab pulls into traffic, and shout stop the car.
Then he’d grab the handle, slide inside, and gather me close. Tell me he couldn’t dominate the chocolate challenge because he’d rather be with me.
Screw the damn chocolate, love. Let me smother you in kisses, instead.
Yes, I want my prince to save me.
Then I catch sight of myself in the rearview mirror and wince.
Cringe.
I look like a penguin who’s been attacked by a sea otter. Those deceptively sweet-looking creatures are actually twisted creeps. No one wants to hear the ugly truth about otters.
But that’s who they are.
And that’s who Hawley is. He’s an evil otter, and I am a wounded penguin. I don’t want a magnificent unicorn man like West who always has his horn and lush coat all together to see me like this.
That would be worse than Theodore sneering from the bottom of the slide. Many times worse than running into Nelson on the street with his new girlfriend.
Thank God, the sidewalk is empty of unicorns and West isn’t chasing me after all. He’d see the worst of me.
My flawed, hyper-critical side that hates disappointing others and really hates disappointing myself.
I’ve done both today, by massive amounts.
I don’t want West to know how much I’m hurting right now.
He’d think I’m being ridiculous.
Someone who feels too much, who loses perspective, who’s too intense about too many trivial, embarrassing things.
Most people can’t handle big displays of emotion and Lord knows mine are a kitchen explosion waiting to happen. I’m a chili pot of feelings, bubbling over to scorch on the burner.
Leaving an awful, stinky mess.
What if he doesn’t like this side of me? The side that occasionally loses control and ruins her makeup. The side that takes things too personally and sees every tiny failure as a sign she’s fundamentally flawed.
