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But this tossing and turning sucks.
She’s not next to me when I wake, and that feels like an affront to the fabric of the universe. When I wander into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, the sink reminds me of her.
The motherfucking sink.
The stove holds a memory, for Christ’s sake.
Good thing I don’t use it, or I’d think of her every time I cooked, and now I’ve found yet another reason to never make a meal I can’t take out or order in.
I heave a sigh, trudge back down the hall, and curse my bed once more for taunting me with images of her on it, in it, curled up with me.
Hell, it’s been less than twelve hours, and everything is a reminder of the woman I fell unexpectedly ass over elbow for.
It’s a cruel joke. Is this what a broken heart feels like? How does anyone endure this? Get through it? All I know to do when my mind is a traffic pileup is to run. Maybe it will work with a piled-up heart too.
I pull on my basketball shorts, lace up some sneakers, and text Campbell that I’m going for a run, giving him the location. But he’s probably busy with his four-peat woman. As for me, I need to get the hell out of my lonely shell of a house.
Cue the sad song.
Yep, Taylor Swift, time to call me. I’ll inspire your next breakup tune.
I hit the sidewalk, lengthening my stride instantly, running hard so my mind goes as blank as it possibly can. So I can let the physical overpower the emotional.
I groan at the thought.
Emotions are not my strong suit. Hell, they’re not even in my deck.
All I can do is hope a workout will rid her from my mind. That has to be what the average guy does when he gets fucked by love, right?
Trouble is, a run is what I do to think.
To sort through problems at work.
To find solutions.
And my brain has a brilliant idea as I finish my workout outside of Central Park. It’s telling me to go talk to a friend.
But when I jog by the carousel in search of the food trucks, a long line snakes around the mint-green Luna’s Sweet’s vehicle. Despite my sour mood, I smile. I’m proud of my friend. I’m glad her business is thriving. And I won’t disturb her with my sorry story.
I turn around, lower my shades, and make my way out of the park, wandering past packs of cyclists speeding by and families out for Sunday afternoon picnics.
I’m half tempted to stop someone, anyone, and ask for help. Ask the harried mom wiping melted ice cream from her toddler’s hand what a note like this means.
Thanks for being my teacher.
I open the text from CJ once more, hunting for a hidden meaning when I bump into Campbell. His green eyes study me.
“Hey. I got your bat signal. But looks like you’re done.”
“Done is exactly what I am.”
He shoots me a quizzical look, reading between the lines. “What’s going on, man? Is this about the woman?”
I bristle, but then shrug in admission. No point fighting the truth. “Isn’t it always?”
He laughs lightly. “When a man is fucked in the head, it’s usually a woman.”
I sink down on the bench outside the park.
He joins me. “How did you fuck it up?”
“Why do you assume I fucked it up?”
“Please refer to my first point. When a man is fucked in the head, it’s usually because of a woman, and it’s usually because he fucked it up.”
Did I? Did I ruin things with CJ? “Maybe I did. So what do I do next?”
“You can apologize, grovel, pour your heart out, put your heart on the line. Any of those are good options. Personally, I prefer writing a rock song and singing it to her. But with your singing voice, that’s not gonna happen. So just use your words, man.”
Use my words.
It’s easy advice, but what exactly do I want to say?
He looks at his watch. “I need to take off, get my workout in before I pick Sam up from her game,” he says, mentioning his teenage daughter.
“Say hi to her from me. And next time, you tell me about that woman of yours.”
He nods and smiles. “Consider it done.”
I take off down Sixth Avenue, weaving among the Sunday afternoon pedestrians, reading over CJ’s note again.
This is like a note that says: Thank you for not smoking. Of course I'm not smoking, and of course I was happy to be her teacher. But I don’t feel like a teacher. I don’t think of her as my student. She’s the woman who has my heart. And I know we could be so much more. We could be everything.
But there’s no business book to tell me what the hell to do when you’ve fallen in love with your dead best friend’s sister who asked you to spend seven days seducing her. There’s no Forbes article on how to navigate that thorny situation.
