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I fucked up.
Shit, all I’ve ever done is fuck up.
From the beginning of our tumultuous friendship until three months ago when I shattered his heart and watched him walk away from me forever.
I’m selfish enough to admit that I thought he’d always be there.
What kind of person does that make me?
I’d pull him in only to throw him away the moment I doubted his feelings.
I knew Brooks Riley loved me.
Iknowhe loves me.
He’s proven it to me time and time again.
Yet I’ve only ever given him the very worst parts of me.
The flakiest of the flakiest.
I’m a woman so petrified of rejection, of disappointment, I’d prefer to carve a hole in my chest and remove my own heart to save the pain.
Forgetting that love and happiness also exist in this world.
Brooks was right.
I was so consumed with searching for my own happiness that I was too blind to see it when I was living it.
I was too fucking blind to see how deliriously happy I was when Brooks was in my life.
He’s a sadist. I’m certain of it. Why else would he put himself through the drama and heartache I forced upon him time and time again? Why?
Surely, love isn’t that powerful.
Surely, love isn’t so all-consuming that my worst isn’t enough to turn him away.
I fall back onto my bed, refusing to let the panic of loneliness set in.
I’ve been alone most of my life.
Yet I’d never been truly alone until Brooks walked willingly out of my life.
My cell sounds, and I ignore it, comfortable in the suffocation of my solitude.
Three months ago, I came back to the United States. Not Lake Geneva, but New York City, where Brooks and I held the promise of forever.
Traveling the world no longer held the same allure to me. Brooks was my world, and he was now out of reach, so traveling just seemed counterintuitive. I knew what I was missing. I knew what I needed—no—what Iwanted, and I’d ruined any chance of that.
The universe had pushed us together time and time again, yet I’d chosen to ignore every fucking sign.
I silence my cell, the bite of the ringtone crawling up my spine in annoyance.
I couldn’t even blame my fuckups on my messed-up family. If you could even call Jacinta that, and Derrick, when he was around.
It was me.
All of it.
