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Loneliness.
Questions.
Lots of questions.
How did I end up here again? Why? What’s he doing right now? How’s Latte? Why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he let the Justin thing go? Why couldn’t he keep his nose out of my business? Why do I still love him despite all that he did?
Of course, I can’t post any of that.
In the past couple of weeks, I’ve kept all my socials on neutral, maintaining only minimal posting regularity not to drop off the face of the Earth with my followers. I’ve never been more glad to have tens of draft posts already prepared for emergencies.
At least the breakup with Justin taught me something—to plan for heartbreak. The only way relationships end, apparently. At least as long as I refuse to turn into a yes-lady who agrees to be controlled by powerful men.
On impulse, I drop my laptop on the couch and head to the fridge in search of some heavily unhealthy, comfort foods, then I remember the massive junk food purge I performed yesterday when I—stupidly—decided my body is a temple and that my recovery should start from within.
I’m considering the pros and cons of raiding the convenience store on the corner of all their Halloween candies—immediate reward—versus ordering a delivery from The Ice Cream Shop—slower, but doesn’t require me to exit the apartment—when my doorbell rings.
My first instinct is: it’s him.
And I don’t even know if I’m more scared or excited by the idea of seeing Gabriel again.
With sweaty palms, I press the buzzer button. “Yes?”
“Hi, honey,” Marissa says. “It’s me. Can I come up?”
I drop my forehead against the wall, not able to hide even from myself the burning disappointment. “Yeah, sure.”
I let her into the building, open the door for her, and go lie on the couch.
“Hello?” She pushes her way into the apartment five minutes later.
I raise a hand. “Here on the couch of despair.”
Marissa comes into the living room, takes in my misery, and shakes her head. “Nuh-uh, this won’t do. I need you to stand up and go take a shower.”
“Why?”
“I’m calling in my IOU.”
“To do what?”
“No questions asked. Just shower and come with me.”
“But I don’t want to, I’ve grown really fond of my germs and bacteria.”
“Shower, now.”
“Gosh, you’re bossy,” I say, sitting up. “You’re going to be a scary mom.”
I take a quick shower and come out of the bathroom still wearing a robe and feeling slightly less opposed to the idea of a girls’ night out. Maybe I need a social outing. Maybe getting back out in the world will cure my broken heart. Yeah, and maybe pigs will fly. Still, it can do me no harm to step out of the house.
“What should I wear?”
“Comfortable clothes,” Marissa says cryptically.
Oh, maybe she’ll take me axe throwing or to one of those rage rooms, or somewhere else fun where I can misplace my anger and frustration.
I change into sweats, give my hair a quick dry, and I’m ready.
