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“I can’t afford to lose everything I worked so hard for,” I insist.
“Then don’t,” Josie says. “If you’re destined to lose your head over Emerson, then leave. Get out now, while you still can. But if you want to know what I think, Wyn, it’s that you aren’t the same girl you were back then. Your breakup with Emerson broke you, but it made you into a better person in the long run. I don’t think you’re going to lose everything. Not unless you let it happen.”
Josie’s words make sense. But the fear racing through my body, the tears rolling down my cheeks—they make their own kind of sense.
“I never told you this,” Josie says quietly, “but he checked in on you, every few months, at least for the first few years. I didn’t tell you because I knew it would just make things worse. But he never stopped caring about you, Wynona, at least not that I could see.”
I sniffle. “Checking in to ease his guilty conscience. That’s classic Emerson.”
“But didn’t he have a point?” Josie asks, her voice suddenly sharp. “Wyn, do you remember what you were like that last year when you and he were together and long-distance? You were irritable at everyone, hardly working. You hardly went out, wouldn’t see friends. Maybe he was right to do what he did. Maybe it wasn’t selfish, but selfless.”
I sit there, staring ahead, waiting for Josie to come to her senses, to take it back.
“You don’t mean that,” I finally say.
“Wyn, I was there.” Her voice is quiet but forceful. “I saw what you were like. Maybe at the beginning, your relationship was good for both of you, but by the end, you were a shell of yourself. I hate to say this, but—”
“Then don’t,” I interrupt her.
I know what’s coming and want to avoid it with a self-preservation that may just be fear.
“Wyn.” Her sleepy light blue eyes are narrowed in one of her rare no-nonsense moods. “You know I have a point.”
“I know that right now, what I need is to vent,” I grumble. “Didn’t you tell me about some Instagram pic you saw from some spiritual influencer you didn’t completely hate? Something about knowing when a friend needs a talking-to and when they need a shoulder to cry on? Well, right now, I need a shoulder to cry on.”
Josie makes a skeptical noise. “Firstly, I’m your sister first, your friend second. And secondly, no, right now you need the truth. And the truth is that during that last year, you were a wreck. Being away from him and the inconsistent contact, and some of the pictures that were posted on Facebook... it all took its toll on you. Sure, Emerson did it in a shitty way, breaking up with you over the phone, but maybe it was the only way he could bear it.”
So much for being a shoulder to cry on. Josie even skipped the whole ‘talking to’ part and just became a full-on the-truth-hurts sledgehammer straight to my heart.
The silence stretches.
From the window, a beam of sunlight stretches in like an outstretched arm.
“Just think about it,” Josie says. “Or don’t. God knows that being upbeat hasn’t been your signature.”
“No,” I snap. “You took that all for yourself.”
And before she can shut the door in exasperation, I stalk away back to my room.
Back in my room, I chuck my phone away in a pointless, feeble, half-hearted gesture. I don’t want to bash it against the wall and break it. Not that I’m some winner of a thrower.
No, I’m petty, snapping at Josie for something she can’t help. For as long as I can remember, my sister has been as cheery as I’ve been morose.
I give the phone a little kick for good measure, but I only manage to bash my big toe.
My big toe, with the ruby red polish still on. I painted them before I even arrived here, as I was wondering about the guest list and if he’d...
I turn on my side, then my belly, into the position I sleep in that’s ‘terrible for your body for seven different reasons’, according to a WikiHow article I read.
As if I needed another reason to have a pity party for yours truly.
I lift my toes behind me and stretch the panging one. I fold my hands together in front of me and rest my head on them.
I consider the movement of my next tear.
Who am I, really?
Am I the capable woman who built her own business from the ground up, the one who kills it at the gym?
Or am I the wreck who can’t keep a man, who’s doomed to be alone for all time?
I roll around onto my back, quirking an ironic eyebrow even though I’m alone in this stupidly comfy room.
“Why can’t I be both?” I wonder aloud.
