Wild Collision (Us 4)

That certainty feels like a cinderblock tied around my ankle pulling me under.

He’s been gone a week, gone back to L.A., back to a life which doesn’t include me.

I work, going through the motions, with Kira at my side. But my head and my heart is somewhere else—with someone else.

She keeps telling me one day it won’t hurt so much—but she doesn’t realize that’s what I’m afraid of. I’m terrified of one day waking up and my first thought not being of his whiskey colored eyes or rain shower smell. I’m scared of moving on, for the feeling of not having him to become normal.

I’ve read the card he left for my birthday more times than I care to admit. His written words proof of how real what we had was—is. How he can walk away from it, from me, makes no sense in my muddled brain. If I left him it would feel akin to losing a limb. He’s become such a vital piece of my life. I love him and he loves me, it’s a truth that can’t be denied. No matter what was said and done it can’t erase our love like it’s insubstantial. Love doesn’t work like that—it’s the most powerful emotion to exist and can’t be brushed aside like a pathetic falling feather.

“Can you stop frowning?” Kira begs. “You’re going to get wrinkles.”

“I don’t care,” I grumble.

Sadly, I don’t care about much

of anything at the moment.

She huffs out a sigh and doesn’t say much more.

I’m sure she’s getting irritated with me, but it’s only been a week and I need more time to move on. A week can’t erase everything I felt and experienced with him.

I still can’t believe he’s actually gone. Pathetically, I keep expecting him to walk in the door and order a sub, or to show up at my place with French fries, and every time he doesn’t I hurt even more.

I hate this hurting. I hate the aching.

But I take it, because it was real, and this pain is even more proof of how real it was.

* * *

“You’re coming to my place, we’re putting on something sexy, and we’re going out,” Kira demands, dragging me to her car and away from mine.

“Kira,” I whine, trying to tug out of her hold. “I really don’t want to go.”

“Nope,” she refuses. “You are not going back to your place to mope. You’ve done enough moping.”

“I really haven’t,” I grumbled. “I think I have a month or two, maybe even longer, of moping left in me.”

She rolls her eyes and opens her passenger door, all but stuffing me inside.

She gets in the driver’s side and I don’t bother trying to make a run for my car. I’d only look pathetic and she’d drag me back anyway.

“We’re going to go out, get shit-faced drunk, and find you a man.”

“No,” I say forcefully. “I’ll let you take me out, I might even have a drink or two, but I’m not taking anyone home.”

She sighs. “Whatever, as long as you go out I’ll be happy and cut you some slack.”

She won’t, but I don’t feel like arguing with her.

It doesn’t take us long to get to her place. She shoves me in her bathroom and orders me to shower, claiming I smell like donkey ass.

When I come out she’s already changed into a skimpy red dress and has one equally as skimpy waiting for me. It’s white, not as tight as hers, but sexy nonetheless.

“Get dressed,” she orders. “Then I’ll do your hair and makeup.”

I do as she says, forgoing a bra since with the low back there’s no way I can wear one. She ties it in the back for me then forces me down in her desk chair. She dries my hair and then curls it in loose voluminous waves. When my hair is done she moves on to makeup. She does a soft smoky eye and a light pink lip.

“Innocent, but sexy,” she says, stepping back and admiring her handiwork.