Yours Truly, Cammie

To:

From:

Subject: Thinking about it

Body:

I want some flowers or something romantic…and a ring. Then MAYBE I’ll consider being your wife… ; )

P.S. Sunflowers are my favorite.

“Ouch,” I muttered, hand clutching the wine bottle. Just like that, I was sunken into an even deeper state of heartbreak. Probably the worst heartbreak that I had ever felt in my entire life.

My computer cursor hovered over the “Delete all” button and I gulped down the last of my merlot. Tears streamed down my face and fell onto my keyboard.

I wonder if he got his current wife sunflowers when he proposed? I wonder how happy they were…

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

Fuck him! I slammed my finger down, hearing the click on my mouse, and just like that half my heart was destroyed and emptied from

my inbox.

It shouldn’t hurt this bad. I only knew him for two months, and the rest of our relationship was formed through small emails.

But did love have a time limit? Was there a certain boundary on when you could fall in love with someone and how hurt you could allow yourself to be after it crumbled? I’m thinking right about now that the answer is a hard no.

Time didn’t matter when it had to do with love.

Which was why the next thing I did stung even more. Through my drunken, depressed mood, I pulled up one last email to Luke. I typed the six words quickly, pounding each letter with increasing anger as it took hold of my body.

To:

From:

No Subject

Body:

I met your pregnant wife today.

Yours Truly,

Cammie

After I hit send, I deleted my entire email account. I won’t be needing those Victoria’s Secret coupons, anyway.

Twenty-Three

The sun coming through the windows blinded me as I peeled my eyes open.

“Gah,” I murmured in my drowsy voice, closing my eyes again. Then came the piercing cries from a distance, and my eyes sprang open quickly. For a second, I just let myself lay in the same twin-sized bed that I had been inhabiting for the last two days. I pulled the yellow quilt up to my neck and inhaled the scent of fresh laundry detergent while scanning my eyes around the guest bedroom at my father’s.

The room was bright with its pale walls and yellow accents. The windows had thin, white sheers hanging down, still allowing the California sunshine to pour through and there were the daintiest watercolor paintings lining the far wall.

Being here was a nice change of pace, and the little screams drifting from downstairs were a nice distraction until I rolled over and grabbed my phone, trying in vain to check the email that I no longer had.