Ren…ouch.
God, the pain never gets any easier to bear.
Thinking of him is a syringe full of poison to the heart. Dare murmur his name and it’s a mallet to my bones. Risk imagining him sitting here, wiping away fever-sweaty hair and kissing my brow while feeding me chicken soup, and it’s a cannonball to my entire chest.
By the third day of curling up with chattering teeth, I knew I couldn’t keep doing this. I wasn’t dead, but it wouldn’t take much to finish me if I didn’t stop grieving.
Ren would be furious if he knew I’d gone from chasing everything to uncaring about anything, especially after all the sacrifices he made for me.
That was the only reason I managed to grab my phone, log in to Facebook, and look up all the Davids close to me.
It took a few page refreshes and an hour of stalking social media, but I found him.
The man I lost my virginity to.
Technology connects all of us and, for some reason, I despise that.
I hate the fact there’s no barrier anymore. No corner to hide from prying eyes.
David was easy to find, but not Ren.
He’s no longer in reception.
He’s returned to the wild that lives in his blood.
I have no way of contacting him and, believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything but smoke signals.
And thanks to that butcher’s blade to the heart, I needed someone even more.
His Facebook page said his full name was David A. Strait. His birthday was New Year’s Day, he was four years older than me, and according to his relationship status, he was single.
Funny that I’d willingly searched for the man who took my girlhood—a man I knew nothing about—yet almost cried in relief when I found him.
My message was lacking and needy:
Hi David,
You probably don’t remember me, but I’m the girl who pathetically asked you to relieve her of her virginity. You took me up on the offer, and then got beaten up by the guy I was trying to forget. Remember that messy evening? If by chance I’ve jogged your memory, I hope it’s not too forward to be honest with you again.
That guy? He walked out on me twelve weeks ago. I thought I was ready to survive on my own, but then I got sick. I hate that I’m asking you this and fully expect a hell no, but if you don’t mind being kind to me one last time, I need your help. My address is Apartment 1D, 78 RuBelle Ave. I’m just a few blocks from your place actually—walking distance really…
I coughed wet and ugly as I pressed send.
It showed as delivered a few seconds later.
For a few hours, I dozed with congestion in my nose and a continent the size of Africa sitting on my head.
I almost forgot I was waiting until my phone chirped with new correspondence.
Even though I knew it wasn’t Ren. Even though I knew, knew, knew I’d never get a text from him again; it didn’t stop my ridiculous heart from jumping off a building and hurling itself onto painful concrete.
It wasn’t Ren.
But it was the next best thing.
I’m on my way.
Love, David.
CHAPTER FIVE
DELLA
* * * * * *
2018
SORRY IT’S BEEN so long.
I meant to tell you what happened when David appeared at my apartment, but the guilt…
The guilt of welcoming him inside, letting him sit on the couch Ren used to sleep on, offering him water from glasses Ren used to drink from, sharing the space that Ren used to share with me…
The guilt hurt even worse than the bone aches from the flu.
Not that I have anything to be guilty for.
I’m single. I’m alone. I’ve committed no crime.
So why does it feel like I’ve cheated so many times on Ren in the past few weeks?
Let me explain.
David arrived with store-bought mushroom soup, fresh ciabatta, and a pharmacy bag full of painkillers, decongestants, and throat lozenges.
I welcomed him in, almost hyperventilated having him in Ren’s space, paid by Ren’s money, made possible by Ren’s sacrifices, and stiffened in his arms as he hugged me and said, “You can’t stay here on your own. Pack a bag. You’re coming with me.”
I gave him complete control as he bundled me into some sort of Chrysler, and drove us silently to the very same house I’d lost more than just my virginity in—I’d lost Ren.
He guided me inside, past the tastily decorated lounge with wall stickers of life quotes, up the stairs and past the bedroom where we’d ended up screwing on the floor, to another at the end of the hall.
He welcomed me into his bedroom with its charcoal and black colour scheme, pulled back the sheets on a king bed, and cocked an eyebrow until I crawled exhausted into the offered cocoon.
He set up a tray and let me eat the soup in private and swallow a few pills before he returned with a box of tissues, a hot water bottle, and passed me the remote control for the large flat-screen above his dresser on the wall.