I try to reason with the goddamn comforter. It’s my body and my life. I can ruin it if I want. I can leave my favorite person in the world if I want.
I can run away from the rejection that awaits me tomorrow if I want.
Yeah, I’m second best again.
But at least this time I know it.
This time I’m not spending ten years crossing my fingers, praying he’ll change.
I find my suitcase in the closet. Toss it on top of that stupid pineapple bedspread. Pour my entire underwear drawer into it.
My dress tugs at my hips.
The right strap slips off my shoulder.
This is not how I’m supposed to undress.
This is not how I’m supposed to end tonight.
This is not how I’m supposed to lose Ryan.
Is it really him?
Or is it something about me—some quality I’m lacking?
A sob rises in my throat. I do nothing to choke it back.
Ryan doesn’t love me. And I’m tipsy in our hotel room, unable to pack because my dress is too tight.
Unable to leave because I can’t pack.
Unable to figure out what the fuck all the hurt in his eyes means.
He wants to love me. I know he does.
But I also know that isn’t enough.
My heels sink into the carpet as I cross the room. Then they’re tap-taping against the tile.
I fill a glass with water and drink it in three gulps.
It soothes my throat, but it fails to soothe my heart.
No, I’m making this complicated when it’s simple.
He doesn’t love me.
What else do I need to know?
I slide out of my dress. Fold it at the bottom of my suitcase. Find panties, shorts, a t-shirt, and a bra in the dresser and change.
But now I look ridiculous. Who wears shorts with heels?
I sit on the bed the way I did earlier, when Ryan was looking up at me, sliding my heel on like I was Cinderella.
Fuck these shoes.
I undo the right strap. The left. I kick them halfway across the room.