Dear Heart, I Hate You

Feeling vulnerable, I moaned. “This sucks so bad.”

“Are you hurting?” she asked, her tone serious.

“Yes. Very much.”

Although I was hurting—my heart aching, my mind unable to make sense of things—I still held on to the tiniest sliver of hope that Cal would come back, or that this was all some silly misunderstanding. One phone call from Cal could fix all of this, and believing that alleviated some of the pain.

I wanted it to be true. I wanted to believe, because believing he would come back to me was a hell of a lot easier than accepting that he’d walked away without saying a word. How could I accept that when nothing about it made any sort of sense?

“I’m sorry you’re hurting. Do you want me to stay the night?” Tami asked, already knowing the answer.

Needing her near, I nodded. “Thank you.”

“It’s a good thing I keep clothes here,” she said with a smile.

• • •

When the weekend rolled around, Tami refused to let me sulk in peace and insisted we go out to get my mind off of things.

As if that were even possible.

She tried to convince me that the best way to get over a guy was to get under another one, but we both knew that wasn’t my style. At least she’d gotten me to laugh.

As we wandered down Third Street in Santa Monica, I tried to push aside the memories of Cal’s last day here. How had my personal space become littered with thoughts of him? If he wasn’t going to be in my life, then I didn’t want him in my city.

We chose a bar, headed inside, and I grimaced at the giant chalkboard that read Over Fifty Types of Bourbon!

Bourbon.

Two months ago, I most likely would have ignored the sign or not even seen it. Now the word triggered something so deep inside my he

art, I thought it might stop beating. It was so stupid, the way I associated Cal with the liquor, but it was tied to a memory, a minuscule speck of time that had come to represent so much more.

Bourbon had once made me feel happy and brought a smile to my face. Now all it brought me was pain associated with loss, and I never wanted to drink it again.

I hated bourbon.

I hoped it all burned to the fucking ground.

Sorry, Kentucky.

Rolling my eyes, I chose a small two-person table farthest from the bar and sat down.

“We’re eating, right? I’m starving,” Tami said, concern pinching her features.

“Yes, we’re eating. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” She tilted her head, staring at me with aqua-colored eyes today.

“Like you’re afraid I’m going to fall apart at any second.”

“I don’t think that. I’m just still sad for you, is all.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

“Let’s drink first, be sad later,” I said with a smile.

Our waiter appeared, and we ordered drinks. When he walked away, I gave Tami my full attention.

“Tell me what’s going on with you. Distract me.”