Most times, when he’s crowding my headspace, I have to stop. I go back home, shower, curl up in bed, and watch Netflix or Hulu.
I don’t think I can take much more of this. I need closure from him. Okay, so he wants to end what we had. Fine. But at least say it to my face. Don’t let me wallow about it.
I pick up my phone and open the text app. I send him a quick text before I give myself time to think about how stupid this is. If he didn’t respond before, he won’t now, I’m sure.
Only, I’m wrong this time.
I see the bubbles bounce on the screen right away, telling me that he’s about to respond, and my heart beats to life. I sit up on the bed, staring at the screen of my phone, eyes wide, throat thick with emotion. Is this really happening?
His message comes in.
Torres: Was just about to call you. I’m coming to Raleigh tonight. Pack a bag for the weekend and meet me at the same hotel from winter break around 8. Don’t be angry with me please. I’d love to apologize in person, but I’ll understand if you don’t show.
“Holy shit.” I scramble off the bed. It’s three in the afternoon. Five hours and he’ll be here and I can be with him. I’ve never felt so desperate to go anywhere, but I don’t waste time pulling out a duffle bag and then sifting through my drawers for clothes.
But I stop when I remember the tears. My pain. I texted him today hoping for a response or an update about how he is, but I wasn’t expecting to see him.
Why should I drop everything to run to him when he wouldn’t even answer me? He broke my damn heart.
I sit on the edge of the bed with a yellow dress in my hands. Perhaps Mama was right about what she said. Maybe it’s better if we both move on. He wants to see me, and I can appreciate that, but I know it’ll take us back to where we started. And if it’s back to where we started, who is to say it won’t end the same way?
In heartbreak.
Now I’m not so sure I should go.
FIFTY-TWO
This is my third whiskey on the rocks.
I’m seated at the bar, facing rows and rows of liquor bottles. There’s a man in a tuxedo playing the piano, singing songs by Elton John, Justin Timberlake, and John Legend, and he’s not doing a damn thing to heal my broken mood.
I check the time on my phone. 8:40 p.m.
It’s well past 8:00. I take it Amber isn’t going to show and you know what? I don’t blame her. After all those times she texted and called me and I didn’t answer, hell, this is what I deserve.
I know it’s fucking stupid, but I thought it would be best if I just cut things off cold turkey, give her time to think about what was right and what was wrong. Give her time to realize that there is more to her life than being with me.
But with each week, it became painful to be without her. I stayed with my mother, hoping the distance from my apartment would help. I couldn’t stay in that place—not when I knew every part of it was filled with memories of me with her.
Memories of us on the sofa.
On my bed.
On the kitchen counter.
In the shower.
I sigh, taking a sip of my drink. Maybe she has thought things through. She isn’t coming. So why did she text me to check in?
I’d be a big fucking hypocrite if I said she was throwing mixed signals.
I flag the bartender down for another drink, deciding that if she doesn’t show after this one, I’ll go to my room and accept the consequence of not seeing her.
He tops off my glass, but it’s as I take that fresh sip of whiskey that I hear someone clear their throat behind me.
I turn to look over my shoulder, and there she is.
I can’t believe it. She’s even more stunning now than I’ve ever seen her.
Her hair is pulled halfway up in a ponytail, the rest hanging down past her shoulders. She’s wearing a yellow dress that really brings out the warmth of her skin. Her lips are glossy, her eyelashes long and thick from what I can only assume is mascara.
I expect a smile or a sweet hello—hell, I even start to smile myself—but instead she shakes her head at me, her eyes misty, and storms away.
“Amber! Shit!” I place my drink down and scramble off the stool, chasing after her. She rushes through the lobby, her hair bouncing with every step she takes, until she’s at the revolving doors.
“No, no, no.” I can’t let her get away. I pick up my pace, moving past several people to get to the exit. The doors spit me out on the sidewalk and I look left, then right. She’s walking down the sidewalk, toward the club next door.