Lost In Us (Lost 1)

A scratching, muffled sound resonates from somewhere and I think that that's it; I finally cracked and am hallucinating, then realize it's my cell phone vibrating. I search for it in my bag, praying it's not one of the HR schmucks who received my résumé last week, calling to schedule an interview. I have a hard enough time making a good impression when I'm at my best. I glance at the screen through the blinding tears and almost wish it was an HR schmuck.

It's the source of my misery. For a fraction of a second, I actually contemplate answering, because no matter what, I'd get angry, and maybe, just maybe, the stinging torture in my chest would go away. But then I throw the darned thing on my bed, as James's words echo in my head and I sink to a whole new depth of agony. "The pain will never really go away." How well he knew that. Yet as I lay there, wrapped in his arms, for a blissful moment, it did. For once, the thought of Kate brought a smile, not just regret and despair. I wonder if he was thinking of his blue-eyed angel. He probably was.

The cell stops vibrating and starts again the next second. I clutch my knees tighter and rest my chin on them, wiping away my tears. I never want to see him or hear his voice again: the man with the power to mend my deepest wounds. And slash open so many others.

Fresh, burning tears form behind my eyelids and I smile sadly as the cruelest realization of all hits.

I'm in love with him.

"You've been up all night again," Jess accuses, hopping through the stacks of paper and clothes lying on the floor. I'm sitting upright in my bed, holding on to my laptop for dear life.

"Yep. I was really productive, too. I sent twenty-six CVs and completed three of the crappiest online application forms ever for some investment banks in New York. If these don't lead to at least one offer I'll officially be the world's biggest loser."

"You're on the verge of a mental breakdown," she says, watching me wearily.

"No, I'm not," I protest. "That's what seniors do, apply for jobs."

They get offers too, is what I don’t say out loud. Everyone around me seems to already have three offers. Everyone but me. The very top of my class and already a failure in the outside world. I thought there was something wrong with my CV or cover letter in the beginning. But after everyone from the head of the Career Development Center, to Dean Kramer, and an online professional CV service checked it, I figured my CV was all right, I just hadn’t sent out enough. Everyone told me I had nothing to worry about. Now, 200 applications later (which now include every major corporation that has an opening, after exhausting the banks), I’m not worried anymore. Now I’m just desperate.

"Not three nights in a row after a breakup."

"This wasn't a breakup, Jess. We were never together."

"You haven't watched one movie," she exclaims as if she doesn't need further proof that I'm losing my marbles.

"Had more important things to do," I mumble.

The truth is, I didn't dare. Just perusing my DVD shelves brought memories of the hours and hours spent in the cinema room that threatened to cripple the last shreds of sanity I had and send me into an abyss of desperation.

"How many times did he call today?" Jess asks, sitting next to me.

I have a total of two dozen missed calls from James in a span of two days, and had almost as many messages. I deleted them all without reading even one. I know what they say anyway. Propose some kind of arrangement that would be nothing more than the same crap as before, only disguised with fancy words. But I didn't delete the messages because I was afraid I'd get angry reading about his arrangement. I deleted them because I was afraid I'd fall for it right away. That the gaping chasm in my heart would make me cling to whatever delusional hope his words might offer just so I could lose myself in his arms again. For a little while.

He removed the temptation today. Not one call or message. That's how much he wants me.

"None," I say, not lifting my eyes from my laptop. "I told you he would stop eventually."

To my astonishment, she doesn't berate me. When I told Jess everything that happened that God-awful morning, I expected her to immediately start verbally abusing him. Instead, she looked at me crestfallen, saying that she really thought he and I were getting onto something. She was beyond herself when he started calling, nagging me to talk to him, insisting that he must have surely changed his mind. I barely resisted telling her that this behavior is what brought the long string of jerks in her life. I half-expect her to start finding excuses for him, but instead she just stares at my laptop as I tweak my CV for the next application.

"I don't understand why you don't get past the telephone interview stage. You have a perfect GPA and a kick-ass internship."

"Must be my exceptional interviewing skills," I mumble, scrolling down to the high school extracurricular activities, trying to decide which are relevant for the job and which to remove.

"God, I'll never know how you were able to do so many things in high school."

Jess’s mother is the answer. When I arrived in San Francisco, and she saw the terrible depression I was in, she suggested I sign up for as many extracurricular activities as I could, to keep myself occupied. I took her advice more seriously than she expected and enrolled in literally anything that might look good on a college application.

The week that followed was a marathon. After school I ran all over San Francisco, came home late at night, and collapsed in a coma-like sleep, without one nightmare about Kate. After one month, Jess’s mother gently suggested that I should really drop some of the activities. I got rid of one.

I became addicted to it.

Exhaustion—the surest way to lose the energy to weep or grieve or, hell, even think of Kate. I still am addicted to it. The past three nights are undeniable proof of that.

My cell buzzes, Mum's number flashing on it. One good thing about James not being in my life anymore is that I can stop lying to her.

"Hi sweetie," she greets me through heavy breathing.

"Are you training for a cross-country race? Every time you call me you sound like you've been running six miles at top speed."