Before I Die
She glances up from her phone, and the look in her eyes tells me she’s texting with Victor. If I were a betting woman, I would say it won’t be long before they take their relationship to the next level.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Blaire asks.
“No, I’m good. I’ll be right back.”
I trip getting off the stool, but luckily catch myself, gripping onto the side of the table. I start to laugh at my drunken clumsiness—realizing I can check that item off my list after all—when Blaire giggles and snorts out her drink. “Maybe I should get you another water.”
“Yes, please!”
Heading toward the front, I go in search of any sign that indicates there’s a restroom somewhere in this huge place, now fully understanding why it’s called The Warehouse. It’s a huge rectangular-shaped building with minimum décor, focusing on the bar and dance floors. The walls are made of sheet metal, adding to the industrial feel. It’s simple yet still draws you in. Just as I finally spot a sign with an arrow pointing down the hallway, I hear my name being called.
“Nevaeh,” a deep voice calls my name for the second time. I look to where the voice is coming from and see the source is my ex-boyfriend of two years, Gerald, who has an exotic-looking woman hanging off his arm. She’s slim and perky in all the right places with bright-red hair that looks like it’s from that hair commercial on the television. We’ve only been broken up for less than six months and he’s already with someone else. I guess I’m easy to replace.
As I stand frozen in my spot, watching Gerald and Miss Perfect walk over to me, I’m seriously wishing I’d had Blaire tag along to the bathroom. One look at this woman and I can tell she exudes more sex appeal and confidence in her pinky than I do in my entire body.
As they approach me, I notice they look like complete opposites. Gerald’s spiky jet-black hair to her red, his ruggedness to her sexiness, yet they look like they’re made for each other. Gerald has that same cocky stride he’s always had, like it’s his world and we’re all just living in it. But the weird thing is, even with all that swagger, our relationship seemed to lack all the passion.
I kept hoping to feel something more, to feel the spark I’ve read about in romance novels or see in movies—you know the spark…the one that lights up the woman’s body and heart at the same time, giving her butterflies that don’t just flutter in her belly but attack—but I never did. Gerald used to blame me. He would say it’s because I wouldn’t have sex with him. But even if I wasn’t waiting until marriage to have sex, I couldn’t see myself even wanting to be with him. If there’s no spark out of the bedroom, how can I expect there to be a spark in the bedroom? I don’t for a second believe two people who lack chemistry with their clothes on, will suddenly spark a flame once their clothes come off.
Needless to say, Gerald and I never found our spark, and one day he got tired of waiting for me to put out and walked out the door. My heart hurt, but worse, it made me lose a little bit of hope in the male species, that there might not be a man out there willing to wait for me, willing to take the time to find our spark outside of the bedroom. I know I live in a time where sex is rarely viewed as sacred, but I’m hoping one day I’ll meet a man who will love me enough to honor my beliefs. I’m not saying I’m a prude. I read plenty of romance books that include sex in full detail, and Gerald and I have had a couple groping sessions—which made me question if the romance books are lying. It’s just that when I give myself to a man, I want it to be with the person I plan to spend the rest of my life with.
“Wow, look at you.” Gerald appraises me as the woman he’s with glares my way.
“Gerald, it’s good to see you.” I give them both a small smile in an attempt at being polite.
“Likewise. Nevaeh, this is Chantal, my fiancée.” When he places emphasis on the last word, I find my heart suddenly beating a little faster, jealousy seeping through the cracks of the tough wall I’ve erected to protect myself. Not jealousy over the fact Gerald is engaged, but that he found the person he wants to spend his life with. For him to propose to her so quickly, she must be giving him what I couldn’t—what I chose not to. What if it’s me? What if I’m broken? What if the lack of spark was because of me and not Gerald? The thought hurts my heart. I don’t want to die alone.