I clean up and brush my teeth before getting a cold glass of water to drink. Careful of my shaky stomach, I sip slowly. As the heat recedes from my cheeks, I sit on the edge of the bed, ready for sleep.
But I know that can’t happen, not until I hear from him. I pick up my phone and text him once more before setting it on the nightstand and willing him to reply.
I’m left disappointed again . . .
I hate how dependent I’ve become, how desperate I feel, and how I’ve constructed my world to hinge on one man. This is how Calliope used to act when she met a new man—so worried he wouldn’t love her she’d stay up and pace into the wee hours if she didn’t hear from him. Eventually, I’d get her to lie down on the couch and fall asleep.
That was who she was.
That’s not who I am. Closing my eyes, I repeat my mantra, “Break the cycle.”
When the heaviness of night rises, everything looks better in the daylight. I roll to my side, facing the empty space next to me, and give in to sleep.
Morning comes, flooding the room with light because I forgot to close the blinds.
Just as I stretch, my body kicks into overdrive, and I run to the bathroom to expel the lining of my stomach since there’s nothing else in there. This is miserable. I must have a virus. It’s probably from being so close to Camille. She probably slipped something into my drink. I wouldn’t put it past her.
My heated tears fill the bowl along with the water I had last night. Zapped of energy and my muscles aching for a reprieve, I sit on my knees, resting my hands on the toilet seat and my head on my wrists.
What the fresh hell is happening? Why is my body turning against me?
I wash up again, this time deciding to take a shower, but with no food in my stomach and a pounding headache, it’s safer for me to sit in the bath. The water comes down, the warmth helping to wash away some of the sharper edges of my pain.
With the new day, I renew my hope to get answers today.
But then I realize I don’t need answers. I just need him.
I grab my phone as soon as I return to the bedroom. The blank screen doesn’t upset my stomach, but my chest aches with pain. I’m not sure what to do or how to feel. Who just ghosts someone they love like this? I don’t understand.
The nuisance of tears fills my eyes again as I try to focus by digging out a pair of yoga pants and one of his T-shirts that stayed after the last wash. I get dressed and then check my phone again. He’s had hours upon hours of chances to reach out to me. Nothing makes sense.
Desperation wins, and I call him again. When the rings lead into his voicemail message, and then it beeps, I say, “Hi. I . . . I love you.”
Crazy ideas start populating in my head. I have his car. I could drive back to Haywood and pick him up. Maybe he couldn’t find a ride. That’s got to be it. That has to be it. One thing I do know is that I can’t sit here any longer. I grab his keys, my phone, and my purse, and decide to leave. Should I go to his apartment to see if he’s there, or should I go back to Haywood?
By the time I reach the bottom step, I’m out of breath, and my stomach is upset again. Is it possible to have food poisoning from something you ate two nights ago? I don’t remember what that could be, but it doesn’t feel like a cold or anything like that. Food poisoning is all that fits the symptoms.
I think I should visit the pharmacy before going anywhere else. I’ll grab something to settle my stomach and drink ginger ale. That’s what my mom always did when she had a bad hangover.
Worried the car ride will make me sicker, I cover the two blocks and cut down the next. After finding what I need on the shelves, I move to the check-out line at the counter. The cashier, a woman not much older than me, laughs as she scans the items before bagging. “Last time I needed this,” she says, holding up the anti-nausea medicine, “I found out I was pregnant. Sure you don’t need a pregnancy test?”
Her words amuse her until she looks up from the items, and her smile falls. “Honey, are you all right?”
“I . . .”
“Oh, no. Just because I said that’s what I needed, and a baby came nine months later after I mistakenly thought it was indigestion, doesn’t mean that you are . . . or that you’re not . . .” She stumbles through her words, apologizing right after.
But the implanted thought triggers something inside me, causing my stomach to do somersaults. “Maybe I should take a test?”
I don’t know why I’m even asking her other than I’m starting to freak out.
“If you think it’s a possibility—”
“It’s a possibility,” I snap, not meaning to take it out on her.
“Let me get one for you.” She adds it to the order, and then whispers, “I’ve always found this one very reliable.”
“Thank you.” I pay and take the bag, feeling like I’m doing a walk of shame at the door, as if I’ve done something wrong.
She says, “Good luck,” just before the door closes.
The walk back to my apartment is much slower despite the frantic beating of my heart. I use the time in the fresh air to recall the times we’ve been together more recently. He was wearing protection. Every time.
But then the memory of him dipping the tip inside me comes back . . .
“You feel so good,” I say, wanting to feel all of him with nothing between us. “I want you, Cooper. So bad that my body aches for you.”
That memory leads to the guilt I feel for not going to the infirmary. I was supposed to get on the pill this past week but got so busy with work and then preparing for the party that it slipped my mind.
Though I feel I could throw up again, I walk up the stairs in a hurry, fighting the quicksand of my emotions. I open the box and kick the door closed, tossing the other stuff on the bed as I rush into the bathroom. My hands are shaking, but I scan the pamphlet and manage to take the test according to the directions.
I look at my watch and start the countdown, closing the door and pacing my apartment. It reminds me of how Cooper has paced this floor and makes me wonder if he’s pacing now. Or is he too content in Camille’s arms to worry about my heart?
My nerves are running hot, my body a live wire. I pour a glass of water and drink it down. As soon as the designated time has passed, I burst into the bathroom and stare at the test on the edge of the counter.
I’m not sure what to feel — happy or sad—when alone is the overwhelming emotion. I carry the stick with me, still staring at it, and realize I was never going to find relief no matter which way it turned out.
It won’t change the fact that Cooper didn’t choose me.
32
Cooper
Maybe I am an alcoholic . . .
The bourbon swirls around the bottle once more before I finish the rest of it. I’d stopped bothering to use a glass hours ago. Who’s here to judge me in the back seat of my mom’s Bentley? No one. No one because I chose to betray the woman I love to save her from a different fate.
Dropping the bottle to the floorboard, I angle down to get a clear view of her apartment. Story hasn’t left the window, not once since she climbed into it. I know what she’s doing and who she’s waiting for, blowing up my phone with missed calls and unanswered texts.
A half-hearted smile comes over me seeing her hair pulled high on her head and the shape of her body swallowed by one of her many pairs of flannel pajamas she owns. I’ve learned she’s in for the night once those come on. She’s a woman of routine, of reliability. Accountability, which is something I never did until more recently.
Everyone has a clean slate when you meet her, including me. There wasn’t googling identities or checking out profiles on dating apps. No background checks or searching for police records. No one’s past is held against them. She gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. She’s still doing it now by keeping the faith in me even though she doesn’t realize it.
So give me an answer if you’re up there? Send me a sign or show me the light because I’m struggling to see how I survive this. I shouldn’t.
I won’t.
How do I break her heart?
How do I let her down?
How do I break every promise I made to her?