Because I refused to say his name.
Because saying his name was just asking to be haunted by the feel of him, his rough hands running all over my body, the way he kissed like he was going for the gold, or the way he never, ever, let me leave his side without squeezing my hand and kissing me across the lips, gently as if to say, Hey, just wanted to touch you.
The dreams were bad enough.
The memories?
Worse.
I refused to think about him during the day, because that just gave him more power, but my body had different ideas at night, when the darkness blanketed me in a quiet loneliness that threatened to choke me to death.
Everything was perfect.
And then it just. Wasn’t.
Damn it.
The tears came again.
Of course they did.
My chest was sore. Like an idiot, I rubbed it, but nothing made the heartache dissipate. Add school stress to the mix and I was an exhausted hot mess, barely able to function without sobbing my eyes out and drinking lots of coffee so I wouldn’t fail at life . . . or my classes.
School stress, I knew I could manage. I always did.
Family stress, it was always there.
Exhaustion? Well, that was typical for a college student.
But the whole Thatch situation? That’s what sent me over the edge. That’s what kept me up at night. That’s what made it so that when I turned in my last project, my professor gave me the number to the UW counselor hotline.
Thatch.
Why? Why was I so unlucky with guys?
He was supposed to be a really hot one-night stand. We’d had an agreement, and then everything changed. You’d have to be insane not to want more of that man after one night. And when that one night turned into another, then another, and things got serious on my end, when I confessed how I really felt, he should have made a run for it! That’s what cock-sucking cheaters did! They made a lame excuse about how it was “fun” and then ran in the opposite direction with their tail between their legs. But what did he do instead? He said, “Let’s try.”
Let’s.
Try.
As in, let’s be more than sex partners every other Saturday when I wasn’t up to my ears in research and when he wasn’t scrubbing in on some lame-ass boob surgery.
Try.
So try we did.
And it worked.
And it was awesome.
Until it wasn’t.
Until the leopard took a good hard look in the mirror and thought to himself, Gee golly gosh, I really do miss those spots! Damn it! I can’t be tamed. Insert Miley Cyrus lyrics here.
End of story.
No happy ending.
Because the leopard let a girl, who was not me, maul him with her mouth in front of me, hours before confessing that he’d been feeling apprehensive about our arrangement.
What? Like we signed a contract or something?
That should have been my first clue.
Instead, I ignored it, and walked in on him kissing my best friend’s sister.
And then, after all the tears on my end, when I went to his apartment the next day and said I wanted to really try to make things work.
He said no. And broke up with me. With me.
As if I were the one who did something wrong! When I was willing to forgive and forget—willing to move the hell on! Because I liked him. An irritating voice panging inside my chest cavity, a voice also known as my heart, had other feelings, strong ones, feelings that reminded me how tender he’d been toward me, how loving, how caring. How pissed off he’d been when I told him about my parents’ lack of affection, and how nurturing he’d been when I confessed how badly school was stressing me out.
Fine. I loved him.
Had loved him.
Had.
I still couldn’t even look at my navy-blue Converse sneakers or favorite boyfriend jeans without bursting into tears. I’d worn them the night he’d broken up with me and quietly closed the door in my face.
The sound of the door clicking shut may as well have been a gun going off.
The pain was probably the same.
I knocked. Over and over again.
Finally, one of the neighbors threatened to call the cops. I hadn’t even realized I was sobbing until I got into my car and glanced in the mirror.
He’d broken me.
And he hadn’t even looked sorry.
With a loud sigh, Avery pushed Snickers wrappers out of her way and sat on my bed, putting her hand on my lap. “It will get better, I promise.”
“No,” I sniffled.
“Would it make you feel better if I told you that I took a can of spray paint to a few of his signs downtown and gave him boobs?”
I started laughing. “Yes.”
“No can do. I’m pretty sure they send you to prison for that kind of shit, but I did manage something even better.”
I perked up.
“Oh, I see that look of revenge in your eyes, and I like it. I can work with revenge. What I can’t work with is Sad Austin. I hate Sad Austin, she’s no fun, and I say this because I love you, but Sad Austin’s going to give Awesome Austin diabetes one day.” She pulled out a bag of Skittles from the foot of the bed and dropped it onto the floor.
“Those aren’t mine,” I said defensively while my mouth watered with need for the sugary, sticky candies.
“I forgot you still have an imaginary friend who sneaks into your room and litters it with junk food.”
“Hey, that excuse worked when I was eight! My parents totally believed me.” Probably because for the most part they ignored me. I was to be seen and not heard, and when the time came for me to do my part for Daddy and his campaigns, I memorized cute little speeches and made sure to wear dresses that were only an inch above my knee. My parents loved me—they just had an odd way of showing it.
“That’s called ‘enabling,’ sweetie.” Avery patted my hand and stood. “And I refuse to do that. So, Sad Austin has got to go. The first step is admitting you have a problem, and you”—she pointed to the adjoining bathroom—“have a problem. You smell like cheese.”
“But I love cheese,” I whispered longingly. “I could go for some cheese right now.” Where the hell was my Gouda when I needed it!
“Not the good kind, Austin.” Avery scrunched up her nose.
My shoulders slumped.
“Austin,” Avery began, using her serious voice, the one that said she was done with kid gloves and was ready to pull out the big guns, “you’re smart, motivated, a kick-ass friend, and you’re only a few months away from graduating with your MBA!” I nodded. She was right. She knew my hot buttons. There was a reason I was trying like hell and working my ass off. “Besides, do you really want to be like your mom?”
And there it was.
The knife twisting.
I recoiled.
A loud sigh escaped between my lips. Avery didn’t take it at all as a sign to stop talking before I burst into tears or smothered her with a pillow.
“She gave up everything for your father. Her education. Her interests. Now look at her.”
Yeah, my mother was a perfect Stepford wife with a tight smile. The perfect trophy wife. The perfect everything.
All modeled after my father’s idea of perfection.
I shivered.