Lula snuggles in beside me, and I run a hand absently over her fur. She hasn’t left my side in the two days since I’ve returned and I can’t figure out if it’s because she missed me or if it’s because she knows I’m sad and her dog radar has picked it up.
“He’s on the news again, Low,” she calls from where she’s watching TV. Just like she has every time she’s seen Zane or the two of us on it since I’ve been back. With the launch being such an enormous success, it seems like she’s saying it every couple of minutes.
Or maybe it’s just because it still hurts to even think about him.
I hope this gets easier.
For some reason I’m not sure it will.
What I do know now though, is that being removed from the situation—from the constant togetherness where we were forced to be each other’s entertainment, the one we’d take our frustration out on, and comfort when we needed it—has made things feel less . . . intense. As if when you’re in the situation you can’t stop thinking about it, but once you’re able to step outside of it, the emotion doesn’t seem as powerful.
That’s such bullshit, Low.
Feed him that line—feed your mom that line—but be honest with yourself and admit that you miss him more than you ever thought possible. That you’re questioning yourself and whether you should have taken his offer to leave things how they were because maybe, eventually, they could have grown into something more.
“Robert said that he might extend your contract, mija. That you’re needed to help some more since the campaign was so successful. If you send that text, you might not get it.”
“On the contrary.” I sigh. “I need to send it to prove to Zane that I can be professional. That it was all a mistake and that I won’t be difficult to work with.”
And maybe I just want to send it to see if he replies.
Or maybe he’s cut his losses and figured Simone will get her shot.
I hate myself for holding out hope that maybe he’d come around. That he’d call or rush to the airport to beg me to stay or be waiting on my porch.
Oh my God. When did I become my mother? When did that hopeless romanticism take over my thoughts and skew my opinions?
It’s that damn L-word. Love and everything that comes with it.
But if we’re truly done, what did he tell Robert about us? How is he explaining why I left when he’s still there?
“Regardless, you don’t need him,” she says with a shoo of her hand. “Your email is dinging with people wanting to talk to you about jobs. He’s served his purpose.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You are going to respond to those emails, aren’t you?”
I close my eyes. “Of course, Mom. Just . . . I need a few days, okay?” My voice breaks and hell if that wasn’t a beacon calling her to come sit on the couch and comfort me.
She snuggles in beside me and smooths down the back of my hair. “Mija—”
“I’m fine.” I wipe the lone tear away that I let escape.
“This is my fault you’re hurting. I pushed you to tell him. I fostered this with my silly notions. I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“It’s not your fault. I knew going into it how he felt, I was just a stupid girl and let my emotions get the best of me.”
“He’ll come around, mija. The way he looked at you in the videos from the party . . . he’ll come around.” I smile at her but don’t believe it. “Just remember this, if you leaving doesn’t affect him, then in truth, your time with him never really mattered in the first place.”
“Yeah. It still sucks.”
“It does.” She pats my head and then kisses the top of my head before heading back to her place and leaving me in silence.
With a deep sigh and an exhaustion so bone deep I just want to sleep for days, but know when I close my eyes I’ll see the look on his face when I walked away, I study the text on my phone:
Congrats on the successful launch. I’ve been following it from home and couldn’t be more proud to have been a part of it with you. Thank you for the experience, for the memories it provided, and my apologies on how I left things. I was caught up in the moment, caught up in the little world we’d lived in together, and now that I’ve stepped outside of it, I know that it would have never worked between us.
The blinking cursor at the end taunts me to push send.
To stack another lie on top of a relationship that was fostered from them.
I take a deep breath.
Sigh.
And push send.
“I FUCKED THIS UP, SMUDGE.”
I look back down at the text for what feels like the hundredth time. She fucking wrote me off just like that?
Smudge looks up at me as drool hangs from his mouth as if to say, “It’s been a week and the text hasn’t changed, so why the hell are you still looking at it?”
Good question.