by Layla Hagen
I don't find the solitude I was hoping for when I enter the apartment. Jess is on the phone, pacing like mad between the couch and the kitchen, speaking in a very formal tone. Her interview, of course. Jess stops dead in her tracks at the sight of me and raises her shoulders questioningly. I shake my head and walk directly to my room, where I finally find silence.
Where I'm finally alone.
One tear rolls down my cheek. I don't bother to brush it away. More will come anyway. I slide down the door, biting my arm to stop the sobs from escaping because I don't want Jess to hear me. The anger's gone and I miss it so. It was invigorating and satisfying, fulfilling even. The pain isn't. It's raw and devastating.
Unbearable.
And at the end of anger lies nothing but pain.
A thousand tears fall on my blue dress—shreds of my shattering heart. They fall for him and for me; for all the kisses and the words we had. They fall harder for all those we will never have again. I hug my knees, and dig my nails deep into my ankles. To no avail. The shudders don't stop. The gasping breaths keep choking me. How can this hurt so much?
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."
"No, I was just at Ms. Evans, delivering her daughter's prom dress," she pants.
"You've been working a lot lately. Are you guys okay financially?"
I offered sending them money when I got my bookkeeping job, but Mum vehemently refused, claiming that I should focus on my studies and only work as least as possible—to cover my expenses. I will make sure it's my mother who'll work as least as possible after I graduate. Assuming I actually do find a damn job, of course.
"Don't you worry, dear. It's just a favor I've been doing for Ms. Evans."
"You've been doing a lot of favors lately, Mum."
"We're fine, honey. Really. Tell me about you. Are you all right? Is Jess taking care of you?" she asks in the soft tone that always precedes a question involving Michael’s and my breakup.
&nbs
p; "Mum, I really am over Michael."
I can pass by car dealerships just fine now, without any spasm of panic. Granted, I haven't been near the one Michael worked in San Francisco ever since the breakup, but I know I'd be fine. Someone else has the power to shatter me now.
"Hmm," Mum says, sounding utterly unconvinced.
I sigh. "Is Dad around?"
"He's in the garden," she says at once.
"What on earth are you blackmailing him with to convince him to spend so much time in the garden?" I joke.
I never got the impression that Dad was into it at all. When I asked him for advice on Jess's dying gardenia once, he nervously passed Mum the phone. But that's the thing about Dad. There isn't much he wouldn't do to see Mum happy.
"Honey, can I call you later? Ms. Evans just texted that I forgot my measuring tape at her place."
"Sure." She's gone the next second.
"What are you doing in my closet?" I say to Jess, who's rummaging through my dresses. She peeks behind the open door, then steps away from it holding a tiny black strapless dress—the shortest one I own. Jess gave it to me as a present. I've worn it exactly once.
"I have an announcement to make," she says.
"You're finally dyeing your hair red and need an equally shocking dress for your new look," I say, yawning. She's been threatening to do so since the beginning of the year.
"No, I decided I'm not yet ready for that." She throws the dress on the bed and claps her palms together, resting her chin on her fingers. "I got to the next interview round. They're flying me to London in one month."
"That's so wonderful," I cry, a little spasm of panic rushing through me as I dash off the bed and hug her. My best friend taking off… I knew she applied literally everywhere, but I always hoped we'd somehow remain near to each other.
"I would love, love, love to live in London," she says in my hair.
I let go. "You haven't even been to London, Jess."
"And I already love it. So," she puts her hands on her hips and smiles wryly, "we're going out tonight."
"What? Why?"
"To celebrate, duh."
I raise an eyebrow. "I thought we agreed to celebrate only when one of us actually gets a job."
"Well, it looks like it'll take a while until that happens, and I need a good excuse to go out."
"Like you ever need one," I smirk.
"Well no, but you do," she says.
"You just told me yesterday that you're broke. I'm not doing spectacularly well, either."
"One night out won't make that much of a difference."
“I had planned to send more applications tonight.”
Along with all my prayers, a voodoo doll, and anything else that might help elicit a positive response.
“You can send them tomorrow. It’s Saturday, so no one will read them until Monday anyway. It won’t make a difference when you send them.”
"Jess…"
"I know what you're doing, and you're not fooling me. You can't just lock yourself up in your room with that computer for the whole weekend."
"I won't," I say defensively. "I'm meeting Abby in one hour for the volleyball match."
"Couldn't pull the chickenpox stunt any longer, huh?"
"No, I want to go."
"Good," she says decisively. "You will also go out with me tonight. And you'll be wearing this." She points at the tiny piece of black fabric on the bed.
The black dress doesn't look half as shocking on me as I remember. It's still short, but the golden not-too-high sandals and Jess’s matching minuscule purse give me an elegant rather than a slutty air. Or maybe it's just the comparison with the six-feet-tall blonde standing in line in front of me that makes me think so highly of myself. Her bright yellow skirt is one palm shorter than mine, her neckline plunging so deep I can see her navel. In stark contrast, the girl next to her seems to have borrowed my volleyball outfit from earlier today.
"I can't believe the idiot wouldn't let us in." Jess stomps her foot, glaring at the doorman. We went directly to him when we arrived, with Jess flaunting her most charming smile, which usually gets us in anywhere without having to wait in the line. Not in this case.
"I can't believe we are celebrating your trip to London in this place," I say in disgust.
"The cheapskates we are meeting chose the location. Besides, we can't afford to be picky. At least this place is cheap."
"As long as whatever they put in their cocktails is FDA approved," I mumble to myself.
Jess looks as gorgeous as ever, wearing a pair of black satin trousers and a red halter top. We stand in line for five minutes before we enter the club, Jess pointedly looking in the other direction when we pass the doorman. The place is just as run-down as I remember it from three years ago, when I spent exactly one hour inside before fleeing. For Jess's sake, I'll try longer this time.
"Do we know where everyone is?" I ask as we descend the shabby staircase to the dance floor, the bass rhythm drumming in my ears already.
Jess gestures me to follow her as we reach the dance floor. It's not as packed as it should be on a Saturday night, and when we arrive at the bar, I understand why. Everyone, our group included, is hovering along the counter, desperately trying to get the attention of the bartender. Four of Jess's classmates, two guys and two girls, are among them. I only know one of the guys personally—Jason, from the volleyball team.
Jason slips away from the group when he sees me. "I didn't know you were coming." He bends down to kiss me on both cheeks. "You look great," he adds, doing a lousy job at hiding his astonishment. I can't blame him. All Jason has ever seen me wearing are baggy T-shirts, shorts, and messy buns or ponytails. He, on the other hand, with his striking green eyes and six-pack visible under no matter what he is wearing, never looked anything other than hot.
"Thanks."
"What do you want to drink?" Jess yells at me from the bar.
"Just Sprite," I call.
She purses her lips. "You promised."
I really did promise her a toast. I'm the only one she told about the job interview so she can't celebrate with anyone other than me.
"Nothing too strong, please—with Red Bull in it."
"It'll take a while before any of us gets a drink," Jason says, flashing a smile as a new song starts. "Let's dance."
"Umm… I'd rather not," I say nervously and his smile drops. "I'm not very good."
And then I see her, on the other side of the dance floor, her black hair flowing in waves, not fake curls like last time, down her exposed back. Dani. What is she doing here? This is not a place for a girl with her status. She sees me too and waves at me frantically. A stabbing feeling starts building in my stomach. She can't be alone here. Sure enough, Parker appears beside her a second later and I take a breath of relief as I nod in his direction. Maybe it's just the two of them.
Maybe not.
"I changed my mind," I tell Jason, grabbing his hand and leading him onto the dance floor. "Let's dance."
Jason puts his hands on my hips from behind me and we start dancing to the rhythm of the music in moves far too intimate for my taste. But that's how almost everyone around us is dancing. I keep my eyes on the floor, afraid of who else they might find in the crowd.
If James is here I will die.
Correction. If he's here with someone I will die. Of humiliation and pain.
But right now, I've got another problem. Jason is practically glued to me. I can feel every one of his hot, increasingly heavy breaths against my neck. "You look really fantastic tonight," he says in my ear and one of his hands slides further down from my hip.
I instantly leap from his arms and turn around to face him.
"What's wrong?" he says, looking startled.
I glare at him. "Jess just signaled that she got me a drink," I lie through gritted teeth.
He attempts to place one hand on my hip again, "The drink can wait."
"No, it can't," I say firmly.
"But
the song—"
"She said no," a deep voice booms from behind me, and my smoldering heart bursts into flame. Rage plagues his every syllable.
"Who the hell are you?" Jason says over my shoulder.
I take one deep breath and step sideways, unwillingly turning my gaze toward James. It wasn't just his tone that bore unmistakable signs of anger. His jaw is tight, his elbows wide away from his torso in a provoking way. The dark blue shirt reminds me of the one he was wearing when we first met. And his eyes… they have the same glint they had under the valley oak next to the auditorium. No, not the same. It’s ten times darker. Almost frightening.
"This is James," I say at once because I have the nagging feeling James is preparing to punch Jason rather than answering his question. "A friend of mine."
"Can I talk to you, Serena?" James says, not taking his eyes off Jason. "Alone."
I hesitate for a second, despite all the promises I made to myself that I will never speak to him again. If I say no, Jason will take it as a sign that I liked his sleazy hands on me after all and I will really lose my temper when he tries something. If I say yes, I might lose everything.
Jason makes the decision for me. "Serena and I have a conversation to finish."
"We can finish that later," I say and stride toward the bar, with James hot on my heels. I look for Jess, but she and the rest of the group are no longer where I left them.
"Are you all right? That guy—"
"Let me make something clear," I turn to him. "I have no intention of speaking to you, I just want to get rid of Jason."
"I only need a few minutes, Serena. Please."
"You had your few minutes. You filled them with stone silence, as I remember."
"I called you a dozen times. I wrote to you."
"Didn't the fact that I ignored everything send you any kind of message?" I ask, grinding my fists so hard my nails bite in to my palm. Anger, that's it—the secret to not breaking down in front of him.
"It did. It was obvious I had to talk to you in person."