My bed no longer smells like him because he no longer smells like him. The paint fumes are absent. He kisses me and it’s empty and fraudulent. Just like his smiles. And his conversations. And our relationship. Who is this shell of a person? My heart is in the hands of a stranger. Maybe he can still rally, I hopelessly tell myself. Maybe if I love him enough for the both of us, he’ll come back around. But that never really works, does it?
I’d trade anything to have the old Eric back. But more than that, I’d give anything to see him happy again. The pain of watching him suffer in silence is worse than admitting to myself that our relationship is over. We’re too far gone. I guess that’s why I’m not overly surprised to walk in the door and find him standing in the middle of my living room with a black duffel bag resting at his feet, a tortured expression on his face.
It’s the first sign of genuine emotion he’s shown in months.
My stomach drops. I swallow and push the door shut behind me, bracing myself for the impending storm. I shrug my jacket off and toss it onto the couch, then cross my arms over my chest protectively and motion my head toward the bag.
“What’s that for?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He rubs the back of his neck and lifts his gaze to mine. The depth of remorse in his eyes completely guts me. Makes the silence even more excruciating. He clenches his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
I stare at the ground and dig my heel into the carpet. It takes every ounce of strength I have not to break down in front of him. I make myself focus on keeping my voice even and my heart steady. Both are futile.
“Where are you going?”
“I need to get out here for a while. Find out what I want to do with my life and actually make something of myself.”
“When are you coming back?”
He shifts back and forth uncomfortably.
“I’m not sure. I just need some time to figure things out. Hanging around here isn’t helping my situation.”
A jolt of panic runs through me. What if he doesn’t come back? What if I never see him again? And what does he mean by here? My apartment? Austin? Texas as a whole? I know his words aren’t directed at me, but his tone suggests I’m part of the problem.
“What about your job?”
“Today was my last day.”
My head snaps up. This isn’t a spur of the moment decision. He’s been planning this trip for a while. Probably longer than I realize. Why didn’t he say anything?
A stream of silent tears fall down my face. “Why didn’t you tell me you were so unhappy? We could’ve figured this out.”
“No, we couldn’t. This is something I need to do on my own.”
I shake my head vehemently, not accepting that answer. He steps forward to comfort me.
I take a considerable step back. “Don’t,” I warn. “You don’t get to be the good guy in this scenario.”
His shoulders sink. “Rave, this has nothing to do with you. This is on me. Please try to understand.”
“Understand what, exactly? That you’re leaving me? That instead of confiding in me, you chose to shut me out like you always have? You didn’t even try, Eric. The one thing I asked of you, and you couldn’t follow through.”
He holds his hands out, trying to reason with me. “What would I have said? That I’m fucking miserable? That I have no clue where my life is heading? I didn’t have any answers for you. I still don’t have any answers.”
I use the backs of my fists to wipe the tears from my eyes. All it does is make room for new ones. “It’s not about having the answers. I understand not knowing what you want. I understand feeling scared because you have no idea what comes next. God, I can even relate to the overwhelming desire to leave and go find yourself. I’m all for that. What I don’t get is why you didn’t have the decency to tell me this months ago? I must’ve asked you a thousand times what was wrong, and you never once said a word.”
He doesn’t say anything. He can’t because he knows I’m right. Whether he meant to or not, he screwed me over. Again. And I’m left wondering why we ever even dared to step out of the friend zone.
“Please don’t look at me like that,” he begs.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a traitor. You have no idea how much this is killing me. I’ve tried so hard to make this work. I wanted to avoid hurting you at all costs, but I couldn’t hold on any longer.”
“So you strung me along out of fear and pity? Gee, when you put it that way, getting dumped doesn’t seem so bad,” I snap.
“It was never going to work and you know it. I’ve been sinking like an anchor and dragging you down with me. You didn’t sign up for a lifetime of playing fixer-upper. It was only a matter of time before you started resenting me.”
“I resent you now!”
He winces at my outburst. I drop my gaze and try to ignore the unsettling feeling rising up in the pit of my stomach. He walks over, cups my face in his hands, and tilts it upward, desperate to get through to me. “For the first time in my life, I’m not running from anything. I’m fully prepared to deal with everything I need to and face it all head-on. Then I’m coming back for you,” he vows.
“Don’t bother,” I say angrily, yanking my face out of his grasp. “Just go.”
He backs up, stunned. There’s no point in listening anymore. I stare off to the side, not willing to engage in this conversation. Perhaps he’ll get a taste of his own medicine.
When he refuses to leave, I yell, “Get out!”
He hesitates for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Ultimately, he succumbs and wraps a hand around the back of my neck, bringing my forehead to his lips. Warm tears dampen my skin. “I love you,” he murmurs into my hair, inhaling my scent like he’s committing it to memory. “So fucking much.”
The gesture makes everything hurt a million times more. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to concentrate on anything but his departing words.
When the door shuts, I wander into my room, crawl across the bed, and collapse, hugging a pillow to my chest like a broken child. Sobs wrack my body for what seems like hours. Somewhere in the midst of all that heartache, I fall into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
“Okay, we have Cherry Garcia, Half Baked, and Strawberry Cheesecake. Take your pick,” Mia announces, surveying the Ben and Jerry’s selection in our freezer.
“Cherry Garcia, please.”
“You got it.”
She grabs it, along with the Half Baked, and zaps them both in the microwave. She fishes out two giant spoons from the drawer and delivers my fix in record time.
It’s been over a week since Eric left. No matter what I do or where I go, everything hurts. All the time. I keep waiting for it to subside long enough so I can pretend to enjoy a glass of wine, but you can’t cheat emotional pain. I’ve experienced heartbreak before, but this is different. Eric was my first everything. No amount of drinking, eating, crying, or venting can undo the mark he’s left on my life, let alone my heart. If I could go back in time to the very first moment I met him and give my younger self some advice, I’d just stand there in front of her, looking as atrocious as I do now, and point to young Eric as the culprit.
There. Problem solved.
Now where’s my time machine?
Music, Rom Coms, and art have all been banned from our apartment. Blonds, black hoodies, blue eyes, ’80s movies, stoner comedies, happy couples, and anything relating to James Dean are next to go. The urge to drive to his place and see if his furniture is still there—or if he still is—hits me every day. I could just ask Mia, but that would mean she knows more about his whereabouts than I do, and that’s a bitter pill to swallow. Plus, I think it’s better for everyone involved if I’m unaware. I need to concentrate on moving forward, not holding out hope that he may return.
“Have you checked the mail to see if any design schools have gotten back to you?” Mia asks.
A couple months back, I sent out numerous applications to art insti
tutes. I’ve received letters from four, but I’m too scared to open them. Those envelopes hold way too much power. Everything I’ve worked for hinges on what’s revealed inside. Oh, and another tiny detail: zero of the schools are located in Austin.
“Not yet,” I lie. “They’ll probably come in the next week or so.”
“You applied for fall semester, right?”
I scoop a bite of ice cream into my mouth and nod. I watch as she puts two and two together and gives me a dubious look. Surprisingly, she doesn’t press the issue. Maybe she figures I’m dealing with enough as it is. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful.
She sets her ice cream down on a coaster and adjusts the hem of her shirt, then kicks her feet up on the couch and gives me her full attention.
“Listen, I know the timing sucks, but I really need to talk to you about something,” she confesses.
“Fire away.”
“I didn’t want to drop this on you last minute, so I’m telling you now. Keep in mind I never meant for it to come right on the heels of you and Eric.”
“Okaaaay,” I say cautiously. “What’s up?”
She exhales an unsteady breath.
“Chase asked me to move in with him.”
My face falls.
“What? When?”
“A couple days ago,” she says, eyeing me with uncertainty. It’s a look that reads Fragile: please handle with care. Have I mentioned it drives me crazy when people approach me with kid gloves? Makes me want to take my gloves off and throw down. Sure, my heart's no longer in pristine condition, but that doesn’t mean I won’t persevere. Diamonds are forever, honey.
After convincing her that I’m not going to freak out, she relaxes and gives me the rundown. “He wants me to move in ASAP. I told him I’d have to give you a heads up and put in my thirty-day notice. The last thing I want to do is put you in a bind, so if that’s cutting it too close, just say the word and we’ll figure something else out.”
I’m silent. On the one hand, I couldn’t be more thrilled. Chase is a great guy and she deserves someone who treats her the way he does. But on the other hand, I need my army of girlfriends. They’re my lifelines in this cruel battle of love and war. Where lovers fail, friends rise. Without her, I’ll be forced to face my reality for what it really is: lonely and depressing.
Despite all that, I can’t bring myself to ruin her happy moment. I plaster on a tight smile and lean over to give her a hug.
“If there’s anyone who deserves a stable life, it’s you, Mia. You’ve been through hell and back.”
She releases me and stares into my eyes with a glimmer of hope. “Does this mean you’re okay with it?”
“Under one condition. I get to be the one to decorate your apartment.”
“Oh, God. Are you going to go all out like you do during the holidays? Because I gotta tell you, I don’t know if I can handle that. Bright colors and forced cheeriness make me want to gouge my eyes out.”
“Don’t hold back or anything,” I state dryly.
The moment I say those words, it dawns on me that Eric would’ve said something similiar if he were here. He’d play off Mia’s energy and churn out a speedy rebuttal, chock-full of sarcasm. I press my hand against my chest in an attempt to suppress the familiar ache and refocus my attention on Mia.
“In all seriousness, though, I call dibs on the shopping and decorating. It’ll keep me busy. You and Chase can have a tiny say, but ultimately, I make all the decisions.”
“Jesus. You’re like a bridezilla, but for interior decorating. What would they call that? A designzilla?”
“I prefer the term boss bitch.”
She laughs.
“You’d wear that title well.”
“And don’t you forget it,” I say.
Later in the night, as I’m about to crawl under the covers and give myself over to the divine feeling of freshly-washed sheets, my attention drifts to the letters piled up on my vanity. I sit up and reach over to grab them. Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I flip over the first envelope. It’s from California College of the Arts. I slide my finger under the tab to rip it open and pull the letter out, carefully unfolding it. My heart nearly stops beating when I see the word accepted. I stare at the letter for several seconds. Bittersweet tears fill my eyes. Finally, a chance to prove myself and channel all my energies into my life-long passion. I know I have a long way to go and plenty to learn, but it’s a start. Even if every other school rejects me, the amount of gratitude I have for making it into one is indescribable. Anything to get away from here.
Impatient, I tear open the rest of the envelopes to find out the verdicts. I’ve been accepted to the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, which is my second choice. Rejected from School of the Art Institute of Chicago, my top choice. And rejected from Rhode Island School of Design. I’m still waiting on a response from one more, but the West Coast is looking pretty damn promising.
If only Eric could be here. He’d be ecstatic. I’m tempted to whip out my phone and text him the results, but I refrain. Better to make a clean break than to complicate things all over again. As long as he continues to have a strong presence in my life, I’ll always want more. We need separation and distance.
My gaze automatically floats to the painting he made for my eighteenth birthday. That portrait represents every facet of us smashed together in a single canvas. Other than a handful of photos that were too precious to make the burn pile, it’s the last piece I have of him. That’s the hardest part; wiping all traces of him from my life. I don’t know if I can bring myself to get rid of everything. Text messages, voicemails, videos—they all still exist. I’m not using them as torture devices for my heart, but I can’t bear to erase them yet. That’s a whole ’nother level of saying goodbye.
Why does the one person who I want to share this moment (and all my other moments with) have to be MIA? We would have celebrated a hundred different ways. Managing my pain during the day is one thing, but at night when there are no distractions, and his side of the bed is cold and empty; it’s impossible to think about anything else.
EIGHTEEN
e r i c
“How’s the beach?” Dr. Coleman asks.
We’re kicking it over Skype.
“Scalding.”
Honestly, who complains about being on a beach? Leave it to me to suck the positive out of everything lately. I tack on a pro to avoid sounding like such a whiner. “The water’s nice, though.”
Doc smiles, noticing what I did there.
Crystal Beach has always been a reliable source for creativity and inspiration, but being four-and-a-half hours away from Raven changes things. Somewhere along the way, she became my muse. Then my muse became a constant reminder of my failures, and the well ran dry. Haven’t been able to paint or draw since.
Every day I pick up a spray can and stare at a blank canvas, waiting to be inspired. Seconds tick by and turn into minutes, which stretch into hours. Nothing productive ever happens. It’s all mind games and wasted time. I’m stuck, in every sense of the word. My coping mechanisms have taken a hiatus. I’ve had to resort to using other outlets like good ol’ Dr. Coleman here to exorcise my bullshit. Goes without saying, he has his work cut out for him.
Just making sure I get my money’s worth, that’s all.
“How are you feeling today?”
“Better. Still can’t break my creative barrier, but mood-wise, I’m doing okay.”
“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Do you think you’ll end up staying there for the entire summer?”
“Haven’t decided.”
Two years ago, Uncle Max sold his house and bought this place. It’s right on the coast, doomed to get swept away by a hurricane, but not today. He’s allowing me to stay here for part of the summer while he’s on a fishing trip. When I initially pitched the idea, he laughed hysterically and told me to fuck off. But when I explained the situation and told him how serious I was about getting my shit together, he relen
ted.
“How are you holding up without Raven?”
“Fine,” I lie.
Telling from the look on his face, he isn't buying anything I’m selling. Why can’t therapists be less perceptive? Would it kill them to accept the lie like everybody else? Smile and nod. Those are the rules. How hard is it to play along?
“I miss her,” I cave.
“Have you two spoken since you left?”
I shake my head. “What would I say? I’m the reason she’s hurting. In her mind, I didn’t even try. I’m just the asshole who dumped her and left.” I pause and clench my jaw, working it over back and forth. “It’s not like I can undo anything or make it better. What’s the point in calling?”
“You made the right decision.”
I glance up at the screen and shoot him a look of incredulity. This is the first time he’s voiced his opinion on the matter. He leans back in his office chair and swivels from side to side.
“When you look back on this, I think you’ll be glad you took the time to focus on yourself and confront your issues. I know it must seem like you’re going through hell now, but you’ll be stronger for it in the end.”
“Better be,” I mutter. “I’ve sacrificed too much. I want her back when this is all over.”
“Let’s take things one step at a time. I don’t want you getting ahead of yourself here.”
My non-negotiation face appears. “Look, Doc, I refuse to settle on this one. I’ve settled my whole life. I’ve spent way too much time absorbed in the wrong people, the wrong activities, and the wrong mindset. Not many risks I’ve taken have been worth the outcome, but she’s different. Smartest decision I’ve ever made was falling in love with her. I’m going to win her back. I need you to get on board with the plan because it’s the one topic that’s not up for debate. Anything else is fair game.”
Catching Raven Page 16