Page 22 of Weather Girl

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” Although I’ve been wondering lately just how much of that brightness the Hales block out.

He’s quiet for a moment, and then reaches over to sift his other hand through my hair, naturally wavy today. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe... we could all use a little more bright side.”

It happens so quickly, I’m not sure how to process it. One moment, there’s a good couple feet between us. The next, his hands are cupping the sides of my face and I’m clutching at his collar and he’s on top of me, pressing me down into the couch that we have done this on too many times to count. His mouth is hot on mine, too eager, just like the bulge in his pants. It’s immensely gratifying, knowing how instantly turned-on he is, and it dials my self-esteem all the way up to eleven.

No one else will want you, depression brain says. At least he already knows about all your issues.

And he didn’t want me, either.

“You feel so good,” he says beneath my ear, and thank god, the sound of his voice wakes me up. My spine grows back.

Seeing Garrison again has tangled my emotions so thoroughly that I can’t stick to a single decision. My trains of thought are on a hundred different tracks racing toward a hundred different stations. But this can’t happen, not after he made me feel so terrible about myself, forced me to question the one thing that’s protected me all these years. This would only make my dark day worse, and I’d wake up tomorrow unable to leave my bed.

My lungs are tight as I place a hand on his chest and push. When gentle doesn’t work, I use more force. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

Garrison draws back onto his heels, face twisted in frustration. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.” Breathing hard, I get to my feet, smoothing out my sweater and combing a hand through my hair. “You’re the one who broke up with me, remember? Because I wasn’t ‘real’ enough for you.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says. “This wasn’t me trying to get back together with you. This was just—it was just physical.”

I scoff at that, because I’d love for it to be just physical. I’d love nothing more than to text him every Friday night to come over and go down on me for a solid fifteen minutes, zero emotional attachment. But if I have any hope of moving on, I can’t do that.

“It doesn’t matter. Even ‘just physical’ is going to be a mistake. Is that real enough for you?”

I grab my box of things, leaving him on the couch with mussed hair and a raging hard-on.

“Happy New Year,” I say from the hallway before I shut the door.

When I get back to my car, there’s a parking ticket wedged between the windshield wipers.

•••

I TURN THE remaining days of the year into an exorcism. I try on my entire closet and donate anything that reminds me of him, a dress he loved or an accessory he bought me. The only exception is a pair of jeans he said made my ass look incredible because, well, they do.

I’m leaving him in December because I can’t leave him back at Halloween, and I can’t carry him with me into January.

This year, I’m going to be good to myself. I’m going to do things differently. I’ll go on a date and Get back out there, queen! the way every millennial lifestyle website is telling me to. Maybe I’ll learn how to do this casually and I’ll be okay with Friday nights alone, the way my mother so rarely was.

If I’m casually dating, I don’t have to tell anyone about my family or my prescription or my dark days. Because even if Garrison threw all of that into question, I still have no idea how to talk about it with someone. On the third date? The seventh? Right before you sleep with someone? It’s never felt right, never felt natural, and that makes me think it’s never going to.

So I reinstall the app Garrison and I matched on, the one I deleted a few weeks into our relationship. And when Alex texts me asking if I’m free to see our mother after the KSEA retreat next week, it must be the newer version of myself who responds, Okay.

I decline a New Year’s Eve invitation from him in favor of self-care. I’ve never eaten in a restaurant by myself that wasn’t fast-casual, but I make a reservation at my favorite Italian place and simply shake my head when the server asks, “Are we waiting for one more?”

“No,” I say. “Just me.”

I force myself to leave my phone in my bag to savor the atmosphere and the independence. And... it’s kind of great, no pressure to talk as I listen to a string quartet play Sinatra.

Only once, in between courses, do I pull out my phone and find a Happy New Year text from Russell. I parrot it back and add a few emojis, but I hesitate before I hit send.

The revelation about his daughter threw me. I’m ashamed to admit I scoured social media afterward, but I couldn’t find any of his profiles. Smart of him, frustrating for me. Still, he’s not married, I’m pretty certain of that. No ring, no mention of a spouse. Then again, this was the first I’d heard of his daughter.

I push him out of my mind. This could be the year of casual dating, learning how to be single, having dinner by myself.

So I order a double chocolate torte for dessert, and I scrape the plate clean.

•••

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