Page 9 of My Last Dance

After checking out of my hotel the next morning, I stood out on the curb in the drizzly cold rain, waiting for my uber. But as soon as my designated car pulled up, two teenage guys ran past me, laughing and shoving my shoulder in the process. They ran right in front of me, right intomycar, and slammed the door shut behind them.

I ran forward, trying to flag the driver, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He took off quickly, probably thinking I was a crazy person. His tires spun and the dirty water splashed up way higher than I expected, absolutely drenching me.

I stood stock still, completely shocked as the dirty water seeped down my face, into my clothes, into every crack and crevice in my body.

Feeling a mixture of frustration and disgust, I screamed up at the stormy sky, “I hate thisfuckingcity!” And I wasneverreturning to this city, maybe even thiscountry, ever again. People on the busy sidewalk gave me dirty looks, but I didn’t care. I flung my stupid suitcase away from me before plopping my ass on the curb.

All I wanted to do was break down and cry—and shower—but I already checked out of my hotel, so there was no going back inside. Besides, even if I could take a shower, I didn’t have enough time before my flight.

Pulling out my phone to order another uber, my phone dinged with an incoming text from Patrick, making my heart rate spike. A small part of me still hoped he’d have a come-to-Jesus moment and change his mind.

But my heart fell as soon as I read the text:Have a safe flight, let me know if you need anything.Tossing my phone in my purse, my heart went right back to its place at the bottom of my fucking stomach.

As soon as I sat in my next uber, I switched my phone to airplane mode and dug a Montreal hockey hat out of my big purse so I could cover my identity and hide my now wet hair. Maybe it was pathetic of me, but I wanted to stew in my loneliness and sadness and be completely anonymous, untethered to everyone and everything, as I wandered through the airport.

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And my phone would’ve stayed on airplane mode until I made it back to Chicago, but unfortunately, I had a connecting flight in Detroit and needed my phone map to help me navigate the airport.

As soon as I powered my phone back on, it vibrated non-stop with missed call notifications. My parents, Luka, Michelle, Mer, Patrick… I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I couldn’t stomach telling anyone yet. As soon as I said it aloud, that Patrick and I were over, it’d be real. This was quite possibly the worst breakup I’d ever had—and I’d had a lot of them.

To add insult to injury, there was a couple acting all couple-y right in front of me in the Starbucks line, laughing and touching each other, looking all in love. And of course he was holding all of her bags for her.

Ugh.

I rolled my eyes.

Yeah, it looked nice from the outside, but I wondered what it was costing her. Because every time I was with someone, I cried way more than when I was alone. Every relationship of mine through my twenties had been marked by empty promises and bitter disappointment. It was the same each time: Thinking they werethe one, I’d bend my morals and self-imposed rules in order to be with them, and then they’d eventually leave me feeling stupid and ashamed for ever touching them, for ever lettingthemtouchme.

Bleh.

I wanted to bathe in bleach if I thought about any of my exes for too long.

The problem was…for everything I’d ever done in those relationships—from make outs, to cooking and cleaning, to buying presents for their families, to bending myself into whatever image they wanted me to portray, to even sex—no one ever even said the wordsI love youto me. But I tried to earn them. God, I fucking tried harder for those stupid words than I did for any gold medal. I strived to be the “perfect girlfriend.” And what did that ever get me? I’ll tell you what:

Blubbering Tears.

Major regret.

And stabbing heart pain.

So, I kept my distance from men. They were dangerous. It just made sense. If you knew something was going to burn you, why reach out and touch it? I’d been burned quite enough, thank you very much.

All women have.

And it’s sad.

And I didn’t want to be sad.

That’s not who I am. That’s not who I was raised to be.

I was Piper Wyndell-Hamilton, damnit, I thought as I slowly walked toward my gate, blowing on my hot coffee.

Then again, that used to mean something.

Piper Wyndell-Hamilton, granddaughter of the two luxury hotel chain owners who maintained a 4.0 in high school and college and racked up ice dance national and international titles since the age of fourteen, that girl was a winner. That girl wouldn’t let anyone step on her.

But lately…

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