Page 60 of Bittersweet

I stare at the ceiling, the candles casting shadows across the roof. Marc’s nice when he wants to be, and motivated, and successful. He likes me, and there are no secrets with him. What you see is what you get. But we don’t have that connection. There are no sparks, and he’s a total dud between thesheets.

Plus, he refers to himself in the third person. Can I live with hearing “Marc’s coming, Marc’s coming” for the rest of mylife?

No, I decide. That’s not the real me. The realme—

The real me is a lot like the things I liked about Marc. He’s successful, owns his own business—and so do I. He’s motivated, and while I haven’t always been what you’d call inspired when it comes to goal-setting achievements, these last few weeks I’ve started to turn thingsaround.

The only thing I don’t like about me is the fact I kissed a man who has afamily.

But I won’t let that crush me again. I won’t lose myself indepression.

I don’t need Elio to be happy. But I also don’t need Marc. Neither of them will make me feel better about myself. Only I can dothat.

I’m going to move on. This time, I won’t do it the unhealthy way—trying to replace my addiction to Elio and muffins with Marc and protein shakes. This time, I’ll do it on my own, and I’ll be stronger forit.

As Marc’s breaths even out into the long sighs of near sleep, I hear him mumble. “S’lucky we waited to do this till now. Any earlier, and I would have been drowning inrolls.”

Any sympathy I felt flies right out the goddamnwindow.

22

Romy

I’m angry.

No, that word isn’tenough.

Fuming.

Furious.

Fucking ready to rip Marc Moretti to shreds alsoworks.

I stomp along the pavement, pulling my jacket closer around my shoulders against the cool fall air. A car drives past, loud bass music thumping. A group of young girls wearing clothes that would look more in fashion at the beach than on the streets of Colorado Springs at this time of year giggle, waving to the boys through the window of a localbar.

I should feel like one of them. I’ve been out to dinner. I’ve had sex. This is dating. This is being on thescene.

I feelold.

Maybe times have changed, because as I unlock the door to my building then take the stairs one heavy step at a time, I don’t think I’ve ever felt as dejected asthis.

Marc’s words linger in my ears, and sure, I could give him the benefit of the doubt. He was drifting off tosleep.

But to comment about my body like that . . . it’s left me feeling flat.Empty.

Andangry.

Definitely stillmad.

As soon as it’s morning, I’ll call and end things with him. There will be no dinner with the familytonight.

* * *

Isleep.

After weeks of what feels like endless nights, I sleep like a log. It’s as if my soul is finally at peace, resting, instead of searching for answers to questions about men I can’t possiblyfind.

I inhale a coffee and a muffin for breakfast—not Elio’s, of course, but still, not bad—then call Marc to cancel dinner, but he doesn’tanswer.

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