Page 98 of Unconditionally Yours
Because Benji’s my ride-or-die cardigan boy. My GPS-enabled prince of patience.
Me: Sweet dreams. Thinking of you. Tracker says you’ve been home all night. I hope you’re feeling well. Do you need soup?
Benji: I’m good. You?
Me: Not good. Jett fucked me and then I told him about you and Rhys and he left. Angry.
Benji: I’m here if you need me.
Me: I do. I have some errands. And journaling.
Benji: What can I do?
Me: Just be there. Even when I’m dialed to chaos. Even when I’m chewing through my own leash. Even when I’m Delilah
Benji: Right here.
I don’t clean the room. I don’t strip the sheets. I don’t even throw away the pie.
This isn’t a motel. This is a crime scene. A shrine to self-sabotage. A goddamn love letter in ketchup and cum.
This is what it looks like when I open up and fuck it all sideways.
Delilah style.
I drive like a woman possessed by spite, sex, and the primal urge to prove to the man I love that I love him exactly the way his chaos-wrapped soul likes it: feral, frantic, and maybe a little concerning.
I skip the balloons, the flowers, the funny monsters holding hearts. We’re not in fuzzy googly-eyed territory anymore. I needa card that says, I’m still walking funny, but that’s not the only ache you left me with.
And boom. There it is.
On the front is a teddy bear with its guts spilling out and one little patch hand-stitched over its sad plush heart.
Perfect. He’s gonna hate it. He’s gonna love it.
I pull my glitter pen from my bra and scribble “We came apart a little, but I still want your stuffing.”
A woman who smells like haunted potpourri glares at me like I just raw-dogged the glitter pen and moaned about it.
I give her a full “mind your own trauma, Agnes” stare, then wink while underlining stuffing twice.
That’s right, lady. I love loud.
Inside I write: “I told you too much, and I told you too late. I fucked up. But I’m still here. If you open the door again, I’ll be on the floor outside it, covered in shame and French fries.
P.S. The pie regrets everything too.
I tuck it into the most emotionally confused gift bag I can find. It’s black velvet with silver stars. Next I head to the toy section. Because this man needs something soft. Something he won’t admit to liking.
Like a sign from the universe I see a tiny chili pepper Squishmallow. Red. Round. Pissed off. Soft in the middle.
Basically Jett, if he were reincarnated as an emotional support vegetable.
He’s danger-flavored affection. He makes my throat close up and my thighs open.
I clutch it to my chest like a sex witch claiming a cursed artifact.
Then I hit the snacks aisle like a bloodhound in heat. I grab Candy-coated chocolates. No raisins. I’ve seen him dig around them. Mixed nuts, but only the salty slutty kind. None of that dentist trail mix with the dried banana shame. Some spicy jerky.Cherry pie for dramatic symbolism. Gatorade because we both lost enough fluids to qualify for FEMA aid.
