Page 60 of Make You Love Me
Me:The show is this weekend, right?
Josie:Yes. Three more days, and it will all be over. There will be no enjoying it now.
Me:He needs time to cool off. He’ll be better by the time you return…hopefully. It’s good you have somewhere else to be.
Josie:I hate dumping this on you. I assumed he’d remember everything well after I got back, allowing me to take the brunt of it.
Me:Me too. But it’s fine. Customer service with a smile is where I excel.
I want to laugh, but that comment also shines a spotlight on all the things I’m terrible at handling. Unfortunately, most of those things involve a man who’s as perfect as they come. If he hadn’t been so damned set on waiting for me, he’d probably already be married to a deserving woman with enough babies to fill a basketball team.
For the first time, imagining Jordan with someone else cuts to the core. It’s a wound I’ll have to bear after what I’ve done. I don’t blame him for giving up on us. Hell, I would have given up on me long ago. But he’s loyal.
From what I can tell, he hasn’t strayed since we met. Although, I can’t account for the months between our breaking up and coming back together. Maybe he sowed a few oats, dipping his toes into the sea of beautiful women who would love and appreciate a thoughtful, kind, and sexy man.
My stomach churns at my loss.
Josie:I’ll try to reach out to him tomorrow. See if he’ll answer.
Me:Good luck.
Josie:You, too. And thanks. You’re more selfless and caring than I gave you credit for.
Me:No. You were right all along.
Tears sting and threaten to pool and spill, and I don’t wait for her response. Shutting off the phone, I toss it onto the mattressbeyond and let the sorrow I’ve been harboring over the last twenty years wreak havoc on my system.
For hours, I sob into the warm cushion. Although my body is heavy with fatigue, sleep doesn’t come easily. The few moments my thoughts silence long enough to drift off, they’re dreamless—just dark nothingness. And perhaps that is exactly what I need.
Opening my eyes to the sun, streaming in through the curtainless windows, I go to toss my arm over my head to find that blissful state of numbness. But I still when I see Jordan leaning against the doorway of the bathroom, watching me. There’s nothing in his stare to help me discern what he’s thinking or feeling. His expression is blank, almost as if he’s resolved to feel nothing for me.
“Hi,” I say, sitting up without breaking eye contact. “Can I get you anything? Some breakfast?”
“No. I’ve got it.”
I shoot up in a surge of nerves when he takes an awkward step toward the kitchen, then another.
“Jordan, you don’t have to do this. I want to help.”
“I’m fully capable of making my own fucking breakfast.” His voice is hoarse, like he spent the night screaming, and I wish he had. At least then we’d be talking through what’s happened between us. “I’m sorry,” he says with a long exhale.
“Don’t apologize. I deserve it.”
“Yes, you do, but that’s not how I handle things. I’m just…hurting.”
“I know.” My voice is barely a whisper. “Do you think we could talk for a few minutes this morning?”
He looks down the short corridor between him and the kitchen as if to consider which would be worse, hobbling down the hall or listening to me. “All right.”
“Please let me bring you something to eat.” I motion for him to sit. “And coffee.”
Without answering, he limps to the living room and drops onto the couch in obvious discomfort, overwhelmed by the effort it takes to walk.
“Thank you,” I say and hurry to the kitchen.
Busying myself with making coffee, scrambled eggs and bacon, I try not to think myself into a panic before we even start.
With two eggs and three slices of microwavable bacon plated, I grab the steaming pot of coffee and fill two mugs. After adding three sugars and a dash of creamer to each, I deliver the hot meal, grateful for the opportunity to get a few things off my chest, yet terrified what I have to say won’t matter.
