Page 29 of Facing Off
On the eighth floor, first door to the right, my apartment is a cozy shoebox. The kitchen is within reaching distance to a thrifted, three-legged desk, which in turn, is within reaching distance to a squished velvet couch that is next to my Murphy bed and across from my utilitarian bathroom.
I strip off my clothes and head into the shower. My forehead presses against the steamy wall.
I’m going to be okay.
I’ll forget what happened today. I’m erasing the last twenty-four hours from my mind.
Ten minutes later, I’m in a robe and stretching.
I’m okay.
A glass of wine is poured in front of the TV.
I’m okay.
On screen, a drag queen does a gravity-defying drop on the runway, winning the final prize.
I’m okay.
The TV is turned off and I crawl into bed.
I’m okay.
My mouth tips down.
I’m…okay…
But then a blond hair and a goofy smile pops into my head, and fresh humiliation burns my throat.
I pull on the covers until they swallow half my face. Then I turn on my side and scrunch my eyes together. Why was he there? He wasn’t supposed to be watching and to see me fall like that. Why did he have to be there? Then to run onto the stage to try and help me? And stick around afterwards, acting all concerned?
And how many times did I shut his questions down?
I curl into myself deeper as my stomach starts to churn. I have to remind myself that everyone should know by now that I’m not a bubbly person. I’m distant. Cantankerous. Grumpiness is a victory over my past. I’m safe and confident now, free enough to make whatever displeasing noise I want. Every moment of frustration is vocalized. I’m no longer that scared, obedient girl afraid of disrupting what little she got as a foster kid.
Now I’m a woman who doesn’t owe anyone pleasantries, not as a prerequisite for existing and taking up space, especially to those who aren’t pleasant themselves.
(And maybe even to people who are pleasant, as a way to keep them away, so my walls stay strong.)
The back of my neck heats up. And this other spot on my abdomen. The one his arm pressed across when he was blocking my path. It thrums.
Sonya darling.
I battle a shiver, fighting not to remember more.
Those two words, and the energy skittering down my spine when his face was the first thing I saw while I was lying on that stage…
That bizarre, serious look on his face that didn’t belong, like a puzzle piece went missing because he wasn’t smiling at first…
And then when he said he missed me…
My eyes clench shut, and I press a hand against the flushed skin at my neck.He was joking.Obviously.Not that it matters. I have no right to even be thinking about him. I’ve been avoiding him for so long and succeeding at it, except for that one time on the park bench. So why do I still feel this way? This topsy-turvy, stomach-flipping, butterfly-type thing whenever I see him.
I curse. Do I need to do it again? To remember more lessons my past has taught me? The biggest one being, don’t hand your problems to someone else to carry. Become strong enough to face them yourself. It’s my favorite reminder. Every time I recite it, my back straightens.
I don’t want—or need—to bother anyone.
That’s why, later at night when I eventually call Quinn and Kavi back, I reassure them that nothing was wrong and apologize for not communicating better.
