Page 49 of Finally Mine
“Well? How did it go? How does he look? Did he like the flowers?” Claire peppered her with questions, excitement bright in her eyes.
“It was, uh, fine. He’s fine, so he says. He looks…” Gloria was humiliated to find tears welling up in her eyes.
“Oh, no. Oh, sweetie. What’s wrong? Is it his leg?”
Gloria shook her head and snatched a tissue out of the box next to the computer before she could completely dissolve. “No. I’ve never seen a sexier amputee. But he’sdifferent.” Her biggest fear. She blew her nose and stared up at the overhead lights, willing the tears to evaporate like the hopes and dreams she’d stupidly hung on a man she barely knew. “He’s so angry. And hurt. I can tell he’s hurting. But he’s so…closed off. He didn’t want to see me.”
Claire shoved off of the stool and grabbed another tissue. “I command you to stop right there. You’re not to cry a single tear over whatever he said or didn’t say. I’m so sorry that happened, and I’m going to kill Ina for not telling me Aldo was struggling. This has nothing to do with you and everything to do with him. Everyone heals differently.”
“Sometimes people don’t heal,” Gloria said, jabbing crescents into her palm with her fingernails. She would not cry. She would not feel like her chest had caved in. When had she built all these dreams around him? When had she decided that Aldo Moretta was the one man for her? God, she was still a silly, stupid little girl.
“You can go ahead and stop whatever vicious dialogue that’s happening in your head right now, missy,” Claire said sternly. “I can see that nasty little voice working its poison.”
Gloria took a deep breath, breathing in the scents of eucalyptus and rose. They soothed her immediately. She checked in with her body. No pain anymore. No soreness. She didn’t have injuries to tend to daily. She only had a small hole in her heart, andthatshe could survive.
“That’s better,” Claire said, observing the straightening of her shoulders. “Now, do you want to go home, or do you want to help me make a carnation blanket for Lou Turnbill’s old-ass horse in honor of the Belmont Stakes?”
“I want to make a damn carnation horse blanket.”
27
I’m embarrassed. And hurt. And so stupid.
Why was I counting on this? I could see myself with him. I could see us making homemade ice cream on his porch or kissing in the rain. Going grocery shopping. Curling up on the couch with popcorn and a movie.
He kissed me before he left. He kissed me the way a man kisses a woman he won’t forget.
And now he’s back, and he looks at me like I’m a stranger.
Is it because of his injury? Is it post-traumatic stress? Or were his feelings just not strong enough?
I want to make him talk. I know what it’s like keeping feelings, secrets, bottled up. It’s poison. It eats at you from the inside out. But it’s not my place. At least I don’t think it is. Hell, I don’t know what my place is. I’ve never had a place before.
I’ve never had permission to speak up or call someone out. And I’m still waiting for permission. That makes me angry with myself. Why can’t I be strong? Why is it this constant battle of second-guessing myself and hoping someone will do right by me? Why can’t I be like Harper or Sophie? They’re so confident and real, and if someone tried to take something from them, they’d laugh in their faces.
Why can’t I be like that?
Will I ever be like that?
And don’t say “give it time.” I’m tired of waiting. Why not now?
I’m tired of feeling stuck. I think I was waiting to begin my life until Aldo came home, which by the way, is exactly what he asked me not to do. So now what’s stopping me from finding a place to live? Or signing up for some online courses? Or dating?
Okay, maybe not dating. I danced with a gorgeous firefighter who flirted with me, and I felt nothing. So maybe that part of me is still…damaged.
I got another letter this week. And I’m more upset about Aldo rejecting me than Glenn threatening me? It’s humiliating. Why am I letting either man affect me? One’s behind bars, and the other has made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with me.
I want to be my own damn hero. It would be a nice change from being my own biggest problem.
When did I decide that my worth came from how someone else sees me? Does that happen when a girl grows up without a father to tell her she’s smart and kind and pretty and worth so much more than the scraps of attention users will throw her way?
Or was I born hungry for someone else’s opinions?
I don’t even know what I think about myself. Am I smart? Am I organized? Am I a good person? Or am I just a collection of all the damage I’ve allowed someone to do to me?
And if so, how do I become my own hero? Because I’m ready. I’m done being damaged and fragile and careful and scared. I’m done.
28
