Page 46 of Somewhere Along The Line
I went over to James’s house on a work night.
I told him to touch me.
I fell asleep on his couch.
I forgot to set my alarm.
I let myself believe I was different, that James was different, that this thing growing between us could be something special.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I consider everything before last night too, namely, the foolishness to accept his asinine Family Fares offer to save a few bucks. A few bucks which cost Hope First ten thousand this morning. Likely more.
The heels of my palms press into my cheeks in an attempt to stop more tears while I take out my phone to text James. Boundaries are needednowso this never happens again. It canneverhappen again.
And while I’m pissed at James for being charming and persuasive and so handsome I want to eat him whole, I also want him to know this shitshow of a morning isn’t his fault. This is on me, not him.
My fingers tap open the thread and I wince at our last exchange, playful and light with no hint of the ache that's squeezing my heart like a vice.
I’m not sure what to type that will communicate, “Hey, really grateful for the amazing sex last night, but it turns out I cannot have both you and a job, so I’m picking my job, no hard feelings! (And also I’m dying inside.) (But that’s not your fault.)”
I decide to go with something more understated.
The desire to add a grimacing emoji itches under my thumbs but I ignore it. I wait for his reply but continue when none comes.
I know the exclamation point I used is too much, but I don’t have the energy to edit myself. The traditional smiley face at the end stands in stark contrast to my crying face still tucked under this table.
His message comes ten seconds later, and I hate how it makes my heart leap to feel the vibration in my hand and see the message from James.
My head falls between my knees, a sniffle escaping my nose as I think about what to say. I don’t want to lie to him. I can’t tell him the truth.
Is it because I don’t want him to feel bad? Or because I don’t want him to know I’m a failure? I’m sure it’s both.
I hope he reads into a lightheartedness that I don’t currently feel.
He sends a gif of Shia LeBeouf flexing and it makes me smile for a brief second.
(I am decidedly not fine.)
The screen goes dark and I turn my phone over on the carpet. James’s words are tumbling through my mind like my stomach is tumbling to my toes.Fake husband.Not real. Bogus. An imitation, a counterfeit, a sham. F-A-K-E.
I should remind myself of this constantly, have it tattooed on my forearm or maybe my forehead. A fake relationship can’t mess up my very real life; I won’t allow it.
I grip the skin at my cheeks and pull, hoping it brings some color there to distract from the pink in my eyes. Lifting my head out from under the table, I sneak a glance to ensure no one is around before I heave myself back into the chair, sitting for a few seconds to gather my composure.
Swiveling toward the door, I stand, throwing my shoulders back as I head toward my desk. It’s an act I put on for everyone in the office, but it’s also for me, to distract from my nausea—undoubtedly the result of skipping dinner last night and having no time for breakfast this morning.
It’s not from the gnawing ache of having to pull back from James.
I wave at Sadye and Jenny, both of whom are pouring over a guest list or a vendor contract and I retreat into my space with a sigh. It’s barely 9 a.m. and the whole day is still ahead of me. If I can knock out a bunch of tasks for Saturday maybe I won't be so stressed. At the very least, it’ll keep me from thinking about James.
My phone buzzes, andI pick it up to see a text from Piper—an address for today’s event, a note that she’ll meet me at four, and the prayer hands emoji. My exhale comes without conscious thought, the stale air escaping my mouth after building in my lungs each day since I last heard from her.
I tried to convince myself she’s busy, that she needs to focus on the gala, that her priorities don’t include me, and that I can’t expect them to because this isn’t a real relationship.
My brain didn’t get the memo though. I’ve been relentlessly bombarded with the thought that things went too far on Monday and that’s why Piper has backed off. I’m surprised you can’t see shrapnel wounds on my skin.
My thumb drags along the cool glass screen to heart the message before I slide the phone into the pocket of my sweats, the rap of my fingertips on the kitchen counter acting as the soundtrack of my nerves. I wander to my bedroom and flop face-first onto the mattress, the frame groaning under my weight as I sink into the blue comforter Mom bought when I moved in here.
