Page 62 of The Comeback

The computer slowly comes to life, and I tie my hair back into a makeshift bun and retrieve my notebooks. Online lectures can be a challenge to stay focused on. It’s not the same as sitting front row where everyone’s watching you space out.

I flip the page past the ones from last week’s lecture. Sport’s injuries. My stomach drops, and tears fill my eyes. How can I do this and not break down? Everything goes back to Weston. No matter what it is. I can do it. It’s just taking notes. In sports psychology. I groan.

Is this what I want to do?

Oh, my God, stop being dramatic.

My cellphone jumps on the table. Weston? I snatch up the phone and frown. Tara.

Why would it have been Weston? He wouldn’t notice unless I had a football stuck in my vagina. “Hello?”

“Hey, what’s up? You were supposed to call last night.”

“Sorry.” Yeah, I was too busy bawling in the shower and drinking wine and eating an entire cake that I baked especially for getting dumped. I snap my mouth shut. She’s happy and doesn’t want to hear my pathetic story.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The plugin by my desk puffs, letting out a blast of vanilla and sandalwood. I gag. It smells like Weston. Is everything going to remind me of him? God, I’m pathetic. I reek of pathetic desperation. People should bottle up my scent and spray it on their enemies when they’re sleeping.

“Spill it.”

“Fine,” I sigh in defeat. Like she’s going to let me keep this a secret. That’s why we’re best friends. If one of us is miserable, the other is there to talk shit about whoever hurt our feelings. “Weston broke up with me last night.”

“What? I don’t understand.” The shock in her voice mirrors my feelings last night. At least, I’m not the only one who was snowed by his pretending to care about me. How many women has he screwed by faking he’s the perfect boyfriend? Asshole. That’s probably his M.O. I only wish I would’ve heard about it before I found out.

“He chose football over me. Just like my dad did over my mom. I can’t believe I did the one thing I promised I’d never do. Fall for a football player. They’re poisonous to the soul. They’re all cocky and good-looking, but once you peel back the layers, they’re as phony as a three-dollar bill.”

“I’m going to chalk that up to break-up bitterness because I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying. You fell for him hard, and he seemed to feel the same way.”

I sniff to avoid breaking down. “Seems is the keyword.” Anger is my friend. I’m not weeping over him again.

“What happened? Tell me everything.”

“I was talking about kids, and he freaked out.”

“You’ve only been dating a few weeks. It’s understandable that the thought of starting a family could make him a little antsy.”

“Whatever. The reason doesn’t matter. He dumped me and proved I was right about football players. And now I’m getting ready for class.” I click on the mouse several times until my advisor’s email address is in black and white on the screen. What else could I do? This has been my dream since I got injured. Nausea rolls in my stomach. “I think I made a mistake.”

“About what?”

“Sports psychology. I think I’m going to quit.”

“What in the fuck are you talking about? Did aliens abduct you last night? Maybe you dreamed the entire thing. Or the aliens wiped your brain clean and implanted new memories as a game to see how humans react to stressful situations.”

“Look who’s being delusional.” Seven minutes to class. “I realize I’m being dramatic, but doing a thesis on athletes who use ballet to come back from a potential career-ending injuries is not sounding like an appealing option. And….” I shake my head as tears well in my eyes again. Shit. I wasn’t going to do this. “And working with athletes will make me think about Weston. Do I want to be reminded of him every day?”

“Are you not going to think of him every day?”

“Thank you. Thank you for that. You’ve stolen my last hope that I could join a polka group and sing in the county fairs as a solid career choice while never thinking about him again.”

“Give him time. He’ll come around. I saw the way he looked at you. It’s the same way Dylan looks at me.”

“Like he’s constipated?” A truck on the street outside of my office window whirls past, clanking, and rattling, causing the building to shake.

Tara snorts. I can see her shaking her head and rolling her eyes even though we’re miles apart. “See. You aren’t dying.”

“No, I’m not dying.” I scrub my free hand over my face and click off my advisor’s email addressing bringing up the link for my class. “Thank you for talking me off the edge.”

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