Chapter 6 – Janelle
Chapter Six
Janelle
What happened to me last night?
The tattoos weren’t very Mormon. Neither was the liquor on his lips or the bar fighting. Maybe he reformed. Not like it would make any sense for me to pursue a man whose idea of reform was straying further away from morality.
I get some sleep the next night, but everything happened so fast that it takes me three days to process the fact that the same day I found out about my boyfriend cheating on me, I made out with a biker twice my size in a bar bathroom – and liked it.
Unfortunately, a hot make out wasn’t enough to stop the crying from boxing up all of Rakeem’s things and setting them up outside the apartment in neat piles.
When I texted him to come get everything he’d left, he didn’t even respond.
He showed up, snatched the boxes, and left.
I was at work when he came and when I returned there was just nothing but a hole shaped like him in my life.
I don’t exactly miss him, but the hole is still there and I don’t want to dig into the painful emotions to unpack every memory that I knew now was a total lie.
I know I should let myself cry over Rakeem.
I know it’s not healthy to bottle everything up and act like him cheating on me hasn’t affected me.
It’s not that I’m trying to perform. As an LPN, I do all the hard work at the hospital and get none of the credit.
I’m glad the doctor who groped my butt got fired, but work is still a nightmare.
My feet always hurt. I don’t have a rich husband to give me a new pair of Hokas or a gigantic Stanley Cup. Or to take the load off.
When I’m not working, all I do is sleep.
It’s all I can do, but it’s no way to live when I’m sad and lonely because the work and the solitude only make everything worse.
Looking at everyone and their grandma living their best life on Instagram and TikTok drags me down further.
I should be better than gazing into a phone screen waiting for my turn to happen, but I’m too tired to make anything happen.
Life has finally beat me down – and I’m not even old yet.
Is this really as good as it gets? You work your ass off to barely afford your apartment, convince yourself that the only thing in this world is love, then the love you cherish so much cheats on you.
That sucks. It sucks so bad that I just need my mind to wander away from that pain and towards… literally anything else.
Whenever my mind wanders, it strangely edges towards Zeb, and I have to pull myself away from the crazy, crazy thoughts.
It was a hot bathroom hookup – and he gave me his phone number because he’s insane.
That’s it. I can’t read into every piece of chemistry I have with a man, even if it’s explosive like it was with Zeb.
He’s fucking crazy, though. And what the hell would I be doing with a nutty ass white guy like that?
I saw the way he punched the guy who touched me like it was nothing.
I watched him wash blood off of his hands without flinching.
My throat tightens at the memory and I’m ashamed to say I feel a slight gush between my legs reminiscing at Zeb’s brutality.
I could see in his neon blue eyes that he thrived on every ounce of violence at the bar.
I’m surprised he didn’t bite me when he kissed me.
He was obviously riding a high that he didn’t want to come down from and I was convenient. Just like it was convenient for my ex-boyfriend to be with me and cheat on me. This was nothing more than that – men being opportunistic and selfish.
The only reason I remember Zeb is because I just don’t want to feel the grief from losing Rakeem. But it’s not a good reason to get involved with someone.
I have to focus on healing. There’s nothing that could make me call him up.
I almost delete his number but it’s easier just to push him out of my head.
My temptation to call up a stranger for no reason isn’t very high and having his number saved can’t hurt me.
So I don’t delete it, but I don’t call either.
Two Weeks Later
It hits me that I’m really single on my sixteenth day getting home alone after work.
I have to rely on public transportation since apparently my car trouble is worse than the mechanic thought it would be.
My car exists solely to fuck with my finances when I’m at my lowest. I already had to do some girl math to make sure I have enough money for rent next month and realistically, I’ll need to move to a smaller place when my lease runs out in three months.
Three painful months of doubled rent and a drained savings account.
It’s enough to keep me slaving away at work and distracted on the way home.
On that sixteenth day I have to walk home alone, a weird guy gets off at my stop on the bus and follows me for three blocks until I stop at a corner store and start up a random conversation with the owner.
I assumed that would be the peak of bad shit happening to me. I shouldn’t have been that naive about the direction of my life considering everything I had been through up until that point.
Walking home alone isn’t scary enough for me to call a strange man up and make the situation scarier, but after the day the guy follows me, I spend at least an hour going back and forth once I get home over whether I should call Zebulon.
And say what, exactly? I don’t know. I’m just overreacting to being alone when really I need to do something that single people do to feel less lonely. I could get a cactus, for example.
Another week passes with no real incident and I feel better handling the creepy guys on public transportation.
I don’t need Rakeem. I don’t need Zebulon.
Frankly, what I need is to get my car back, though I don’t have any idea how to speed up the process.
The car is gone, I have my whole income stretched thin to make this break up work until I move, and I’m so tired of being the friend whose life is always in a mess.
You get to a point in your life where your friends all have their own stuff going on and nobody wants to hear about how you lost your job, your car, your boyfriend, or anything else.
Rana took me to the bar, and I appreciate her for that, but she can’t be there to help me with every single thing every single day.
I haven’t spoken to her in two weeks because I know she’s buried underneath a huge amount of work for school and I don’t want to be a bother.
I’ve been swamped with work too, though mine contains a lot more blood and bodily fluids.
Our friendship works because we both “get” the crazy hours and how working 12-hour shifts leaves limited time for a personal life.
You want deep, real ass friends that you can bond with quickly and who understand that in this day and age, a woman has to hustle.
On Monday, around three weeks after the whole bar thing, my boss asks me to stay late at work.
It feels like a blessing in disguise considering everything else going on, even if most people wouldn’t leap at the opportunity to add more work to their plate.
Cindy’s kid woke up after she put him to bed puking so she won’t be able to come in until her husband gets back from Connecticut.
He’s apparently a truck driver. I’m exhausted, but it’s nothing a little Dunkin’ can’t slap a band-aid on.
It’s not like I have a boyfriend or kids to get home to.
I need the extra money, so I heartily agree to the overtime hours, ignoring the nervousness that accompanies me having to get home after midnight.
The last time I stayed past 10 p.m., Rakeem picked me up.
I don’t mean to let my nervousness get to me, but the closer I get to having to walk home alone, the more stupidly anxious I feel.
It’s beyond necessary, too. I’m a grown woman, I should be okay walking around alone at night. Plenty of women do it, right?
I text Rana forty-five minutes before midnight. Cindy’s husband showed up, so she’s on her way – about a forty-five minute drive to the hospital.
Me: You up?
Rana: Library. Studying. Law school sucks.
I’m happy that she’s awake and I have someone to message in case anything happens on the way home.
Me: You can do this!!
It’s impressive how successful Rana is. I don’t think I could ever survive law school.
She claims that she had a good mentor, but I think she’s smart.
In contrast to my poor decisions, Rana’s a freaking genius.
I gave up everything to be with Rakeem. I turned down three job opportunities, a chance to move to Denver, and acceptance to a LPN-to-RN bridge program.
Back then I told myself that I was only doing it for love and that in my position, Rakeem would have done the same thing. He was never in my position.
When Rakeem and I moved in together, my life seemed planned out down to the details.
I didn’t just trust him by chance. He made promises.
He showed up for me. I thought he was going to be my person until the end.
I was wrong. So wrong. My windpipe twists into an uncomfortable knot at my own foolishness, which embarrasses me more than I want to admit.
I wasted my life on this man and he didn’t even care enough for us to have a dignified breakup.
Me: Heading home late tonight.
Rana: Text me when you get there! Should I call?
Me: I should be fine. Just wanted to let someone know.
Rana: You won’t get kidnapped.
Rana: Manifesting
Her message reassures me enough that when I leave, I send her one more message that I’m on my way to the bus stop and then I put my earbuds in.
There’s nobody else waiting for the bus and I’m the only one to get on.
Most of the seats are empty, so I choose one close to the front and close my eyes for the long drive to the station where I change buses to go to my little corner of South Boston.