25. Lucy
CHAPTER 25
LUCY
I consider myself a relatively kind person. Actually, I’m usually incredibly kind. But the urge to elbow Jordan in the face every time he readjusts my pillows or puts ice on my foot is almost too strong to fight.
Maybe just like a quick knee to the…groin area.
I feel like it would be cathartic. Just a little release of anger and hurt and agonizing pain.
I’m really fighting the impulse, but it’s pretty strong. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.
It’s almost as intense as the urge to wrap my arms around him and kiss him again. Every time he touches me, I have to mask the spark I still feel.
The warmth.
The love.
He still has that effect on me.
I mean, that’s not something you turn off overnight. Plus, he’s literally my live-in nurse right now, which is so hot, it’s driving me wild.
It genuinely makes me wonder if I wronged a demigod in another life and I’m now faced with my penance: I must endure the gentle and caring nature of a man I love after he has dumped me.
Whoever first coined the phrase “love sucks” is quite the poet.
I don’t know if it’s good or bad that I never told him I love him. My pride tells me it’s for the best, but the part of me that sounds like my dad tells me I don’t want to live in regret.
Where’s the line between potential regret and desperation?
Unclear.
I don’t even know if professing my love would even change his mind. As pissed and hurt as I am–the most I’ve been since my dad died–a deeper part of me understands what he’s doing. In his head, he’s protecting me. He’s sacrificing for me. He thinks he’s being honorable. He thinks he’s putting my needs ahead of his own.
Which I’m pretty sure is the literal definition of love.
But he’s also taking the decision to stay or go away from me, and it’s not his decision to make. But he made it anyway.
Typical man.
Typical, super-hot, caring, loving, athletic, bringing me a Pop-Tart and a Diet Coke, wrapping a blanket around me, turning on my favorite episode of The Office , man.
Jordan sits about as far away as possible from me on the couch. He’s awkwardly perched like a bird about to take flight. I can tell that he’s fighting the discomfort of being near me, so why is he even here?
Oh, right. He wants to take care of me.
Screw him.
Dang it, I hate how sweet he is.
I kinda hoped he’d turned into a douchebag overnight so the breakup would be super easy. Instead, he went through sainthood training, and my ankle swelled up to the size of a softball .
What a bizarre turn of events. Those are two things I didn’t have on my bingo card.
My foot is now black and blue up my calf, and even my toes are a little purple. The external is really reflecting the internal here. There’s gotta be some intense symbolism at work, but I don’t have time to unpack it.
I’m hurting very badly right now.
Very, very badly. For so many reasons.
I don’t know how to sort through it all. Every time I try, my eyes well up with huge tears that slowly drip down my cheeks. I don’t make a sound, but each time it’s happened, Jordan has walked into the bathroom and gotten a roll of toilet paper to wipe my eyes and blow my nose–seeing as we’re poor college students, we don’t have boxes of Kleenex lying around.
My ankle is throbbing with a deep, sickening pain. Each pulse of aching reminds me that this season might not have the fairytale ending I’ve been working toward. Even though I’m now almost guaranteed to win Player of the Year, I’m also guaranteed not to be playing at full health during the conference tournament.
Which might mean no NCAA Tournament. Which might mean no Cinderella story for our little school. Which might mean no WNBA for me. Which might mean I don’t achieve my final dream and the thing I used to fantasize about with my dad.
Ugh, so many potential dashed hopes.
It really is the hope that kills you.
Even though I know my dad wouldn’t care if I quit now and became a street mime, I can’t bear the thought of leaving that last box unchecked. I’ve worked too hard, and I wanted to do it for him.
Thoughts of my dad inevitably turn me into a faucet. He fills my already shattered heart with grief. I wish he was here to hold me and tell me everything’s going to be okay. No one could comfort me like he did. Even in the final days of his fight with cancer, he was the one cheering me up. He was telling jokes and getting excited about my future while all I did was wallow in sadness.
The thing that always got me to smile was when he would promise to come back and haunt my house if I wanted him to. Even now, I can’t help but let out a half laugh, half sob when I think about his ghost imitation.
The sound I let out sounds like a wounded animal.
Jordan gives me a sideways glance, eyebrows raised.
I try to glare. I don’t think it has the effect I’m looking for, though, because as he turns back toward the TV, I’m almost positive he’s fighting a smile.
I really love that smile.
But Jordan’s caused me the worst pain in the bowl of suffering stew boiling in my heart, ankle, and every bone in my body. I’ve never had a romantic broken heart before. I’d never been in love, never let someone know me, never broken down the walls. Then he came along.
Frankly, I didn’t even want it, which is what makes me feel so stupid. I didn’t want a relationship, but he charmed me into it. He slowly made me feel safe and cared for and known. It’s the thing I've always, low-key, been terrified of.
Everyone loves “Lucy the basketball player” because she’s perfectly curated. She works hard and wins. She’s a good student, loves the community, and always says the right thing. She’s humble and hides under a veil of perfection.
Sure, all those things are a part of who I am.
But I didn’t avoid any real vulnerability in a relationship because I needed to focus on basketball. I’ve come to discover how terrified I am that I won’t be enough for someone. Is “Lucy the basketball player” all people want? Will someone really be happy with “Lucy the very flawed human”?
Jordan led me to believe the answer might be yes. He made me think that if I didn’t have all the accolades and looming fame and money, he would still just want me. The version of me that’s boring and spends time reading and ranting about nerdy stuff. The sometimes quiet, sometimes chatty, always sarcastic and competitive Lucy.
And even though I know the reasons he ended things are complicated and beyond just me, I can’t help but feel like if I was enough, he’d be willing to stay. He’d be willing to try. But I guess I’m not.
So, it’s over.
And now a new round of crying is starting. It’s getting harder to keep it quiet. I’m letting out more and more loud sniffles and sobs. My nose-blowing is trumpet-like. Maybe if my foot is permanently deformed, I’ll join the band as their first nose-trumpeter.
My jokes are getting worse and I’m probably going insane, in addition to my body and heart breaking. Great.
All these sounds finally seem to push Jordan over the edge. He scoots closer and wraps his arm around me. It’s warm and familiar, and I’m too weak to fight the urge to lay my head on his chest. So, I do.
Just for a moment, I’m comforted by the sound of his heartbeat.
He’s rubbing circles on my arm with his thumb and then leans his head down to kiss my hair. It’s like we can’t help ourselves, but it’s torturing me.
I look up at him, and he holds my gaze. He makes a slight move toward me, his eyes glancing down to my lips. My breath hitches. I’m still pressed against his chest and I feel his heart rate speeding up, keeping pace with mine. His hand not wrapped around my shoulders reaches up and softly wipes a tear from my cheek.
His voice is barely above a whisper. “I can’t stand seeing you in pain. I just want to take it all away.”
I snort. “Well, you’re the cause of the worst of it.”
He closes his eyes, his face betraying his own torment. So does his response. “Believe me, if I thought there was any other way–”
I cut him off. “There’s always another way. If it’s important enough. If you want it badly enough.”
My words aren’t accusatory or angry.
They’re a challenge.
He opens his eyes. “I want it more than you know.”
His hands have found the sides of my face. We are mere inches apart. My intake of breath is sharp as he brushes his lips against mine. It’s gentle—hesitant, even. Like we both know there’s a lot unsaid and a lot unfigured out and we probably shouldn’t be doing it.
But that definitely makes me want to do it more.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The tension is building as he leans back down. I close my eyes.
Ding-dong.
The spell is broken by the doorbell.
He’s snapped back to our sucky reality. He yanks his hands away, and jumping to his feet, he runs a hand down his face.
“Sorry, Lucy. I shouldn’t have done that. Our circumstances–my circumstances–haven’t changed. That was my mistake.”
He walks to the door, and I’m left to soak up his words.
So, in addition to being rejected by him twice, he’s now deemed me a mistake? Even if I know that’s not exactly what he meant, I can’t help but feel like that’s the insinuation. Being associated with me was a mistake.
Man, this really has been such a fun day.