Chapter 37
CHAPTER 37
THEN, June: ten months ago
My world came to a halt for a second time the day of the article complaint when there’d been exactly one person I’d wanted to talk to, and my boyfriend wasn’t picking up the phone. My heart still beat thrice its usual speed when I rushed out of Eddie’s office. My bag still stood by my desk, and my jacket still hung over my chair when I raced down the stairs and out of the building.
The dull beeping of my third unanswered call to Henry became fainter, the roaring in my ears louder. Until I’d tried a total of seven times and then finally gave up. I figured he’d been busy with something that took priority over my feelings, because he was usually busy with things that did.
Soccer. School. Soccer again.
I’d shot him a text—or ten.
Ethics complaint. Mark. I’ll never write again.
Then wandered aimlessly across campus, because I didn’t think I could talk to anyone about what had just happened, without crying more from humiliation, disappointment, rage and confusion, and the inevitable migraine would already be bad enough as it was. The thought of Laila seeing me like this—a complete wreck, mascara streaking my face and cheeks that were a blotchy red—almost made me laugh, so going home was out of the question. The poor girl would have a heart attack.
I’d wandered and wandered, unable to care where I was going, and eventually ended up at Henry’s apartment. No one answered when I rang, and I couldn’t find it in me to care about that, either. It was like the life had been drained out of me, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with my body being nothing but a useless vessel.
Was this what it felt like to have your dreams destroyed? To have everything that had been just out of reach taken away completely? Put at the end of a marathon you hadn’t prepared for?
I honestly wasn’t sure how long I’d been sitting in front of Henry’s condo. His neighbors came and went, were probably briefly worried about the strange girl sitting on the curb of their apartment complex before moving on with their day like my life hadn’t just been fundamentally changed. The sun was beginning to set, and I was all out of pity tears.
“Paula?” Henry’s voice rang through the haze of my mind, and it was the only coherent, audible thing in there. “Are you okay? What are you doing here?” He crouched in front of me before I could’ve even attempted to get up. “I called you back a hundred times. They all went straight to voicemail.”
My phone must’ve died somewhere between my tenth text and now, then.
I wondered how awful I looked when I finally raised my head to connect our eyes. Mine bloodshot, mascara clinging to my lashes and cheeks, exhaustion settling in every pore.
Blinking, brow furrowing, I realized Henry didn’t look much better.
Not like he’d cried ten rivers or questioned his entire future for the past five hours, but exhausted all the same. Shaken. Confused. Worried and unsure. At least one of those I could probably blame on my own state. The rest, though?
“Are you okay?” I asked, wiping at my eyes for the first time, hoping I might get some of the mascara under them. My gaze flickered across him, his disheveled hair, the worried frown, his hand curling around mine, knuckles… bruised? “What happened?”
No big deal , he’d said. Fell at practice, skidded across the fake lawn. He’d mumbled the explanation, had taken me up to his apartment with half of his mind on me, and the other somewhere else entirely. I couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong until we’d made it to his couch—his hands in my hair, pulling gently to release some of the tension in my head—and I’d told him what had happened in greater detail than a few texts could have. His freshly bruised hand curled by his side at the first mention of Mark, the other continued massaging my scalp so gently you’d never guess. He’d listened and comforted me and blamed himself for what happened. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have introduced you. But you’ll be fine, right?
I hadn’t really thought this mess to be his fault. And honestly, I’d shaken my head and told him I wasn’t sure if I would be fine.
Perhaps that was why, twenty minutes later, he said, “We shouldn’t do this.”
He’d been gnawing on his bottom lip, a frown forming on them. He’d stood against the kitchen counter, hands in his hair. His roommates had still been out. The whole thing was kind of a blur.
“What?”
Henry had repeated his words, explained what he’d meant.
This isn’t good for us. Distractions. A lot going on.
We should focus on our futures.
Which I’d always seen with him, I guess.
The more he spoke, the more distant it seemed. Like I was merely observing the situation— without actually being part of it. Completely checked out. Perhaps that way, I’d wake up tomorrow able to convince myself I’d dreamed the whole thing.
I’d rub the sleep out of my eyes, get dressed, tell Henry I’d had a nightmare, and in it he’d broken up with me. He’d kiss my forehead, tell me I was being ridiculous, and I’d believe him.
Apparently, it wasn’t all that ridiculous, though.
His mouth continued moving now, his tone soft and apologetic, eyes watery. I think. I couldn’t be sure, because, again , I’d checked out. Trying to conserve the last bit of dignity I had by accepting that another constant in my life had just been ripped out from under me, instead of trying to save it and failing.
So there was no fight. I might’ve been too tired for it. We could’ve talked for hours or ten minutes, and I couldn’t tell you which it was now.
I’d refused his offer to give me a ride home. Numb. Unfeeling. Not a trace of emotion in my voice. I couldn’t possibly have fought for another thing I’d cared about, only to lose. Not after trying with Eddie and failing at that, too.
And my world came to a halt again, one last time, when I’d sent Maeve a brief text on my way home. And—like she knew seeing them would tear me to pieces—by the time I’d gotten home, she had already taken down the few pictures of Henry and me on our photo wall in the living room.