41
Lexi
I stare down at my phone, my last text to Blake the final entry in our chat. I wait for him to respond. I wait for him to call me out on my bullshit.
I wait and I wait, and it’s all useless because I’m the one who just completely pushed him away.
I reread my words, and I hate how cruel and unemotional I sound. It’s the worst form of irony to tell someone to move on when you’re sitting on the subway with tears streaming down your cheeks because of the fact that you just witnessed them moving on right in front of your face.
Blake told me he missed me. And I’d be the ultimate liar if I didn’t admit that I miss him too.
I miss his laugh and his smile, and I miss the way he makes me feel whenever we’re together. I miss his cheesy jokes and the way his face always brightens the room, and I miss how comforting it feels to be in his arms.
I miss our late-night chats and our documentary binges and how he’s probably the only person who could get me to eat pizza that was made in some dude’s dorm.
More tears stream down my cheeks, and even though I’m not alone on the subway, I’m silently thankful that I live in a busy, fast-paced city like New York so that I can blubber in peace without some random stranger asking me what’s wrong.
That’s the thing about New Yorkers; they can certainly be kind, but for the most part, they mind their own business. They don’t even blink an eye if someone decides to take their clothes off in the middle of a busy street and start shouting about the world ending. They simply go about their day and let that person do their thing.
There’s beauty in that. But there’s also pain. Because what I need now more than anything is the exact opposite of what I’d expect or normally want.
Existing as someone with a propensity for being a loner doesn’t bode well during times like these. I’m stuck inside my own head, aimlessly walking through my thoughts and replaying every single moment I’ve spent with Blake over the summer.
I think about all of our conversations and our special moments, and it feels like the worst kind of torture mentally reliving all the highs when I’m currently sitting at what feels like the rock bottom of my lows.
I’ve never felt this sad or confused or upset. And the fact that I don’t have control over my emotions, that I can’t analyze my way out of my feelings, is the biggest kick in the ass. It makes me angry and scared and anxious, and the mere idea of going back to my apartment so I can just sit in my current state of misery by myself is the very last thing I want to do.
There’s only one stop that makes sense for me to even be on the subway, and I stay rooted to my seat, my eyes downturned to my lap, until I get there.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m walking toward the brownstone I used to call home and pulling my spare key out of my purse. I unlock the door, and when I step inside, the sounds of the security alarm start to give a warning ding. I quickly head to the keypad and shut it off before dropping my purse and keys on the small catch-all table in the entryway.
I slip off my shoes and walk on bare feet down the hallway, taking the stairs that lead to the bedrooms on the second and third floors.
And when I reach my mom’s room, I carefully push open the door and find her lying in her bed by herself, completely asleep and unaware of the rest of the world.
I know my stepdad Wes is on some business trip related to the Mavericks, and he won’t be home for another two days. And while I normally love his presence, tonight, I’m silently thankful that my mom is the only one in her bed right now.
Without delay, I slide into the empty spot to her left and wrap my arms around her back, cuddling my body close to her warmth. Instantly, she stirs, turning over onto her side with groggy eyes, and she tries to focus on my face.
“Lexi?” she asks and reaches out to smooth some of my blond hair out of my face. “What are you doing here, honey?”
The softness of her voice and her gentle, motherly touch break something inside me, and I just start crying. I press my head into her shoulder, and she hugs me tightly as I let the uncontrollable tears fall down my cheeks.
“Aw, honey,” she whispers, gently rubbing my back with her hand. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Everything,” I whisper back, my voice strangled around my emotion.
She lets me cry, tenderly rubbing my back the entire time, and I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually, a sort of numbness washes over me, and I find the strength to pull away from the safety of her embrace and meet her eyes.
“I messed up, Mom,” I admit. “And I don’t know what to do or how to fix it.”
“How about we go downstairs and I make us some hot cocoa, and we can try to sort it all out together?”
I have so many memories of my mom doing exactly this when I was a little girl. Being on the spectrum isn’t an easy thing in general, but being on the spectrum when you’re in middle school and trying to understand how to socialize and make friends is really freaking hard.
If it weren’t for my mom and our many hot cocoa chats, I don’t know how I would’ve survived my adolescence.
I nod. Grateful. “Sounds perfect.”
My half-drunk cup of hot cocoa sits in front of me, my hands still clutching the mug like a lifeline as I continue to tell my mom all about my summer with Blake.
I’ve told her how it all started and about my stupid research project and how, at some point, it was like I was spending all my waking moments with him.
I’ve told her about how thoughtful he is and how much fun he is, and without giving her too many details, I’ve told her about how I’ve never felt so intimately connected to another person.
I’ve told her pretty much the whole trajectory of what went down between us, and she’s mostly just listened, only occasionally interrupting me to ask a question to clarify.
“I told him to move on,” I explain. “He wanted to be together, and he wanted our relationship to be out in the open where everyone would know that we’re together. He told me he loved me, and I honestly don’t know if I’m capable of loving someone like that. I don’t know if I’m capable of loving someone in the same way that you love Wes.”
My mom nods and takes a drink of cocoa, silently encouraging me to continue.
“But tonight, I saw him at a party. That dumb party Ace talked me into going to after dinner,” I explain. “And Blake was there, but he was with another girl. A redhead who was pretty much fawning all over him, and it made me feel…terrible. But I know that’s not fair because I told him to move on, you know? He wanted to be with me, and I told him I didn’t want to be with him.”
“Is he with that girl now?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I didn’t hang around long enough to find out. It was like I couldn’t hold back the urge to cry, and I just had to get out of there before I sobbed in front of a bunch of drunk college kids. But he did text me.”
“What did he say?”
I slide my phone across the table and let her read the last few messages between us.
“He was worried about you, Lex,” my mom says, lifting her eyes to meet mine.
“Yeah.”
“But I don’t think you actually mean what you said here,” she says, searching my eyes carefully. “I don’t think you want him to move on.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because what you felt at that party when you saw him with that girl was jealousy, honey,” she says, and even though, deep down, I know that to be true, I’m still having a hard time processing the fact that someone as logical and rational as me could be jealous about anything or anyone.
Admitting that I was jealous feels worse and just as productive as swallowing a handful of nails.
“I have no reason to be jealous,” I respond, and she smiles softly at me.
“No, you don’t,” she answers. “But we can’t always help how we feel.”
A deep sigh escapes my lungs, and I have to avert my eyes for a long moment as my mind tries to process it all. But when my mom gently reaches out her hand to touch mine, I meet her eyes again.
“Lexi, honey, it’s okay that you were jealous. We all do that sometimes. It’s normal,” she says. “And you’re capable of loving someone like I love Wes and Wes loves me. You’re very much capable of that and being in a relationship, and I think your summer with Blake proves that.”
I know she’s right. I know she’s right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to confront the undeniable truth that’s staring me down. The whole idea of love is such a complicated thing for a girl like me. Being in love equates to being out of control. And that’s the one thing I always try to avoid.
I want to be in control of everything. Of data and statistics and routine and schedule. And I most certainly want to be in control of my emotions.
But when it comes to Blake, I haven’t been in control of anything, especially not of how deeply my feelings have grown for him.
“I’m in love with him,” I say, but my words are so quiet that I almost can’t even hear them myself. So, I force myself to say it again. “I love him, Mom. I really love him. And I want to be with him.”
A soft, knowing smile crests her lips.
“But I guess you already figured all that out, huh?” I question, and a little laugh leaves her lungs.
“I had a hunch,” she says, still smiling. “But ultimately, you needed to be the one to decide.”
“I feel like I’ve messed everything up with him. And I know I hurt him. Really bad.”
“No, sweetheart.” She shakes her head and reaches out to hold my hand. “Don’t think like that. We all make mistakes. We all do things we regret. I think you just need to tell him how you feel. Tell him the truth, even the ugly parts of it. I think if you tell him all the things you just told me, he’ll understand.”
I have no idea if Blake will want to hear what I have to say. I have no idea if he’ll forgive me for all the things I’ve put him through over these past few weeks. It’s all an unknown, and while the fear of the unknown is something I absolutely loathe, I’m determined to suck it up and face it head on.
I have to. Plain and simple. Blake deserves that much from me.
He deserves everything, because time and time again, that’s exactly what he’s given me.
Instantly, I get an idea and grab my phone to send a text.
Me: Are you busy tomorrow? I need your help with something.
Her text comes in a moment later.
Scottie: Name the time and place, and I’ll be there.
I don’t know if Blake still wants to be with me, but I know I want to be with him.
And I’m going to do everything I can to show him just how much.