3. Ariadne
3
ARIADNE
A s soon as she opens the door, I fall into Nina’s arms and ugly cry. Great, heaving bawling that brings her partner Michael running to the front door in alarm. Michael’s a great guy, he really is – but he’d be even better if he wasn’t my douchebag ex’s best friend.
“He did what ?!?” he screeches, looking at Nina in disbelief when she tells him what Rand’s done. I don’t think I’m as upset about the cheating as I am about the words he said that sliced through my heart. No one has ever been as unforgiving. Even my parents, a deserter and an alcoholic, didn’t resort to verbal abuse the way he did. No, they just ignored me.
“I can’t believe you’d be friends with a piece of shit like that!” Nina yells. I didn’t come here to cause discord between my best friend and her boyfriend, I really didn’t. But someone needs to tell the world what an asshole Rand really is. It was through Michael and Nina that I met him. Last time I go on a date on a recommendation from someone who swears up and down that the guy is “a catch”. As with all narcissists, they hide their personalities well and only show you what they want you to see. I’m sure they both didn’t know what he’s really like, even though Michael and Rand have been friends since childhood.
Michael sputters, his face going red in embarrassment at his best friend’s behavior. He grabs his jacket and keys, puts on his shoes hurriedly, and I can only imagine he’s going to confront Rand. Dude, I don’t need anyone to fight my battles. I break out in a fresh batch of tears and tell him I don’t want him to leave. He looks at me like he’s out of his depth.
“I’m going to run to the store and grab ice cream,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
The thing about Michael is he knows exactly what a girl needs when she’s in tears and her world is falling apart. He never fails to satisfy. He doesn’t do so well with the emotional part, but he does his part with ice cream and chocolate. Every. Single. Time.
“He’s not worth your tears, Aria,” Nina says, walking me to the couch. She’s clinging to me like she’s the one that needs comfort, and I hold on for dear life.
“He could’ve just left, you know,” I sniffle, in between my tears. “Why not just leave me? Why wait until I catch you with your hands on someone else to tell me that YOU DON’T LOVE ME !!”
I let out a wail and I know it’s only a matter of time before the neighbors come knocking down Nina’s front door or call the police to report someone getting murdered next door.
“Oh, honey,” she sighs. “That’s such an asshole thing to do. You know, karma’s going to come right back and bite him in the ass.”
“When, Nina, when?” I ask, wide eyed. “I’ve wasted two years of my life on that douche. Two years I won’t get back.”
“Better now than later, Aria,” she reminds me. “You guys had started talking about marriage. Imagine!”
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I screech, slamming a cushion into my face. “Fuck you, fucking Rand Holloway!”
* * *
My head is buried in a tub of Ben that would be a conflict of interest.” Did I mention he’s a psychologist? “But I can recommend someone.”
“Will you pay for my sessions, too?” I snap.
On top of Rand ruining my life, I’ll also have to thank him for the thousands of dollars I’ll have to pay for the therapy to undo the damage he’s done to me.
“You won’t need that many sessions,” Nina offers. I’m glad my best friend doesn’t consider me fucked up beyond repair.
“Two years, Nina. Two years; do you have any idea the sort of damage a person can sustain in that sort of timeframe?”
“A lot,” Michael says, nodding as he looks at his girlfriend, agreeing with me. She shoots him a scathing look for making things worse because I let out a fresh wail, my tears coming hot and fast, falling into the tub of rapidly melting ice cream.
“Now see what you’ve done,” she snaps at him.
“I’m okay,” I say, wiping at my tears. “I’m okay.”
I dig the spoon into the tub, trying to convince myself that I am okay. They both fix me with a look of disbelief as I lift the spoon and scoop the ice cream, laced with my salty tears, into my mouth. I am not the queen of decorum. Never claimed to be.
“I think we’re onto something, Houston,” I say, between my tears. “Brand new B he’s been enough help for the night. I don’t tell her he’s probably just added to my therapy sessions.
“I can help you with the therapy,” she whispers as we sit together on her sofa.
I’ve calmed down somewhat; the ice cream and whiskey helped to dull my senses, if I have to be honest. But every time I remember those four words Rand said to me, a new wave of tears overcomes me. Wrong four words, asshole!
“It’s okay,” I sigh. “I’ve got a little cushion I can fall back on if I need to. It’s just the thought of having to spend any more time, money or effort on anything to do with him that’s irritating me more than anything else.”
“I can imagine.”
“No, you can’t,” I tell her, shaking my head sadly as my tears come harder and faster. “He was my first boyfriend, Nina. My first and it was the worst experience. It’s not as easy for girls like me to start over.”
She frowns and shakes her head, asking me what I’m talking about. She looks genuinely confused. How could she possibly not see what others see?
“Look at you,” I continue, “You’re so beautiful with your red curls and green eyes. And those freckles. Boys have always fallen at your feet and treated you like a queen. They wouldn’t go near me.” I flick my hair as an example. “Me with my mousy hair and boring brown eyes, my ordinariness…”
Nina opens her mouth in shock. She starts to argue then quickly snaps her mouth shut and rethinks her words. She knows I’ve always had self-esteem issues. All through school, and well into adulthood. I’ve always been self-conscious.
“Honey, I don’t know which mirror you’re looking in,” she starts. “First, your eyes are hazel, not brown,” she corrects.
“Actually, at the moment, they’re green,” I counter-correct her. “Like the green-eyed monster.”
We laugh together, the first laugh of the night as she takes my hand in hers and we lean into each other, offering comfort.
“He made you wear those silly contacts,” she mumbles, “When you have the most dazzling hazel eyes. I don’t know why anyone would want to hide them.”
“He made me cut my hair,” I remind her.
“And lose all that weight that made you beautiful, until you became skin and bones.”
We laugh some more.
“I don’t mind the clothes, though,” I tell her.
“There you go – one good thing that came out of him. He tapped into your sense of style, and you established and maintained it. He’s not still choosing your clothes, is he?”
“No. He stopped interfering when he realized I got the memo that he likes to see some skin.”
“Asshole,” she clips.
“Cheating asshole,” I add. “We hope karma gets you good.”