36. “Lightning” - Zoe Wees
“Lightning” - Zoe Wees
Walker
The worst part isn’t the rain, but that I can’t enjoy the rain. Dreary days have always been my favorite. Nothing says “read a good book” like weather too bad to venture into.
After Heath left—I’m forcing myself to think his name, like therapy for heartbreak—I didn’t eat anything for the rest of the day out of fear of vomiting. I went to bed early, only to wake up at five this morning. Apparently even a broken heart can’t be convinced to sleep more than twelve hours.
I’ve spent the last few hours packing. Leaving this beautiful house will be hard, but staying will only remind me of what I had for a few brief moments. It’s time to get back to St. Anne’s and my real life, the one without revenge plots and backstabbing friends and cheating boyfriends.
Not a single one of them has texted me to see how I’m doing.
Not that I necessarily expect them to, since that would require Heath confessing what he did two years ago.
I wish I could witness the shock on their faces when they realize that he’s been the villain all along. We’ve taken people down for much less .
If only I hadn’t told him how I feel. I can imagine the extra glee it gave him— Heath , damn it—to know that I fell for him again, right before he obliterated what was left of my heart for the second time.
Maybe I never stopped loving him at all. Maybe my heart has been irrevocably branded by him, unable to ever fully belong to someone else.
I remember a sleepover I attended during primary school.
My friend’s mum sat everyone in a circle and handed us each a paper heart.
Then she told us to tear off a small piece.
That one was for Adam, she said. Next we tore off a piece for Baxter, then Clive and Daniel.
By the time we got to the second half of the alphabet, there wasn’t enough left of our hearts to tear from.
The whole thing was meant to remind us to save our hearts for the special person we’d someday marry.
But maybe some boys take giant Sharpies and scribble on our hearts until no one else could possibly want a piece of them.
If that’s the case, I’ll happily live out my days as a spinster. Better to be a grouchy old Oxford professor than a miserable woman chasing after any man who gives her the time of day.
My phone rings beside my open trunk on the bed. Speaking of miserable women . . .
“Hi, Mum.”
“What’s wrong?” Have I cried so much that she can hear the tears in my voice?
“Nothing. Just a stupid boy.”
“Come over. You can tell me all about it, and we’ll watch Gilmore Girls afterwards.”
“I don’t think so. I need to finish packing.”
“You are not leaving without saying goodbye this time, carino.”
I sigh and fold another top before adding it to the suitcase. “I won’t.”
“Then you may as well come now. ”
“Fine.” At least then I’ll be able to check that off my list.
“I’ll warm up the brie.”
* * *
When I get there, Mum not only has the brie heated and on a plate with biscuits, but Rory Gilmore’s face is on the TV, and two steaming mugs of tea await us on the coffee table.
“You didn’t need to do all of this,” I tell her, even though this is her way of showing she cares.
“Nonsense.” She hands me a cup, and I use it to warm my cold fingers. The rain hasn’t let up yet, and it’s turned cold.
We catch up on her gardening projects and her book club friends, all of whom have made equally poor choices in men.
“Think I could join?” I blow on the surface of my tea before taking a sip.
“If it will convince you to stay, absolutely.”
“Mum, you know I have to go back.”
She raises an eyebrow and stares at me over the rim of her cup. “Do I?”
I give her a pointed look and reach for a biscuit. She’s added prosciutto and cranberry-fig preserves to the platter this time.
“They have online classes, don’t they?” she presses.
“That’s beside the point. I don’t belong here.” I pop the whole biscuit into my mouth.
“I think it’s time you tell me what happened.”
I make a face and reach for more food.
She grabs the tray and holds it out of reach. “Not until you talk.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The whole story rushes out in two run-on sentences.
When I’m done, she looks at me with sympathy in her eyes. “Oh ninita—”
“Stop it, Mum.” I reach for the cheese. “I don’t need your pity.”
“Listen to me.” She sets the tray back down. “You cannot run from this. You must face it, or it will chase you for the rest of your life.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I lift my eyes to her dark, probing ones. “Because I’m not strong enough to face it. Definitely not the five of them.”
“I raised you to be a strong woman.”
“You did, Mum. But sometimes life sucks too much out of us.”
She tsks and sips her tea. “Maybe I was wrong about Heath. I didn’t think he could do such a thing to you twice.”
“That makes two of us.” I spread preserves on top of my brie-laden biscuit.
“Just because he broke your heart—”
“Don’t forget Dad.”
“—and your father, doesn’t mean you should lock yourself off from the possibility of love.”
“It will be a long time before I ever think about falling in love again.”
She sighs and rests her hand on my knee. “I don’t want to see you become bitter.”
“I won’t. I’m choosing to learn from these experiences.”
“That’s the attitude.” She gives me a pat, then reaches for the biscuits. “I’m sorry you had to see me fall apart more than a daughter should ever have to.”
“Mum—”
“Let me talk.” She loads her biscuit with brie and a slice of prosciutto. “I’m trying to do better. I go into relationships with my eyes open now. That doesn’t mean I never get hurt, but when I do—and my taste in men is still abhorrently terrific—I like to think I handle it better than I used to.”
My mind trips back to the few times I’ve seen her since returning to Wesbourne. She didn’t fall apart the way I expected after my dad cheated on her for what must be the hundredth time. She was sad, sure, but the composure she carried would have been a pipe dream when I was younger.
“I can tell,” I say. “I’m proud of you.”
“And I’m proud of you, no matter what you decide to do.” She brushes off her fingers. “Now, are you ready for some mother-daughter fun?”
We settle into the sofa, and she hits play on the remote. My mind drifts as Lorelei and Rory get up to their old tricks. I’ve watched these scenes so many times, I have the dialogue memorized.
Even though it would make my mum happy, I can’t stay. Not after everything that’s gone down. There’s simply too much for me in England and nothing left for me here.
Oxford is calling, but there’s one thing I need to do first.
When I left last time, I did so quickly, throwing my stuff in a bag with the assurance that my mum could ship everything else to me later. Tears blurred my vision and dribbled onto the clothes as I shoved them into my trunk. I was a snotty, sobbing mess.
This time, I’ve grown. I’ve matured. I’m not the same girl who ran back to Oxford with her tail tucked between her legs, crying over a broken heart. This girl is different. She’s stronger and more grounded. She knows what she wants and what she deserves.
I’m not anyone’s toy to discard when they’re done playing. And I deserve better than what I was dished out at the hands of the people I thought were my friends. If they think they can drive me back to England, they’re in for a little surprise.
There is a language they’re all fluent in, and I’m not referring to English. Words aren’t necessary, because actions bear the weight of communication. One move from me, and every single one of them will understand my message.
There’s nothing like a little revenge to get everyone on the same page.
Maeve taught me well. Step one: discover the weakness. That must be why they invited me to poker night. They needed to discover the best place to strike me.
Lucky for me, I already know their weaknesses.
And even better, they all share the same one.