43. “The Bolter” - Taylor Swift
“The Bolter” - Taylor Swift
Walker
I would pay a lot of money to have seen the reactions of everyone last night as they opened their envelopes.
Lux would have worn a look of complete shock and confusion.
Pierce would have been dark and brooding, not much different than usual.
Maeve would have seethed, her brows and lips pulling together in the center of her face.
Rhett would have thrown a tantrum, complete with drinks sloshed onto the wall and knocked-over chairs.
And Heath—he would have sat through the whole thing, wondering what the fuck was going on. Why he’d been skipped over. Why he didn’t receive the biggest punishment of all. Then when it hit him that he had been dealt the worst hand, he would have crumbled like a crème br?lée at a subpar restaurant.
I could have left after delivering the invitations, but instead I got a good night’s rest and said goodbye to the manor. My hair is now freshly washed, my laundry is all cleaned and tucked into my trunk, and I even stopped by my mum’s this morning to say goodbye and drop off my car.
Everything is done, so why is there a giant, gaping hole in the center of my chest where my heart used to reside?
My friends deserve everything they got. They were going to completely destroy any chance I had of graduating Oxford, or at least of doing so with a spotless record.
Heath deserves to live a lonely, miserable life for betraying me twice.
He knew I was falling for him again, but that didn’t stop him from working to bring me down.
Cheer up , I tell my heart. You got everything you wanted.
I step up to the desk and hand the attendant my passport and ticket. There was no way to turn off the email reminders about remote check-in, so there are currently a handful of them sitting in my inbox. As if I would trust a computer to get me properly checked in.
This world is so screwed.
The attendant welcomes me with a smile and directs me to the first-class lounge. “Someone will come to the lounge to take care of your bag.”
I thank her and head in the direction she points. Thank god for WNX’s concierge service. The airport is crowded today, and I’m glad I gave myself plenty of time. Traffic was a mess downtown, too. Something about the queen paying visits.
I drag my huge trunk onto the autowalk and have a flashback to last time I was here, when the little girl threw up all over her mum.
If it hadn’t been for her, none of the past month would have happened.
I wouldn’t have run into Lux in the bathroom, she wouldn’t have told everyone I was back in town, they wouldn’t have hatched a plot to get into my good graces, just so they could bring me down . . .
I wouldn’t have given Heath my heart a second time, in spite of knowing that he’s bad news, that he’s just like my father.
Maybe it’s this comparison, or the click, click, click of my trunk wheels against the seams in the tile floor, but I have a sudden flashback to my dad walking toward his car, dragging his suitcase behind him.
That tiny breath of hope when the pavement stopped him, only to release him again immediately.
He has always run away from his problems. He’s too much of a coward to face the messes he’s made, the pain he’s caused, or the people he’s left behind.
It wasn’t even the cheating that hurt so much.
It was the fact that he ran, without apology, without a backward glance, without a goodbye.
I woke up more than once as a child to find him gone when I came down for breakfast. Every time my mother broke the news, we both knew we’d never see him again unless she decided to give him another chance.
Only a coward runs from his mistakes. A strong person can admit when they’re wrong, apologize, and do what they can to make things right.
Only a coward runs in the face of conflict, afraid to be caught looking less than desirable in the light.
A strong person stands up, ready to fight for what he wants, what he deserves.
Up ahead, a little girl throws her arms around her father’s neck.
He picks her up and swings her around, her little feet flying out behind her.
My heart clenches. Hopefully she will never have to experience the pain of waking to find her daddy gone, escaped in the night because she wasn’t important enough for him to say goodbye.
I move past them, ignoring the lump that has decided my throat is a good place to hang out. I’m doing the right thing, I remind myself. But then why does it feel like I’m leaving everything behind?
Why does it feel like I’m doing what he did?
I’m running from my mum and her relationship issues instead of telling her I hate being a witness to her drama. I’m running from my friends because they hurt me, instead of telling them the truth and allowing them to be there for me.
And Heath—I’m running from him because I can’t face the fact that I’m turning into my own mother, that I’m as in love with him now as I ever have been, in spite of the fact that he betrayed me twice.
Because deep down I do believe him, I do think he was telling the truth when he said he did it because he was scared.
I understand that fear. It’s what is propelling me across the concourse. I halt in my tracks, and my trunk bumps into me from behind. People swerve to avoid running into me, and I refrain from calling out apologies.
My mind whirls as quickly as the foot traffic around me.
It was never because Oxford offered more than Wesbourne.
It was always because it felt like an escape from reality, a safe house protecting me from the ugliness of the world outside, from the people I left behind.
People I love desperately and still need in my life.
Without them, everything feels drained of color.
I’ve been living half a life in Oxford, content to close in on myself in order to avoid facing the pain of the past. But in doing so, I hurt the people I’m closest to.
I made them think they didn’t matter to me, that our relationship wasn’t worth salvaging.
I was so terrified of becoming my mother that I never stopped to realize I had become my father.
It takes some effort to turn my trunk around. The thing weighs almost as much as I do. People keep pushing past me, intent on reaching their flights, and I have to fight my way to the other side of the concourse to join the crowd moving the other way.
I take the autowalk again, grateful for the chance to stop pulling an entire month’s worth of belongings behind me. I don’t have a plan from here, and that thought terrifies me more than any of the others.
My mum will be thrilled to have me stay with her.
I’ll have to decide if putting up with her string of boyfriends is something I can deal with over my breakfast oatmeal.
Oxford isn’t a problem either. If I’m honest, my decision to become a professor had a lot less to do with my ambition and a lot more to do with feeling stuck.
The knot in my stomach has nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with facing my friends. What I did was pretty bad, and none of them are quick to forgive. They may never speak to me again. Am I willing to live with that?
I’ll have to be if I am to have any hope of becoming everything my father isn’t: strong, confident, and unafraid of conflict.
They may not speak to me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try to patch things up between us.
After all, they’re as much victims of this entire thing as anyone.
If I hadn’t left, and if Heath had told the truth . . .
It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is facing the mess and cleaning it up.
As I step off the autowalk, a woman bumps into my hip, causing me to lurch into the man beside me. I’m about to shout something nasty at her when my eyes are pulled to the flow of traffic on the other side of the concourse.
Pulled to him as he runs toward the departure gates.