Sweet how
What, was I supposed to admit that I was sobbing over him at a college party? Texting him Taylor Swift songs from the toilet while I was supposed to be out living it up and dancing with my friends? Five minutes passed while I debated whether or not I’d be throwing up that night or if it was just me stressing over Guy.
Sweet how Birdy?!
I started dozing off, the drunkenness outweighing my excitement that we were actually talking. It had been a long month of cold turkey No Guy, my heart hurting every day. My phone rang in my hand.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Kitty Bird,” Guy crooned. “You okay over there?”
It was miraculous hearing him talk like everything was fine, not mad or sad. Just sweet Guy. His accent with all of its “d” for “th” sounds. His warm voice. Him.
“I wish you were here,” I whimpered.
Guy didn’t speak for so long that I thought we’d been disconnected. “Me, too, Birdy.”
He paused a lot longer. Embarrassment set in that I was drunk and he was seemingly sober. I was a fool for texting him.
“How was Mikey sweet? Is he hitting on you? Because I’ll fly out there and take care of it if I need to.” Guy’s voice went borderline enraged.
“Oh, calm down, you thug. He was a good friend.”
“How?” Guy demanded.
“I was crying over you, okay? Jesus,” I ground out. “He saw me right after I sent you that song. He sat with me while I lost it and walked me home. He misses you, too, by the way.”
“Kitty, it doesn’t have to be like this,” Guy pleaded. “Just come back.”
“I want to,” I said, starting to cry again. “But I can’t.”
“Do me a favor, then, and don’t drunk text me,” Guy said, his voice cold.
“Guy,” I protested.
“It kills me, Kitty,” he ranted. “Every fucking day, I’m miserable without you.”
“I am, too.”
“Then come back!” he yelled. He’d never once raised his voice with me. The only time he’d ever even been directly mean is if we were playing around in bed and it was part of the game. He wasn’t being fair. I thought our decision was mutual, but he was pushing that it was my choice again.
“I can’t, okay? We have to choose to be happy alone. Don’t be cruel about this. We chose this together.”
“That doesn’t mean I like it,” he snarled.
“Well, I don’t either. I wanted us to work out, Guy. I still do. But we need to give ourselves time to grow and maybe later . . .”
“Maybe later,” his voice a quiet, low rumble. “I’m living for maybe later.”
“Me, too.”
“I love you, Kitty Bird.”
“I love you, too, Guy.”
* * *
Life went on. The things I wrote that first semester after we broke up weren’t overly funny. They were actually pretty dark. Even though I’d told Guy to choose happiness without me, I struggled to be happy without him.
