I listen to my voicemail for any messages from him, but there’s nothing. I check my regular email account and all there is are bill alerts, work stuff and random crap my mom wants me to watch on YouTube.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want Troy anymore, but it would make me feel a whole hell of a lot better if he were begging for my forgiveness. I want him to plead for mercy. I want him to suffer. I want him to freakin’ cry. His lack of sincere remorse makes me feel even worse than I already did. Did our relationship ever mean anything to him?
It may not be the most mature thing in the world to want, but him begging on bended knee is what I think I’m going to need to move on from this wickedly painful strike against my self-confidence and womanhood. The two of us havenevereven had sex doggy-styled, and he does that position with a woman on my bed?
I take an almost savage bite of my steak and am disappointed in the taste. I wish it was bloodier. I always second guess myself when I cook things I rarely prepare, and now I’ve overcooked it. It’s well done and chewy. I slam my fork down, disgusted with myself. That’s what I get for being a “fake” vegetarian for a man. Now I don’t even know how to cook a damn steak.
A tear rolls down my face in frustration more than anything. I feel as if I can’t get anything right these days. I even suck at work, which is usually my happy place. I totally missed that one of my patients, a 13-year-old girl, was exhibiting suicidal symptoms and now she’s in Children’s Hospital with slashes to her wrists. Residents make mistakes and I won’t be reprimanded for it, but that’s not the point. She could have died and that would have been on my watch.
I wipe the lone tear away with the back of my hand when my phone rings. It’s my land line so I know it can only be one of two people, Dena or my mother. Everyone else reaches me via my cell.
“Hello?”
“Where have you been?” Dena fusses immediately on the other end. “I haven’t heard from you since last weekend. I was getting worried.”
“I’ve been throwing myself into work every day and then I come home and crash,” I give as an excuse. “Sorry about that.”
I leave out the parts about my new social media stalking and binge eating habits.
“Have you talked to him?”
“Not since the bar.”
“The bar?”
“He came to the Wild Boar that night to talk to me. Were you the one that told him where I was?”
“And break girl code? Absolutely not. I didn’t tell him shit.”
“I was on Facebook the other day.”Two seconds ago.“And saw that he changed his relationship status to it’s complicated.”
“He’s totally baiting you. He wants you to see that.”
“I’m not so sure about that. He knows I don’t really do social media.”
“So, he hasn’t called you or anything since Friday?”
“Nothing. Not a peep.”
“What happened at the bar? Did you two fight?”
“We exchanged a few not-so-nice words. Plus, I was sitting with someone and that only made things worse.”
“Sitting with who?” She sounds excited. “Did you bang him?”
“Bang him, Dena?” Sometimes she’s so ridiculous.
“Sleep with him. Ride him. Mount him. Hump him.”
“Thanks, I get the picture. No, I didn’t.” I sigh, exasperated. “He’s just someone I met. It was really crowded that night and he needed a place to sit, but I think I might have kissed him.”
“The bar hottie?!”
“Yes.”
“You don’t remember if you did?”
“Tequila isn’t exactly my friend, but yes, I think I did, and I think I liked it.”
