Apparently life is a whole other thing and not my story to tell.
It feels as if someone else is turning my pages, and I’m terrified to start a new chapter.
Chapter Thirty-One
I blink into my bedroom hued with white light and gray ink, reluctantly allowing the drowsy haze of slumber to fade. The pitter-patter of another rainy-season storm on my steel roof is a symphony of music to my ears, and with it, the sweet promises of a perfect day lost in a book.
For me, weekends are about rise and shine, the earlier the better. I jog, I do my laundry, I clean up, and, when all my chores are complete, I allow myself the indulgence of reading time. In the middle of all this, I often meet up with one of the Js, and about every other weekend, I visit my parents.
But none of that, not today.
I stretch and glance at the clock, finding it early, 8:00 a.m., which is too early, considering the two Js left at two—way too late, but I didn’t dare rush them away. When do I ever have the two of them together, in one place and acting civil?
Only when they think they need to be here for me.
And that, I decide, is pretty special.
But so, too, is a day for me.
An hour later I’ve showered, dressed in comfy sweats and a tank, and am sitting at my island with a steaming cup of coffee before me, my book ready to open and the rain a steady thrum above me. It should be a perfect moment in time, but today there’s a slice of emptiness insideme, inching its way wide, and wider. I’m alone. This is my life. This may always be my life.
I have one instant flash of time when I imagine me and Kevin back in the day on my couch, side by side, a day like this consuming us. Only there was no us. There were just two people in the same room. That’s not my dream. That’s not better than being alone. It’s another version of being alone.
That’s the truth, and sometimes taking control means facing the truth.
I grab my phone as if I might actually call Kevin and tell him how I feel. Instead, I glance at my messages, where he has yet to respond, debating what I might say to him if I did actually contact him again. The answer is nothing. He doesn’t get to drive my conversations or emotions. He doesn’t get to decide what I do next.
Neither does Jess.
This, I think, as I slide my laptop closer and open the lid, is for me.
Sipping from my cup, I type in the dating site and wait for it to load. Remarkably, I have another ten messages. It’s not the millions Jess had last night, but it’s something. I click on my inbox and do what I came here to do. I find Kevin’s name, and I hit the “Block” button. There, done. I’m about to shut down again when my gaze lands on Adam’s last messages. His icon is no longer a cartoon character. It’s a photo of a man. I click on the image and suck in a breath. Adam is attractive, with sandy-brown hair, a chiseled jaw, and intelligent eyes. Per his profile, which he’s now filled out in detail, he’s thirty-eight, a civil engineer, and speaks three languages: Spanish, English, and French.
I’m just about to convince myself he’s just this good-looking arrogant guy who enjoys critiquing people, lesser people like me, when a message box pops up. A message from Adam that reads:You’re judging me right now, aren’t you? Just like I said you would.
My fingers hover over my keyboard and linger, denial eager to be pounded out, but I hesitate on what would be a lie. Guilt screams insideme. He’s right. Iamjudging him, and for what reason? How he looks? Yes. Exactly. Seconds expand into a full minute, and my hands fall from the keyboard.
As if Adam can no longer endure the silence, he types:It’s human. We all judge people on looks.
I grimace, my defenses rising, and suddenly my fingers are on the keyboard again:Like you judged me?I demand.
I didn’t have to judge you, he replies.It’s clear you do that for everyone.
“Says the guy who looks like a model,” I murmur irritably to myself for finding him attractive, for mentally thinking about what it would be like to be with a man like this one, which is exactly why I type:You don’t have any idea what I think.
Don’t I?he replies.Why do you think I’m talking to you, Mia?
Mia.
As if he knows me. He doesn’t know me.To tell me how much better you are than me?I challenge.
Quite the contrary. Two photos, two sides to one woman. You’re captive to your insecurities, which tells me I know you. We are the same, Mia.
I glance at the photo of the good-looking man talking with me, and my reply comes easily:You don’t know me at all.
Don’t I?he challenges.You feel overlooked, invisible.
He’s using that word again:invisible.
