It’s masochism at its finest, and truthfully, I return from each date feeling grosser than when leaving home. It feels like I’m cheating on my heart, but since my desires aren’t even out in the real world, Ihaveto distract myself so I don’t go insane.
Although, I think I already am. He’s made me insane, putting me on this vicious cycle I’ve been living for the year.
I’msoready to call the date quits because there’s only so much distraction my brain can handle—and I’ve reached my limit.
“So then, the other day at work, when…”
Since he’s insisting on talking so much, more wine may be required. Once I’m home, I’ll chase it down with pain relief for the impending headache caused by every syllable that spews from his mouth when he refuses to. Shut. Up.
My fucking god, will this ever end?
By the end of the main course, Owen offers dessert, which I politely decline, eager to get the hell out of here and home and never do this again.
“You sure? Working the long hours the corporation demands can be exhausting. I’m enjoying our time, and dessert stretches this out. Perhaps a stop at a café on the way back and I’ll tell you about the craziest request we’ve ever gotten?”
Yet again about the job.
I smile tightly, my back teeth pressing together. “Caffeine past four p.m. is a bad idea, sorry.”
“Another time then.” He hides his disappointment—a literal pout—behind the sweeping motion of helping me to my feet and placing my coat over my shoulders.
“I can walk home by myself. It’s not far,” I tell him as we leave the restaurant. Anything tonothave to hear him talk about work for a second longer.
Owen glances up and down the dark downtown road before shrugging. “Alright. Have a nice night.”
“You too,” I say as he heads towards a silver BMW parked nearby. Without another glance, he gets inside and drives off. If I cared even the slightest amount, it might bother me. “Why do I do this to myself?” I groan aloud, turning towards home.
A year of wanting to undo my goodbye letter to Cademustbe unhealthy. For that reason alone, I don’t. It’s a reminder of why a friendship with him could lead to other problems.
Besides, writing to him may not accomplish anything. I was merely his pen pal, and by now he’s presumably forgotten about me. I’ve been reading too much into it. Plus, there’s the obvious fact of him being inin jail, and I never learned the reason. There are a million and one possibilities—none of which lead to a stable friendship.
With a year gone by, I wonder if he’s close to freedom, or if he’s already out. If he’s forgotten the silly woman who entered his life for those couple of months and is now back around people he actually wants to be near.
Still…I have to stop using strangers on the internet to distract myself. Dealing with the pain of not seeing him is better than living with the stomach-churning, misplaced guilt those dates lead to.
All of them—not only Owen. Psychology major or not, I’m a walking research paper for another professional. Surely,Ishould be studied at this point.
As I continue towards home, my gaze wanders in the direction the prison is in. I wonder what he’s doing right now.
If he’s thought about me at all in the past year.
If he’s been reassigned to a new pen pal.
A chilling green clenches my muscles at the thought, but I remind myself it’d be positive if he was.
Either way, this needs to be the final time I think about Cade.
Obsessing over him isn’t healthy.
Home means removing my makeup and the shoes that are now my worst nightmare, thanks to the blisters they formed. A hot shower washes every mistake away—Owen, and the others whose names I genuinely cannot recall.
Finally slipping into bed with Millie, my body thanks me profusely, even while my mind considers work tomorrow. It’s the day before Valentine’s Day, which means it’ll be crazy busy, something I don’t look forward to.
There are only a couple more months of working at the florist until my job in the university’s mental health clinic begins. I’m excited because it’ll give the practical clinical experience that’ll fluff my PhD application that much more.
With thoughts of all the flower orders needing to be filled, I doze off. The blanket constricts around me, a prison of my own making. My hand slides beneath my cheek, and I can practically feel his lips pressing into my cheek—even a full year later.
Acrackfrom nearby twitches me into consciousness. Without opening my eyes, I turn my head towards the door and gently move my foot back and forth, checking for Millie. She probably jumped off my bed for a late-night snack or to use the litter and made the floorboards crack.
