Again, to be fair, I’m not inside the shop yet. I’m across the street from it and I was about to cross when I saw him, his dark head and his white hoodie.
That shines when the rays of the sun fall on him.
I’m never going to see that hoodie again, am I? I’m never going to touch it or feel it. I’m never going to touch his hair, smell his scent.
I’m never going to taste him or feel him.
Or dance for him.
No one’s ever going to watch me dance like he does, like I really am a perfect ballerina.
No one’s ever going to call me Fae…
Despite explaining this to myself for the thousandth time, a great wave of sadness grips me. It grips my heart and my body starts trembling. I tell Wyn that I can’t walk. I tell her that I need to get out of here.
To her credit, she doesn’t ask. She simply goes with me.
God, I love her and I hate that I’m making her skip out on her favorite brunch place. But I can’t. I can’t go when he’s in there. With a girl.
When he’s moved on.
This is him moving on, isn’t it?
So it worked then, what we did. What I made him do. All my lies and misdirection worked and he’s done with me. He’s fucked me out of his system and as I’ve been saying, it’s a good thing.
I just don’t know why I feel so angry.
Why I want to go in there and punch him in the face. Why I want to cry and sob and curl into a ball.
So for the next couple of weeks, I try my hardest to get rid of this anger, this pain, this sadness. I try to distract myself and stay busy.
Busy, busy, busy.
With classes, with homework, with school activities, with gardening and counseling sessions. Days are easier to pass because there’s always something to do and I have my girls.
But nights are harder.
I have a solution for that as well though. Wyn’s stories.
When I can’t sleep, I ask Wyn to tell me stories. Especially that one story that I love.
It’s about a man she met one night.
The one she calls her dream man.
We don’t know who he is. All we know is that a year ago when Wyn came here for the first time, that summer, she met a man. She says he was older than us, like in his late twenties or something. And somehow, crazily enough, that man became the reason why she came here to St. Mary’s.
She hasn’t shared this with anyone else except me; she’s too shy, but I love hearing about this mystery man and making up theories about him.
With moonlight streaming through the barred windows and lying on my side on the bed to face her, I ask her one night, “Tell me about his eyes.”
In the same position from her bed, she bites her lip and says in her soft voice, “Um, okay. So his eyes are blue. Like yours. But I think a little darker. Like navy, maybe.”
“And his hair?”
“Dark from what I could see. It was night, way past my curfew. But sometimes I think there might be some light strands in there, I don’t know. Maybe dirty blond.”
“Like Coach Carlisle’s?” I ask, referring to Salem’s crush.
