I thought he was the love of my life.
But then again…
I cry harder when I finish the shower and my face looks all puffy and my eyes are so red that I look like I spent an hour in a smoky room. My hair is wet enough that I can twist it into two flat cornrows along the side of my head and have enough length in my natural hair that the braids hit the middle of my chest.
But I look and feel a mess. And once I’m out of the shower, I’m scared Rakeem will come over and try to do…anything.I don’t want closure. I don’t want to see him again and unpack all the times he lied to me. This whole apartment feels like a cage that I need to break out of. I call the only person that I know in Boston willing to come out as far as Randolph after work.
My friend Rana just moved out here for the summer to do her law school internship at a firm in the city. She’s still enrolled, but her law school offers her the opportunity to do summer jobs all across the country. We met last year when she worked in Boston and this year, she got rehired by the same law firm for ten weeks of grinding before heading back to her campus.
Rana shows up at my apartment wearing a work outfit that skirts the edge of work appropriate attire and something you might see in an “office siren” TikTok video. She doesn’t even give me a chance to say anything and thank goodness because I’m on the verge of tears. She wraps her arms around me and lets me cry on her shoulder.
“I know,” she says. “He sucks. He doesn’t deserve you.”
It’s cliched, but I appreciate the sentiment. I barely believe this is happening enough to let it register completely. And I want to believe that he doesn’t deserve me, but right now, I'm still too numb to do anything other than nod and avoid prolonged eye contact.
“Thanks. Do you want to come in?” My voice trembles with hurt that I am desperate to bury. We might know that our friends are there for us, but wearing your emotions on your sleeve isn’t exactly rewarded in today’s world.
“Sure. But just so you know, we’re going out tonight,” Rana says.
My stomach lurches. I haven’t gone out without my boyfriend since before my relationship. I wouldn’t even know what to order at a bar. Cranberry juice and vodka? Rakeem ordered my drinks for me every time we went out. I bite my lip, trying to stop the cynicism from jumping out, which it does without me.
“Why? So I can jump in front of the T and end my pain?”
Rana laughs. “No. So you can shake your ass and remember who the fuck you are.”
Rana’s that friend who will open up your fridge and help herself, but she will also be there at 2 a.m. if you need to bury a body. I know that because of a misunderstanding regarding the Buffalo Bills during the playoffs last season. It takes the burden off me that she makes herself at home, jumping off the couch to rifle through my cupboards for some pregame material.
What do people even wear to go out anymore? I think I have a bandage dress in the storage bin beneath my winter jackets and skinny jeans.
“I see an unopened bottle of white wine in there. I think it’s a sign,” Rana says in a sing-songy voice.
“To drink before I kill myself?”
“You arenotgoing to kill yourself over some guy.” Her inner lawyer kicks in and I sit up a little straighter, even if I’m not convinced I’ll survive the night.
He’s not some guy. Rakeem was my everything. He even tattooed my name on his ring finger.But she’s right. This isn’t worth my intrusive, suicidal thoughts. For all I know, he had that ring finger inside somebody else. I have the first wave of nausea that alcohol might actually cure. If I can wipe out the memories of all the closeness I had with a lying asshole, maybe I’ll feel better. Maybe my stomach won’t feel like… somebodydied.
It’s more about the shame I feel than anything. I trusted him. I trusted him and… Oh God. That big knot in my stomach gets tight again and spreads to my chest. I won’t be able to breathe if I don’t do something. Rana makes the wine bottle do a sexy dance in the air, hovering over the empty glass she procured from my kitchen cupboard. I succumb to the siren song.
“You’re right. I need wine,” I admit, as if Rana were going to wait on me to open it up. She already has two glasses on the counter and her glass poured all the way to the top. Once she pours my glass, I drink some of it to loosen up the tightness in my chest. The first burn makes me feel something other than total dismay.
“We store trauma in our hips.”
Who knows what STDs my hips are storing from that stupid asshole.
“Where did you read that?” I ask Rana, taking another bitter sip.
“It’s true,” she says. “Trust me. I’m looking for places that will have a dive bar vibe.Yelpwill save us a night of boredom.”
“A dive bar?”
“In case you want to ugly cry and dance on tables. Duh,” Rana says. “We can’t go anywhere that you might run into Rakeem.”
Rakeem apparently doesn’t have to leave the house to find another girlfriend. I doubt I would run into him anywhere. Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes and I practically chug the rest of my glass.
“Why are you so ready for this?” I ask, smacking my lips together from the tingling burn of alcohol and fighting back more tears because my voice is getting hoarse and I have cried in public enough for my tastes.
“Believe it or not, I’ve been in this situation before.”
