But I don’t feel better. Not in the slightest. I appreciate their efforts, but when they retire to their rooms for the night and shut off the lights, I look at my phone for the first time since this afternoon, and the tears well up, that sick feeling bubbling up in my stomach again.
Four missed calls. Six unread messages.
Landon:Where are you?
Landon:All of your stuff’s gone.
Landon:Is this about the other night?
Landon:I’m sorry. I was an asshole. I just needed time to think.
Landon:There’s something I need to tell you, but it should be in person.
Landon:Violet, please answer. We really need to talk.
I shut off my phone and close my eyes, wondering how I put myself in this situation. Was it just my desire to be loved and adored that got me here? Or my inability to understand my own limitations? But I’ve never understood them. I’ve always sacrificed more than I was capable of, paid a price I couldn’t afford, and given more of myself than I should have.
I gave to my mom, who abandoned me.
I gave to my peers, who judged me.
I gave to my ex, who used me.
I gave to Mel, who discarded me.
I gave to Landon, who crushed me.
How do I figure out the people worth giving to? How do I protect myself from those who are not?
I contemplate these questions with sore eyes, a bruised ego, and a battered heart until late into the night.
* * *
Work the next day is a rude awakening, and the absolute last thing I feel like doing is waiting on members with a sugary smile and a can-do attitude. I’m bruised and beaten down. Mentally exhausted and emotionally drained. My confidence is crushed, my self-worth’s taken a hit, and that optimism I’m always so keen on is nowhere to be found.
Brit must have relayed the latest to Jake and Ollie because they tiptoe around me like I might spontaneously combust into a pathetic, sobbing mess at any moment, but I cried out all my tears yesterday, and overnight, the anguish seems to have transformed into something darker. Something more sinister.
Anger.
I don’t like the feel of it. It’s the emotion I dwell on the least because I hate this heavy weight in my chest and the pulsing pressure in my head and the clawing frustration building up my throat whenever I open my mouth, leaving me unsure if I’ll breathe fire or release some awful, guttural scream.
“Want us to poison his coffee next time he comes in?” asks Ollie.
“Thanks, but Brit already offered,” I mutter, unable to muster up a smile, even for them.
“Well, we can do something else then.”
“We can pretend his membership’s been revoked and kick him out,” offers Jake.
Ollie nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, we can make a big scene and everything. Get security involved.”
“And film the whole thing and put it on the internet.”
“Or,” says Ollie, “we can key his car while he’s eating.”
“Slash a tire, or two, or four.”
“Spray paint ‘penis’ on his windshield or ‘I love boobs’ on his bumper.”
