I should ignore it. Should let it go to voicemail like I've been doing with everyone else. But it's Mom, and she's the only one who actually supported my decision to leave. The only one who told me I deserved better than a cheating fiancé.
I answer. "Hey, Mom."
"Harper!" Her voice is warm with relief. "Oh honey, I've been so worried. How are you? How's Montana?"
"It's... fine." I sit up, pulling the scratchy comforter over my naked body. "Small. Quiet."
"Have you found a place to stay? That motel you mentioned sounded awful."
"I'm still at the motel, but I'll start looking for an apartment tomorrow." Maybe. If I can work up the energy to care about my future.
"Good. And how are you feeling? Really?"
I consider lying. Consider telling her I'm great, I'm moving on, I'm totally fine. But this is Mom, and she'd see right through it.
"I'm okay," I say instead. "Some moments are better than others."
"That's normal, sweetheart. You're grieving. Not just the relationship, but the future you'd planned. That takes time."
I don't tell her about the stranger. Don't mention that I let a man finger me in a bathroom less than forty-eight hours after calling off my wedding. Don't admit that I came so hard just now thinking about him.
Some things mothers don't need to know.
We talk for another twenty minutes about nothing and everything. She tells me about her garden, about the neighbor's new dog, about how Derek's mother called asking where I was and Mom told her it was none of her damn business.
That makes me smile for the first time all day.
"I love you, honey," Mom says before we hang up. "And I'm proud of you for being brave enough to start over."
"Love you too, Mom."
After we disconnect, I sit there for a long moment, still naked, still covered in the evidence of what I just did. Then I force myself up and into the bathroom.
The shower is tiny and the water pressure is terrible, but I turn it as cold as I can stand and step under the spray. I need to wash away the bad thoughts. The memories of Derek. The confusion about the stranger. The shame of running away like a coward.
I scrub myself clean, or as clean as I can get in a motel shower and try to think about practical things. Finding an apartment. Looking for a job. Figuring out what the hell I'm going to do with my life now that all my plans are gone.
But even as I'm thinking about the future, part of my brain is still back in that bathroom. Still feeling those fingers inside me. Still hearing that rough voice in my ear.
Next morning
I wake up exhausted and hollow and decide fuck it. Apartments and jobs can wait.
I spend most of the day on the lumpy motel couch, eating directly from the pint of ice cream and watching other people's drama unfold on screen. A dating show where strangers meet and fall in love in a matter of weeks, then fight about stupid things, then declare they can't live without each other.
It's ridiculous. Formulaic. Exactly what I need.
"You're an idiot," I tell the woman on screen who's crying over a man who clearly doesn't deserve her. "Just leave him."
But she doesn't leave him. She never does. They always work it out, always find their way back to each other, always get their happily ever after.
Unlike real life, where the man you love fucks your best friend and you end up alone in a Montana motel eating ice cream for dinner.
By the time night falls, I've watched six episodes and finished two pints of ice cream. My stomach hurts and I feel vaguely nauseous, but at least I'm not thinking about—
No. I'm definitely still thinking about him.
The stranger. The man whose name I don't know but whose fingers I can still feel. I should stay in. Should order pizza, watch more TV, maybe actually look at apartment listings online. That's what a smart woman would do.
