But I keep on saying it anyway, alongsideIt's for the bestandIt's the right thing to do.
The only thing that makes a dent in my pain is,It's what's best for her.
That one shuts me the fuck up. A hard, uphill mile on the treadmill usually follows.
I've barely seen her, which has somehow made it worse. At first, she texted a lot, but I kept it brief enough that she tapered off before stopping completely. And then last night…
I felt her before I saw her from forty feet away. She looked exhausted, miserable, sick as I felt. The urge to reach for her, to hold her, to tell her I don't want this, that I miss her, that I need her…it was so intense, so devastating, the implosion in my chest when I stopped her from telling me she missed me almost took me out. But if she said it, if I heard the words, I wouldn't have been able to walk away.
She's an open flame and I'm made out of matchsticks.
The worst part of it all is that distance hasn't helped the gossip--somehow. it's gottenworse.Now they've made up new stories about our 'breakup',ranging from innocent to speculation she's pregnant. No one has been stupid enough to call her a whore in front of me, but I know they're saying it. Atleast that's what I hear. But it's just a matter of time. They'll let it go.
And then what?
Nothing. That's what.
There are a thousand reasons I have to stay away from her, and every day we're apart the roots wind deeper in me, tinged with the poisonous truth. I'm no good for her, just a grumpy old fuck with bad knees and a worse attitude. She needs somebody who's at the same place in life, the same goals, the same dreams. Somebody better than me.
I'll only disappoint her. I'll only let her down. Or worse--I'll drag her down.
The way the town won't shut the fuck up about it, I might have already. She came here for a fresh start, and I shoved her into the worst kind of spotlight--small town gossip.
Any day now, I'll wake up and feel better. Any second now, it won't hurt so fucking bad.
Or not. I'd deserve that too.
No matter how many times I say it, it just keeps getting worse. I can't sleep, every night featuring a three A.M. mile. I've made myself sick, can barely eat, thanks in part to the goddamn gross burritos that I spent years not realizing were terrible. But being with Molly will do that--a few short weeks with her, and I was awake for the first time, living in a world I didn't recognize. She shined her light in every dark, forgotten corner of my heart, splashing color where there was only shadows and dust. And now that she's gone, the world is dark again, empty again.
The trouble is, now I know what I'm missing.
You'll only keep hurting her. This is what's best for her.
The knot in my throat is solid, heavy as I stare at the stupid fucking burrito, pulling the door when it starts to swell. I'm too chicken shit to even let it blow up like I want to. I don't want to eat it, but I want to clean it up even less. The hum ofthe microwave is replaced by the howling wind--I frown in the direction of the kitchen window. It's dark out, rain pelting the glass and tearing through the trees. A flash of lightning affords a still frame of leaning, wind-whipped trees and slick pavement, followed by a deep rumble of thunder that vibrates up my body from my feet. It's been raining all day, our Saturday game canceled, leaving me at home for longer than I wanted to be, and stuck inside to boot.
The storm wasn't supposed to hit us, turned straight for us at the last minute. I've been watching it all day, saw it had picked up steam, but I didn't realize it'd risen to a dangerous pitch.
Molly's home alone. The thought makes me feel sick. She'd text if she needed something, right? She'd call if something went wrong?
Body tight, I abandon the plate with my unwanted dinner on it to hunt for my phone, which I finally find in my room, on my nightstand. It helps if I don't know where it is. Easier to pretend like everything's fine. If I know I can reach into my pocket, push a button, and call her, I don't think I'm strong enough to resist.
The second I pick up my phone, it goes off in my hand with a weather advisory.
Severe weather alert. Tornado warning.
Molly. My blood runs cold, imagining her on her couch alone, the storm raging. That rickety old house can barely stand a heavy rain, but this? I knew I should have prioritized the roof. There's a spot right over the kitchen that's fucking trashed, rotted underneath for sure. If it caves--
Don't--
I'm already texting her.
Hey, everything okay? Storm's pretty bad. House holding up?
I stare at the screen, waiting for sign she's read it or is responding, thinking about the old, warped, single panewindows. The one in the living room is gonna leak. I know it--the frame is bent to hell. But that thin old glass isn't going to hold if any debris hits it, no matter how small.
I listen to the phone ring, begging her to pick up.
Hi, it's Molly! Sorry I missed you--
