Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“You had the right idea.” My lip quivers.
What’s done is done, why does he have to make it worse? I never pegged him to be this kind of asshole.
“Right.” She looks at me, nodding her head like she wants to say more, but doesn’t.
She leaves my room with the note from him in her hand. Hopefully she puts it where it belongs - in the trash.
By the following week I’m still a zombie, going through the motions of what I’m supposed to be doing, but inside, I’m dead.
GOODBYE, MTHS
I stay home, in the same position on the floor, wearing the same sweatshirt that doesn’t belong to me, the entire last week of school. I just have to go in next week for finals, and then I’m done.
I’m okay, I’m constantly chanting, like some mental patient, thinking that maybe if I tell myself this over and over again it might come true.
Gracie sits with me most nights, rocking me lightly as I cry.
I don’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes all I see is him. And when I’m lucky, and my eyes finally get heavy enough to drift close on their own, I wake with a wetness that sticks them together, causing me to have to pry them open.
That Friday, I go to school, at the very end of the day, on the very last day before Monday’s finals begin I sneak in through the basement door and find my way to the rehearsal room.
I move my hands over the keys without pressing down. Tears stream down my face as I remember the time we were on this very bench. When I finally admitted my true feelings, and how none of that mattered in the end.
I’m still here when the final bell rings, ending senior year, my mind racing, never slowing down, still replaying the last moments I saw him.
Fuck, this whole time he was married?!
He was with someone else. I was the someone else.
It was still real though, right?
Right?
Because on this bench, it still feels like it was.
I cry because I miss him, I weep because I shouldn’t, and by the time I calm down, it’s dark outside, and the room is now pitch black. I’m heaving heavily from my sobs as I walk back out and into the hallway. I should head home.
I don’t know exactly what time it is, but my legs are suddenly walking down the wrong hallway. The right hallway. This is not the exit.
His classroom door is shut, the lights are out, and the only glow in the entire area is at the other end of the hallway, coming from his closed office door.
I make my way to it, stopping just outside. My body falls forward, my forehead resting on the cold surface, watching his footsteps move on the other side, making the light alter brightness and shapes in the hall.
It’s late, why is he even still here, other than, of course, to unknowingly toy with my heart.
My eyes become a blur through the wetness again. When will the crying stop? Surely I have to reach a limit at some point, where my body can’t physical produce any more tears because I’ve run out. When will that happen?
“Hello?” He calls out and the knob starts to jiggle.
I run, tripping over myself, not stopping until I’m at my car.
I wish I could want to turn back time and change things. But deep down I know, if given the opportunity, I still wouldn’t. I wouldn’t alter a thing that happened between us.
I know he followed me, because he knew it was me on the other side of his door, just as I know if I look in my rearview mirror I’ll see him, standing outside of the school, watching me as I pull away. And maybe that’s why I don’t look, because I still can’t bare to see his face.
Chemistry is my last final, and I don’t worry about it because proctors monitor all exams, therefore I won’t have to see him.
The issue is, he wanted to see me.
As I leave the classroom my eyes find his. He’s been waiting, his right leg propped up as he leans against the wall with his hands in his pockets.
It’s feels like forever, yet no time at all since I’ve seen him, and his obvious suffering should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
“Are we ever going to talk?” He croaks, but I keep on walking.
“Luci, please,” he begs, following me.
I close my eyes at the sound of my name. The memory that bombards me this time is of our first kiss. It replays over and over again - his hands, his words, his touch, the feeling of it finally happening. Suddenly, our last kiss pushes its way through, up to the very front. I wish I knew then to treasure it, because it would be our final. I bend over in pain. I need the sweatshirt. Why didn’t I bring the sweatshirt?