relationship at all. You can’t talk your way out of it. You can’t fuck your way out of it.” My fist pounds the table. “Tell me now, did you ever actually want to be my boyfriend?”
He hesitates, but his gaze drops again. Silence.
I think I have my answer.
A rush of emotion flows into me. I want it to be anger, I thought it would be anger, and I beg for denial or rage or anything.
But that’s not what’s coming.
I tear up, and the breaths come hard. And god, the pit in my chest. It’s like someone’s squeezing my lungs and I’m begging for them to pop. For it to just be over with. I hold my stomach—my dumb stomach that is slimmer, but at the expense of so much.
“Why would you toy with me like that? It’s not fair. You’re not that desperate; you’re not that callous.” I blow air through my mouth carefully, like I’m blowing on soup, but I’m really trying not to pass out from over-oxygenation. I clench my abs. I have to be strong, while he’s still weak and sulking. For a little longer. I can do this.
“I can’t believe it,” I finally say.
“Look, I didn’t mean to …” He shakes his head. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry.”
He reaches out to take my hand, and I hate myself for wanting his touch. He hesitates, and I feel the tips of his fingers brush over mine. It makes me hurt that much more. I pull away. I find my strength.
“You may have started this,” I say, my voice wavering, “whatever your intentions were. But now, I’m ending it.”
I leave the café, and loneliness hits me like a truck. I walk in the opposite direction of the others; I need to be alone. I need to go home.
Flying to London was scary. I left everything behind, everything I knew, everything that was safe and secure. And for the last six weeks, I thought I was replacing it with better things. More secure things. But that’s not how it works.
There’s only one thing that can offer security: me. If I make my own decisions, if I follow my own path and still let others in along the way, I’ll be protected from this.
Heartbreak happens. I looked it up.
I tried to imagine what it felt like, even though I’d read it in dozens of books and articles. But it’s nothing like that. There’s no way to describe it in words, except maybe if you repeated the word “fuck” for four or five pages.
That’s what heartbreak is, an endless string of “fucks” shouted from your heart, making it hard to hear, hard to see, impossible to breathe. It’s melodramatic, sure, but what isn’t about this moment? I’m literally sitting in a gutter.
My eyes must be bright red, because I can’t stop rubbing them.
Tears are coming out so fast I can’t even dry them on my shirt.
I know I’m not far enough away from the others, but I can’t go on.
I can’t go on.
People are staring. People are definitely staring. But if they knew what was going on, how much I’ve lost, how hard I’ve hit the bottom, maybe they’d let me carry on. Or maybe they’d judge me. I don’t know. It’s hard to experience anxiety when I’m crying. It’s hard to worry or fret or whatever it is that takes up my whole day. I’m all out of fucks, and I want to be left alone. This gutter is my home now, and no amount of concerned Italian chatter is going to change that.
Some time passes. I think of Sophie and how I need to apologize to her for her pointing out the awful things I was doing to my body. I think of Megan and the scrapbook that I haven’t even acknowledged. I think of Shane and how I haven’t been supporting his potential big break nearly enough. I can’t help but think of the opportunities I missed—I could have shown the world, or at least London, my talent.
But I let Pierce eclipse all that.
The thoughts lead me back to myself. I need to make things right again. I need to make a change.
THIRTY-FIVE
I divide my thoughts into two parts: old Marty and new. When I think of something that old Marty would do, I do the opposite. Even if it makes me uncomfortable, I do it. At least, that’s my plan.
My panting’s stopped, and I’m sort of held together now. That’s good. There’s a lot