me. What am I doing? I can’t throw Amelia’s pan out. Angrily, I grab a spatula and with jerky, staccato movements, I get rid of the casserole and then let the empty pan clatter down into the sink.
My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans. With trepidation, I pull it out and find a message from Vanessa.
Vanessa: Hey, did you leave? R u ok?
Ellie: Yes, sorry I didn’t let you know. I’m home now.
I check the time. It’s 3:05am. I have to be at work in less than four hours. I should sleep.
But sleep is a pipedream. I wish I could go for a run, but that would be stupid at this time of night. I settle for a shower. Then I pace and only allow myself to think about the why’s and how’s of my almost fall from grace. Tonight was a huge wakeup call. I’ve been right all along to restrict my exposure to those kinds of places. It’s a lesson I’ll never forget, and I’m so grateful that I didn’t take that drink . . . something good Scott did for me. From there, my thoughts hit a brick wall. I refuse to think about him or acknowledge the deeper sadness under all the self-flagellation.
At work, I wish it was busier, but it’s Sunday. There’s not the same rush that happens on weekdays. Jake asks if I’m okay and I give him what I’m sure is a pathetic smile. Why wouldn’t I be okay? Because I almost ruined my life? Or because Scott doesn’t think I’m worth a simple text? Well, fuck that! I didn’t take that drink and I don’t need a text, simple or otherwise, from anyone – ever. I’m a strong, independent woman who knows how to save herself when she needs it. My goals and aspirations don’t involve anyone but myself.
By the time my shift finishes at three o’clock, I’m exhausted. I’m running on no sleep and I can feel sorrow seeping into my blood like an infection. It doesn’t matter that I refuse to acknowledge it, it just keeps spreading.
And still he hasn’t contacted me.
When I get home, the stench of the casserole is everywhere, ingrained into the very walls and carpet, and what little I’ve eaten today threatens to make a reappearance. Yeah, I can’t stay here. I haul the garbage out to the dumpster behind the building and then go for a run.
I’m five miles in when the music on my phone is interrupted by the ding of an incoming text message. Somehow, I know it’s him.
Scott: Hey. Sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday.
Anger surges inside of me, crushing down on all the emotion that’s been threatening to spill out of me over the last eighteen hours. I like it. Anger I can deal with. I’m already searching for an emoji to flip him off, when I stop myself. He doesn’t even deserve that.
I drag my ragged ass back home. After a shower, I get in bed and sleep like the dead for the next few hours.
When I wake up at three in the morning, it’s with a heart that’s weighed down with the loss of him. All the hope and affection and awe that had built up over the last few weeks has turned to dust, and I can no longer ignore the gaping hole it’s left in me. Is it possible to choke and die on sadness? Because that’s what it feels like. I just don’t understand how I got it all so wrong, how I didn’t realize I meant so little to him.
My beautiful girl.
I scoff at the memory and at the tears welling in my eyes. But those three whispered words feel like they’ve been stabbed between my shoulder blades. They sting and burn and ache, and I’m not sure how I’m going to dig them out of my flesh.
Except, the more I think about it, the more foolish I feel. Beauty is not respect. Beauty is not loyalty. Beauty is not even affection. Beauty is only skin deep. He was never interested in me.
The weight in my chest grows heavier. I’d glimpsed something great inside Scott, I’m sure of it. It’s so unfair that what he’d seen in me hadn’t meant the same to him.
I’ve often wondered if there’s something intrinsically flawed about me. Is it just my poor judgment of character or is there some essential piece of me that’s missing? The piece that motivates people to care about me