as Jake and Lucy find their way to their lane and pick out bowling balls that will be the appropriate weight. Lucy seems attentive enough, listening to what Jake says and laughing. He smiles then, a real smile I’ve grown to know so well. Normally, he puts on a little bit of a fake grin to make the women feel better, but I haven’t seen him open up the gates.
Not, that is, until now.
Now, he’s smiling at her like he usually smiles at me.
Are you sure you’re not just being a self-deprecating, self-destructive psycho who is making herself see things that aren’t really there?
I mentally flip my stupid subconscious the bird. The nosy bitch needs to mind her own business. Yes, I know she’s technically me, but I’m nearly in the middle of a nervous breakdown over here!
No matter what’s really going down in front of me, I feel like it’s all my fault. Only I’m to blame for my petty, childish outburst or the sad reality that I left my townhouse before he woke this morning. Who does that? Seriously? Me. I do that.
Jake wanted to talk to me, to talk about everything that we should be talking about, and I shut him down.
As I watch Lucy step up to bowl, and then look back to see Jake watching her, I have to wonder if I’ll look back on shutting him out as the biggest mistake of my life.
I take my spot at the table behind them and do my best not to cry.
It’s pathetic, really, feeling sorry for myself. I want him to be happy, and Lucy seems like a nice, normal woman. She could be that for him. He could be the one for her.
I take out my notebook and scribble down some notes about the animated way they chat with each other and the fact that neither of them ever seems eager to get up and take their turn to bowl. It’s a regular romantic fucking comedy movie playing out before my very eyes.
She takes a sip of her soda and then spews it on him when he makes her laugh mid-drink. It’s ridiculous and awkward, but also really, really cute. He takes the cup from her hands and grabs a stack of napkins from the table, presumably to help her clean up the mess while they laugh together, and that’s just about all I can take.
My chest burns with indigestion from last night’s wine as I stand to my feet and scoop my things up off the table. I have to go to the bathroom and get myself together, and quite possibly, throw up some chicken parmigiana. I’m an emotional eater, and I had my dad’s house and refrigerator all to myself for lunch, okay?
I weave my way through the crowd, careful not to bump or shove anyone or otherwise alert them to my presence. I have a feeling my face tells a huge story right now, and it’s not one I’m particularly ready for anyone to read.
Once inside the bathroom, I head for the biggest stall and lock myself inside. I need a moment to collect myself before looking at my own reflection.
Truth is, even I’m not ready to see what my face has to say.
Almost out of habit, I put my notebook in my bag and hang it from the hook on the back of the door before going to the bathroom. I break off lengths of toilet paper to line the seat, and then sink into the seat like it’s a cushion of solace. I dig my elbows into my knees, and my head finds its way right into my hands.
Why do I feel this way? And better yet, why have I allowed it to get this far?
I should have called myself off this contest long ago—a woman who’s been cheated on and recently betrayed by the man she’s been with for more than a decade should not be doing anything even remotely related to love.
She should be writing articles on carb-loading and finding yourself through fitness. She should be writing a travel blog about solo travel around the world. Real Eat, Pray, Love kind of shit.
She should not, under any circumstances, be allowing herself to become so involved with the man at the center of her assignment that she can’t see beyond him anymore. She should not be even entertaining the idea of love.
No way.
“Fuck,” I whisper to myself before finally allowing myself to move.