being legally bound to one another at some point in the future wasn’t Cissy’s alone?
Ohmigawd.
There it was, out in the open.
I’d admitted it, if only to myself.
I wasn’t falling for Malone good and hard: I’d already hit the mat. I was sunk, a goner, snookered, down and out for the count.
All right, so maybe I’d realized it before, but I’d been too wary to even whisper how I felt to anyone. Besides, I’d figured I had plenty of time to tell Brian, when the moment was right.
The right moment.
Talk about missing the bus.
Hell, I was sucking up exhaust fumes.
I balled my hands and tapped my fists against my forehead.
How stupid was I?
I thought I was being smart, guarded even, protecting
my heart as I waited for the perfect time to say something.
Though what made any time “perfect”? How did we even know we’d have another tomorrow or the next day?
We didn’t.
I thought Malone and I had forever.
Instead, he’d taken my vulnerable heart and stomped it with the verbal equivalent of golf cleats.
I felt like my guts were bleeding out, and I had no Band-Aids large enough to patch up all the holes.
“You sappy-ass girl,” I berated myself, making a feeble attempt at laughing into the dark and empty room where the only noise was the beep-beep-beeping from the handset that I hadn’t hung up until I tossed it to the floor, yanking the phone off the sofa table and sending it clattering to the floor.
Like I gave a hoot.
I shuffled into the kitchen, where 2:35 glowed in bright blue on my microwave clock. Instinctively, I went for the freezer, pulling it wide and reaching for the Haagen Daz, until I remembered I had none.
What’re you doing? I asked and stopped myself.
I shut the freezer door with a smack.
Because what I needed wasn’t anything edible, it was food for my sad, just-dumped, beaten-down soul.
I walked over to the stereo and fumbled in the dim, finding the CD I’d burned years ago just for such situations.
I dusted off the cover, popped that baby into the player, hit the power button, and set the volume at a reasonable level, one that I could hear but wouldn’t wake up
my neighbors.
Disco’s infamous “I Will Survive” bounced through the speakers.
Sing it, Gloria, I thought sadly as I made my way back to the sofa and curled up, dragging the throw over me and listening to my favorite “screw you jerk for leaving me”
song of all time.
I closed my eyes as “The King of Wishful Thinking” came on, another quintessential post breakup song. It was all about ignoring the hole in your heart and pretending you’d be all right, even if it wasn’t the truth.
How could you, Malone? How could you do this to me?
I squished my cheek into the pillow, fighting the tears as hard as I could. I was so angry, so disappointed, so utterly confused, but I’d be damned if I would cry myself out over a man. Not again. I’d done it enough through the years, and I refused to do it now, no matter how much it
hurt.
Sting started to wail “King of Pain,” and I jumped up from the couch and shut my CD player off.
Enough already .
Pathetic jilted chick sobbing into her pillow.
How totally cliché.
And how totally not me.
I had never been the kind of female who didn’t feel complete without a man. I had a great life, loved my independence,
and I was perfectly fulfilled when I was all by my lonesome. Surely, I had better things to do than act
like a dopey girl who’d been wronged by her dude.
Damned straight I did.
Besides, Malone wasn’t exactly beating his breast and wailing over me, was he? No, siree Bob, he was getting his kicks with a piece of Trayla Trash.
Not worth the salt of my tears.
Roughly, I wiped my eyes and slapped at the switch to turn on the lights. Then I headed over to my easel.
I initially filled my palette with black, picked up a clean brush and let her rip, sweeping boldly across the crimson and silver with angry strokes.
I didn’t stop for hours,
Ohmigawd.
There it was, out in the open.
I’d admitted it, if only to myself.
I wasn’t falling for Malone good and hard: I’d already hit the mat. I was sunk, a goner, snookered, down and out for the count.
All right, so maybe I’d realized it before, but I’d been too wary to even whisper how I felt to anyone. Besides, I’d figured I had plenty of time to tell Brian, when the moment was right.
The right moment.
Talk about missing the bus.
Hell, I was sucking up exhaust fumes.
I balled my hands and tapped my fists against my forehead.
How stupid was I?
I thought I was being smart, guarded even, protecting
my heart as I waited for the perfect time to say something.
Though what made any time “perfect”? How did we even know we’d have another tomorrow or the next day?
We didn’t.
I thought Malone and I had forever.
Instead, he’d taken my vulnerable heart and stomped it with the verbal equivalent of golf cleats.
I felt like my guts were bleeding out, and I had no Band-Aids large enough to patch up all the holes.
“You sappy-ass girl,” I berated myself, making a feeble attempt at laughing into the dark and empty room where the only noise was the beep-beep-beeping from the handset that I hadn’t hung up until I tossed it to the floor, yanking the phone off the sofa table and sending it clattering to the floor.
Like I gave a hoot.
I shuffled into the kitchen, where 2:35 glowed in bright blue on my microwave clock. Instinctively, I went for the freezer, pulling it wide and reaching for the Haagen Daz, until I remembered I had none.
What’re you doing? I asked and stopped myself.
I shut the freezer door with a smack.
Because what I needed wasn’t anything edible, it was food for my sad, just-dumped, beaten-down soul.
I walked over to the stereo and fumbled in the dim, finding the CD I’d burned years ago just for such situations.
I dusted off the cover, popped that baby into the player, hit the power button, and set the volume at a reasonable level, one that I could hear but wouldn’t wake up
my neighbors.
Disco’s infamous “I Will Survive” bounced through the speakers.
Sing it, Gloria, I thought sadly as I made my way back to the sofa and curled up, dragging the throw over me and listening to my favorite “screw you jerk for leaving me”
song of all time.
I closed my eyes as “The King of Wishful Thinking” came on, another quintessential post breakup song. It was all about ignoring the hole in your heart and pretending you’d be all right, even if it wasn’t the truth.
How could you, Malone? How could you do this to me?
I squished my cheek into the pillow, fighting the tears as hard as I could. I was so angry, so disappointed, so utterly confused, but I’d be damned if I would cry myself out over a man. Not again. I’d done it enough through the years, and I refused to do it now, no matter how much it
hurt.
Sting started to wail “King of Pain,” and I jumped up from the couch and shut my CD player off.
Enough already .
Pathetic jilted chick sobbing into her pillow.
How totally cliché.
And how totally not me.
I had never been the kind of female who didn’t feel complete without a man. I had a great life, loved my independence,
and I was perfectly fulfilled when I was all by my lonesome. Surely, I had better things to do than act
like a dopey girl who’d been wronged by her dude.
Damned straight I did.
Besides, Malone wasn’t exactly beating his breast and wailing over me, was he? No, siree Bob, he was getting his kicks with a piece of Trayla Trash.
Not worth the salt of my tears.
Roughly, I wiped my eyes and slapped at the switch to turn on the lights. Then I headed over to my easel.
I initially filled my palette with black, picked up a clean brush and let her rip, sweeping boldly across the crimson and silver with angry strokes.
I didn’t stop for hours,
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