Year Four/Week Six– Present
Thank God for reading week.
If I had to see Jace at school, I would’ve ripped his head off.
There had been an apology text. “Sorry about that Blu,” he’d said twenty-four hours later. Might’ve been twenty-five. “I had a family thing.”
A long paragraph was typed out on my behalf, but I thought better than to send it.
Men didn’t respond to desperation. They responded to silence.
After sending a dozen roses to Fawn’s doorstep, I followed up with a box of chocolate and fuzzy peaches. I was the best boyfriend ever.
When she opened the door, her golden shimmer robe sparkled like the sun.
“How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t eat chocolate,” she smirked, holding the door open with her foot to let me pass.
“But I do.”
Fawn lived in a condo downtown, courtesy of her parents might I add, but she was a good enough person that I didn’t judge her for it.
She had a pair of slippers waiting for me by the door; blue fuzzy smile slides with fur trimming.
I placed the treats on her kitchen island and backed towards the living room, kicking my feet up on the ottoman.
“I don’t need presents. I just want you to know you deserve better than what you’re putting yourself through.”
I stared as she surveyed the candy, poking the packaging like it was a live animal.
“It’s for consumption,” I stated, turning on Netflix.
“I know what it’s for.” She finally caved and tore open the fuzzy peaches, taking a handful before meeting me on the couch. “Why must you tempt me like this?”
“Someone’s got to do it.”
We watched a couple episodes of Peaky Blinders before my ovaries started to hurt for the main actor, and my eyes subconsciously fluttered between the T.V. screen and my phone.
He wasn’t going to text me. I didn’t answer his text. Why was I still looking?
“Do you want to talk about what happened last week?” Fawn asked, reading my mind. She was good like that. She cared.
I think.
“Haven’t we talked about it enough?” I felt like I’d exhausted my breath. “It was a shitty apology from a shitty guy.”
“Sure, but you’re still hurt.”
“Nope.”
“It’s okay to be hurt, Blu.”
“No, it’s not.” I leaned forward. “I barely know this guy, he ghosts me and I throw a hissy fit like some sad girl who got broken up with by her fiancé of twelve years.”
“Well, when you put it like that…” she teased, but I found no amusement.
I shook my head. “It’s not acceptable.”
Her laugh broke the tension in the air. “Oh my God, Blu, for once can you just admit that you had feelings for someone? Why don’t you just tell him? Get it off your chest?”
I reached out to touch her forehead, then her cheek. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need me to take your temperature?”
“Stop it, I’m serious.” She swatted my hand away, leaning back into the cushion. “Communicate with him. You have two classes with him this whole year. What are you going to do? Avoid him?”
“Yes.”
“No, Blu, no. Text him and ask what family thing he had. Text him and ask for a reason. He committed to plans and he ghosted you, so you have every right to demand why.”
“Is that not an invasion of privacy?”
“Maybe. Find out. If he doesn’t text you back, then avoid him.” She tapped my phone and tossed it over. “Get some closure, at least.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe I just wanted to text him for my own selfish reasons. But as soon as I clicked open our conversation, the shame came flooding back.
“What do I say to make me not sound totally desperate?”
“I just told you. Ask, nicely, if he’s okay and if the whole family thing was resolved.”
Huh, that’s actually not a bad way to go about it.
9:16pm – Blu: Everything all good now? With the fam?
I showed Fawn the text and she nodded in approval. “Want to watch one more episode? We can order takeout.”
My nerves were all over the place as I hit send, staring at the delivered button longer than necessary. That button held a lot of power.
One word. Delivered. It got to him. He would see it. I was vulnerable.
Twenty minutes passed before my phone screen lit up and my heart stopped.
9:36pm – Jace Boland: Better, yeah. Thanks for asking.
I was so pissed, my ears were ringing. “What the fuck am I supposed to say to this?”
“Um, I mean…”
“Wait, he said something again.” I checked the conversation, butterflies banging against my ribcage.
9:37pm – Jace Boland: Blu about the other night, really sorry again. Can I make it up to you?
“He asked if he could make it up to me,” I practically scream-shouted. Fuck, I was being so cringey, so fucking cringey.
“Well?”
“Should I let him?”
Fawn got up to retrieve the delivery, pulling her robe tighter together. “Up to you. How much do you care?”
That one question struck like lightning.
How much did I care?
As my eyes re-read his last message twenty, thirty, forty times before I responded, I realized how much this mattered to me.
How much did I care? I asked myself again, before texting back:
9:45pm – Blu: What did you have in mind?
