When James suggested we come to a restaurant downtown, I thought he meant something casual. A cute, small place that was cozy and had a terrace or something. I wasn’t expecting…this.
This, meaning dressing up in a little black dress and having my makeup done after months of not touching a single eye shadow.
But I’m not complaining.
TNB fundraiser aside, it’s been months since the last time I dressed up—for an occasion or just because I felt like it—and it wasn’t until today that I realized how much I’d missed it. Blasting music on my headphones as I danced around my apartment, browsing my wardrobe for a cute outfit to wear, choosing pink lipstick for my makeup because I still haven’t outgrown my pink-obsessed phase from when I was a kid.
Sue me, but pink rocks.
And although I would’ve loved to complete the look with my favorite heels, let’s not tempt my good luck. A pair of ballet flats I’ve only worn once (oops) will do.
Just as I was getting ready, my phone buzzed with a text from James. He’d told me he would pick me up from my apartment, so when I see his update, my stomach drops a little.
James: Something came up. Do you mind getting a car to the restaurant and meeting me there? I’m really sorry. I’ll explain later.
But despite the weird feeling I get from his message, I text him back as if nothing was wrong. Like a coward.
Me: No worries. I’ll see you there 🙂
Smiley face and everything. Ugh.
I try not to let it bother me, I really do, but not even five minutes after my reply, I’m already going at it.
What if he came to his senses and realized this looks a little too close to dating?
Because who takes their fuck buddy to a fancy restaurant just because?
He’s going to cancel.
Oh, God, he’ll never want to see me again.
The intrusive thoughts don’t go anywhere as I get to the restaurant an hour later and there’s no James to be seen. And then they only get worse when the waiter gives me a look full of pity and understanding as he guides me to our table. A table for two where I’m sitting all by myself.
Yesterday’s conversation replays in my head while I wait for him, the manic way I’m bouncing my leg under the table giving away my anxious thoughts.
Despite how obvious it might seem, I never considered reporting my old therapist to the board until he suggested it. I guess I felt too young, too weak and insignificant to do anything about it. But he said he would help me, so maybe I should do something about it.
What he said about not being able to change my past but possibly protecting other people’s futures sealed the deal for me. I don’t want anybody else to go through that same thing if I can prevent it. As for me…
James was right about my life not being ruined. Tainted, perhaps, but not ruined.
I can’t control or change the past, but I can turn my future into something different. Into something hopeful and meaningful to me.
So that’s why, just as another intrusive thought crawls its way into my head when I check the time on my phone and I’m still alone at the table, I push it off a metaphorical cliff.
She doesn’t control me anymore.
I’m not some puppet of her unethical ways. I’m not a bad daughter, a bad sister, a bad person. Fuck that.
So what if I’ve had bad luck in my family life? Had I not grown up in a loving and safe household anyway?
Sammy and Grace might not be my actual parents, but they raised me as such. They give me so much love, and support, and respect, and here I am being ungrateful for it. Just because I feel bad for making my brother pay my rent while I got my degree away from home?
Would I have felt the same way if my parents had been the ones to support me like that?
I’m getting a headache just thinking about all the what-ifs, but this time the guilt doesn’t come. I’m not naïve enough to believe it’s gone forever, yet this small reprieve feels like the breath of fresh air I’ve been craving for too long. For now, it’s enough.
What is also enough is the time I’ve been waiting for James.
After glancing at my phone for the umpteenth time and seeing no texts, I decide to reach out to him first. Just in case.
Me: Hey, I’ve been here for 15 mins. Are you going to take much longer?
Five minutes pass with no reply. Then five, and another five more.
He’s half an hour late.
Is he…
Have I been stood up?
Think happy thoughts.
Maybe he’s stuck in traffic and can’t check his phone, or maybe it died and that’s why he can’t text me back. Wait, no. That can’t be it because my texts have been delivered, which means his phone is turned on and he has reception.
What if there’s been an accident?
No. He’s fine. He’s coming. He’s just late.
And that’s what I keep telling myself for fifteen more minutes.
I keep lying to myself as the waiter asks if I’m ready to order or if we should wait for someone else.
I keep lying to myself as an hour goes by and James doesn’t show up, not bothering to send me a goddamn text apologizing, explaining himself, anything.
When I exit the restaurant with an empty stomach and an even emptier heart, I stop lying to myself.
He said he was always going to be here for me, but I should’ve known better than to believe his false promises.
He left once, and clearly he didn’t feel bad about it since he did it again.
As my car reaches my building, my phone rings.
But it’s not James.
It’s my mother.
