Turns out, his Christmas gift was the last thing I should have been concerned about.
I flick open the empty journal and run my fingers along the lines that should be filled with his thoughts.
Maybe I’ll keep it for myself. Make it the place I pour out all toxic emotions.
I pick up a pen and try to write. Nothing happens.
I close my eyes, but all I get is a cavalcade of Holt. Kissing me. Holding my hand.
I wrap my arms around myself to stop the pain.
God, I miss him.
Being away from him is one thing. Being emotionally severed from him is another. Both together are unbearable.
My last thread of self-control snaps. I grab my phone.
He said he wanted to be friends, right? I draft five texts before settling on one that sounds casual enough to be friendly.
<Hey. Guessing your Christmas lunch was better than mine. Nothing says “Christmas” like fake turkey and nutloaf, right? Hope you’re doing well.>
As soon as I hit send, I want to take it back.
I spend the next hour in purgatory, waiting for him to reply.
The hour after that I spend making up excuses as to why he hasn’t.
The hour after that I feel more stupid than I ever have in my entire life. So ridiculous, and pathetic, and viciously dumb. I cry hot tears, and my chest nearly cracks with the effort to stay silent so my parents don’t hear.
I throw my phone on the floor and try to sleep.
A tiny masochistic part of me keeps waking during the night to check if he’s texted.
When morning breaks, he still hasn’t.
“Cassie?”
Go away, Mom.
“Sweetheart, come on.”
“I’m sleeping.”
“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. You need to eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
The bed dips. A hand touches my head and strokes hair that hasn’t been washed in the five days I’ve been home.
“Honey, I wish you’d tell me what happened. Maybe I can help.”
You can’t.
“Does this have something to do with that boy you were seeing? Ethan?”
I don’t answer, but Mom knows. Only love gone wrong could make a woman behave like this. I’ve seen her after she and Dad have fought. Heartsick looks the same on everyone.
“Sweetheart,” she says as she strokes my back. “Surely no boy is worth this. If he didn’t want you, then he’s obviously defective.”
She’s right. He is.
That was one of the things that attracted me to him in the first place.
“He didn’t … hurt you, did he? Physically, I mean.”
I shake my head and block out images of how I gasped when he pushed inside me.
“So this is all just emotional?”
Just emotional? There’s no such thing. Emotions are nothing without a corresponding physical response. Adrenaline-fueled joy, heart-thumping fear, gut-churning loss.
Sure, Mom. It’s just emotional.
I nod, because I know it’ll make her feel better.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head again, really needing this conversation to be over.
She sighs and squeezes my shoulder.
I wait until she closes the door before I turn my face to the wall and go back to sleep.
“He’s a fucking idiot.” I can almost see the look of disdain on Ruby’s face through the phone.
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Yeah, well, I do. He hasn’t called you at all? Not even on Christmas Day?”
“No. I texted him.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. I missed him, I guess.”
“Did he text back?”
“No.”
“Cock.”
“I don’t know what I expected,” I say, and lie back on my bed. “We broke up.”
“No, he broke you up. There was no ‘we’ in that scenario. And don’t make excuses for him. He doesn’t deserve them.”
I really wish she were here.
Mom and Dad don’t understand, but Ruby does.
“What are you going to do when you see him at school on Monday?”
“I have no idea. Drop out?”
“Cassie, don’t even joke about that. Don’t you dare let that douchenozzle ruin your college experience. Just block him out. Do your work and kick ass. Don’t give him power over you, and you’ll be fine.”
I sigh. It’s not like I want him to have power over me, but I can’t stop thinking about him.
“So, I’m coming back on the ninth,” I say.
“I’ll be back from my parents’ by then. I’ll pick you up from the airport.”
“Thanks, Ruby.”
I’m just about to hang up when she says, “Cassie?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to be okay.” Her voice is soft and sympathetic. “I know it probably doesn’t feel like it now, but you will be.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know.”
I hang up and rub my eyes. The truth is, I know no such thing.
I pretend to read even though I’ve been staring at the same page for over an hour. My headphones block out the sound of Mom and Dad bickering downstairs. I have Simon & Garfunkel’s “I Am a Rock” on repeat. I kind of hate the song, but the lyrics speak to me.
They talk about a rock not feeling pain and an island never crying. Sound good to me.