You must be a magician, because the way you would disappear surprised me every time. I would wait there in your empty space, waving my hands around, grasping for something tangible, unbelieving that you would ever walk away on purpose. This morning you finally text me after four weeks of silence. but my fingers haven’t quite made their way back to respond. There really isn’t much to say to “I’m eight weeks pregnant, it’s his, I’m keeping it, I’m staying here, and I hope you understand.” I can’t help but feel like maybe I’m the one who is crazy. Who really believes that they met their soul mate at a summer camp when they were nineteen years old? I am not angry with you. I have no intentions of staying friends, but I don’t resent you for the way you treated me. That would take far too much effort than I am willing to give to you right now. I stood there, over and over, fielding problems, taking punches and you kept throwing them my way, certain that I’d still be there when the last one was thrown. You were right. I’ve paid dearly for it. What you didn’t know is that I have kept a journal every single day since late April, where I’d write to you – telling you my feelings in a way that wouldn’t overwhelm you until I had you here in front of me and could wrap you in my arms to ease your anxiety. And that I have spent hours since you vanished making lists of things that you should know when you moved to California. The best places to get your oil changed. Neighborhoods that are worth avoiding after dark. All of the best vegetarian restaurants Los Angeles has to offer. I kept telling myself that if I held on long enough, that you would come around. That when you finally arrived you would see that someone out here really does love you, and that California is a great place to make a home. What I didn’t know was that you had already found that in the arms of a man-child under strobe lights and false pretenses. Still, I am not broken. After each ragged breath I remind myself that this does not change who I am or what I am worth. That just because you didn’t know what you found in me, doesn’t mean that the next woman will make the same mistake. I tell myself again and again that when she asks for my heart, I won’t give her an excuse, or a sad story about the time that I let a stranger break it, but instead I’ll give her my hand. I’ll tell her that hearts and hands are closely connected and that every fingertip intertwined is a life line. That the oxygen pumping from my heart to my fingers will always circulate faster when she is around, and that if she wants proof she needs only to look into my eyes. A place that you never dared to go. Speaking of fingertips, mine have finally made their way back to my phone. It wasn’t really news I appreciated getting via text, but we were far past common courtesy. I type out “Good luck.” It feels so impersonal. I delete it and try again. “The thing I don’t understand is how you didn’t care enough to tell me four weeks ago so I could move on.” That doesn’t feel right either. Slowly, I type “I understand. I wish you all the best in your future, and I hope that you have found in them everything that you were looking for.” I hesitate. I don’t want to send this. I don’t want to understand or wish you the best, and I can’t imagine any world where he would ever be better for you than I would have been. I erase the words. I sit my phone down on the desk, and go back to work instead. Here, I can remember what to do with my hands.
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Tennessee Martin
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