Every Sunday night for the past five months, Matt and I have eaten dinner at Joyner’s. He picks me up and we fly through town in his massive beast of a truck, as predictable as an old married couple. You know, the old married couples who drive lifted Chevys.
Tonight, I went to Joyner’s to break up with him.
Heck, Becca even took me there this afternoon to rehearse, for crying out loud. I was prepared. Psyched. Ready to cut the cord and move on with the rest of senior year in relative peace. I felt like I was on top of the world, which is essential when you break up with someone. Because for those few moments, those moments you’re taking back control of your life, you sort of do own the world. You own your world.
But in a not-so-surprising turn of events, his clingy, leech of a best friend crashed our “date” and completely threw me off my game. And I was pushed to the side and ignored, which, whatever—I’m used to it. I just needed a new game plan.
Then Eric Perry walked in. Matt caught me glancing at him, and it was all downhill from there. The rest, as they say, is history.
As much I hate myself for it, for the briefest of seconds, I actually felt guilty. I felt guilty for looking at another human being. If Matt is good at anything, it’s laying on a guilt trip worthy of courtroom dramatics. And I can still hear his whisper in my ear while we were sitting in that booth, the smirk I heard in his voice as he said, “You’re positive that you’re the one who gave him a ride last night?”
So I stormed out. Screamed at him in the middle of the parking lot. Further transformed into this person he’s turned me into, someone who yells at her boyfriend outside of a crappy barbecue joint, for Christ’s sake. We might as well have been in some freaking Lifetime movie.
I was this close to walking home—three miles be damned—when Eric showed up in the parking lot. And somehow, for some reason, I knew I’d be okay. And the words finally spilled out, like poison purging from my gut, and it felt really, really good. I wanted to say them again, and again, and again.
We’re done. I should have that tattooed somewhere.
I feel Eric’s eyes on me as I head across my yard, arms crossed tightly as my boots sink into the grass. I thanked him for giving me a ride tonight, but I don’t think he realizes how it was so much more than a lift home. If I’d have walked away from that parking lot, I don’t know if I would’ve worked up the nerve to do what had to be done.
My house is dark when I walk inside, like always. Quiet, like always.
Lifeless. Like always.
My dad became a truck driver two years ago. The longest stretch I’ve seen him in those two years is three weeks, if that. And while I can’t blame him for wanting to get the heck away from this town, it’d be nice if he remembered me on his way out.
I hang my keys on the hook beside the door. Unzip my boots and leave them on the entry rug. Toss my purse onto the couch.
We’re done.
My heart stutters, my steps faltering to match. I shake my head. Take a deep breath. Keep going.
Despite my socks, the cold hardwood chills my feet as I turn down the hall; crappy insulation and even crappier heat tends to do that. I head into the bathroom. Squeeze makeup remover onto a tissue. Pretend I don’t notice the shake in my hand. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, of bloodshot eyes that are red from crying way too much over someone who doesn’t deserve a single tear.
We’re so, so done.
They’re my words—I actually said them out loud instead of daydreaming them—but they sound foreign as they play over and over and over in my head.
Routine, Bri. Stick to the routine. Routine is safe. Routine will keep me from collapsing.
I’m not allowed to collapse. Collapsing leads to tears, and I’m so tired of tears it’s not even funny.
Makeup: off. Yoga pants and hoodie: on. In my room, I fall back onto my bed, my head sinking into the cool pillow. It’s not even seven o’clock, but exhaustion hits like a ton of bricks.
Here’s the thing no one knows about me: I was four the first time my mom called me stupid. Some people get all huffy and insist there’s no way I can remember something from that long ago, that I was only a kid and I’ve probably just made it up over time, but stuff like that sticks with a girl more strongly than Krazy Glue.
My first memory is my mother calling me stupid. And that wasn’t the last time.
She left when I was seven, in the middle of the night. That’s actually why Dad and I eventually moved into this house; it was cheaper and Mom left him with a metric ton of debt. Dad said she was someone who never wanted to be a mom in the first place, which didn’t exactly make me feel better. Seriously, what kid wants to hear that? But the more I think about it, the more time passes, the more I realize Dad was right. And now I know that life has been better without her.
Matt and I had been dating for two months when he told me he loved me. The next week, he called me stupid for the first time. It wasn’t the playful “You’re so stupid” kind of thing—it was the “stupid” that sinks to your core, the one that makes you second-guess everything you think you know. If one person says something, it hits you hard. If someone else chimes in with the same thing, even if it’s years later, you start to wonder if it’s true.
Tonight wasn’t the first time he called me stupid. But it’ll most definitely be the last.
An engine cranks outside. I glance out my window right as Mrs. Perry’s van pulls onto the road. They leave at the same time every Sunday night, on their way to church. And now, I really am alone on our tiny stretch of back road.
Eric invited me over, but being around people increases the chance of them seeing you break. I hate being alone. I hate people seeing me break even more.
My phone buzzes from the nightstand. I glance over, at the picture of Matt filling the screen. He’s shirtless, grinning that grin that gets him out of everything under the sun. I took that picture on his parents’ boat, when we went to the lake for Labor Day weekend. Right before he told me that my hips looked huge in my bikini. He said it with that grin. I wore a cover-up for the rest of the weekend.
This is the same guy who’s sat beside me during National Honor Society meetings for the past two years. He brought me tulips on the first day of senior year. Told me that he’d been working up the guts to ask me out for months, ever since we worked on Habitat for Humanity together last spring.
I grinned like an idiot. I should’ve run like hell.
He had Honor Society and baseball; I had Honor Society and soccer. He had his friends; I had mine. We partnered in Biology and dissected cow eyeballs together. We danced at Homecoming and spent vacations at his parents’ lake house. For a while, things between us were absolutely, positively, mind-blowingly perfect.
Until they weren’t.
That’s when the dream guy turned into someone who ignores you when you do better on a test than he does. Who gets annoyed when you’re voted president of National Honor Society, and he gets vice president. Who gets royally pissed when you’re told that you’re at the top of the class, and he’s second.
He’s the one who grabs your wrist when you try to walk away from a fight during Christmas vacation. Who wouldn’t dare grab you hard enough to leave a bruise, because dear God, he’s not a monster, but who also won’t let you get the last word. Who convinces you that you deserved it.
And now tears are streaming down my cheeks. Dang it.
In the silence of our old, drafty house, my sniffling sounds more like a race horse. The phone buzzes again. And again. And again. Out of habit, I reach for the stupid phone. Texts and a voicemail already cover my lock screen. But instead of answering, I press the button until it switches off. And for the briefest of brief seconds, my heart relaxes the slightest bit.
I toss my phone onto the floor. Grab the remote from my nightstand. Turn on the TV and thank heaven for the Supernatural reruns on basic cable. And I try to forget that stupid boys and their stupid grins exist.
Because just like life has been much better without my mom, life will be so much better without Matt Harris. Eventually.
~
Monday morning brings clouds instead of sunshine, which makes it infinitely harder to get out of bed. I’m the weird person who adores Mondays. They test you, show you what you’re made of. And after a weekend from hell, I’m up for anything Monday has to offer.
Bring it.
After my morning run, I get ready for school and shove my soccer practice sweats into my gear bag. With the new season starting up, at least I’ll have one more distraction. I snatch my phone from the floor and stuff it into my backpack. Without turning it on. Which should be celebrated with a freaking parade.
If I turn it on, I’ll snap. I’ll break. I’m teetering on a fine, fine line of some semblance of sanity, and if I feel the buzz of another voicemail waiting for me—which there no doubt will be—I’ll fall right over the edge.
Smile’s on. And out the door I go.
The old porch steps creak beneath my boots as I jog down. The Perrys’ door slams just as I reach my car. They file out one-by-one, almost like a family of ducks. Pastor Perry slides into his car, Grace and Emma hop into their mom’s van, and Eric slings his own gear bag into the bed of his truck. Before he climbs in, he catches me watching. Even though they’re slightly shielded beneath that ratty baseball cap of his, his dark eyes are shining. And then, he grins.
Stupid boys and their stupid grins.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” he calls.
Opening my car door, I roll my eyes, but there’s no holding back my smile. If there’s one thing he’s always been good at, it’s making me smile like an idiot. “That’s beyond cheesy,” I call back. “Like, master-level cheese.” And kind of sweet. But no way am I telling him that.
He points at me, that grin of his only widening. “But you’re smiling. My work here is done.” He climbs into his truck, and it roars to life. All I can do is shake my head. Which seems to be a running theme when I’m around him lately.
While his engine roars to life, mine sputters. Which can’t be a good sign, but considering my dad is always gone just so we can afford actual food, the Check Engine light is a permanent fixture on my dashboard.
By the time I pull into the senior lot at school, it’s almost packed full. And the closer I get to my spot, the more my stomach sinks. And then it straight-up plummets.
Matt’s here already, his truck parked beside my usual spot.
It’s not that I’m scared of him. He wouldn’t actually do anything to me—at least, I don’t think he would. Not here. Not in front of everyone, in front of the people he’s managed to fool into thinking he’s perfection personified. But that doesn’t mean he won’t do something.
He’s a master of words, of twisting and turning them until my brain twists and turns to fall in line with them. It’s the downside of falling head over heels for someone—your brain falls for whatever they have to say, even if it’s a load of shit.
I park and take a deep breath, and then another. Slide out of the car, grab my things, and start for the school, keeping my eyes trained ahead.
“Bri,” he says on an exhale, like he’s relieved to see me, and just like that, I melt.
I hate myself for it. But I do keep walking. Which slightly makes up for the hatred.
He grabs my shoulder just as I touch the door handle. Without turning, I say, “What.”
“I’m sorry.”
He’s always sorry.
I peer through the narrow glass on the door, into the hallway. School is my safe place. It’s my haven. And he’s keeping me from it.
“Is all this because of the Perry thing?” he says. “You know that was your fault in the first place, right? If you hadn’t—”
I shrug out of his hold and yank the door open. My boots click on the polished floor as I stride toward homeroom, leaving him as far away as possible. My cheeks heat and my tears pool and my throat tightens, but I slip into the room just before the final bell, closing the door behind me. One more door between me and Matt. It’s not enough. But it’s a start.
Keeping my head low, I make my way across the room, where Becca’s sitting in the back corner. I slide into the desk in front of hers. Release the breath that I think I’ve been holding since Matt grabbed my shoulder. Remind myself that I actually have to breathe to survive.
“Hey,” Becca whispers.
I turn. Becca Daniels and I have been friends ever since we tried out for JV soccer together during freshman year. She’s the best goalie in the state, hands-down. At any given moment, she looks like she just stepped off a runway—all perfect hair and makeup, usually with killer heels to match. She could also kick your ass into oblivion on the soccer field.
“You never texted me last night,” she says, eyeing me carefully. “Did you do it?”
The tears still line my eyes, because no matter how hard I try, no matter how many doors I put between us, that boy will always, always find a way to make me cry. All I can do is nod.
Relief floods her face as she straightens in her seat. “Good,” she says. “Let’s keep it that way.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice.