I try Judd’s cell phone a few more times, but he never picks up and he never calls back.
Maybe it’s for the best. We had one amazing week together. One unbelievable night together. And now it’s over. He gave me just enough to make me realize there’s hope for my future, but we don’t have to go through the painful parts of a relationship that come later.
But even as I’m saying this to myself, I know it’s complete bullshit.
If I can never be with him again, it’s going to hurt.
Bad.
I’m falling for him. Yes, I got scared this morning, but isn’t he the one who said we should talk through these kinds of things? Well, if he wants to talk, he’ll call.
And if not, then I’ll move on. I’ll find a way to get up every day and keep breathing.
Over the next few days, I have to give myself constant pep talks to keep from completely falling apart. I stopped calling and texting him, sick of feeling desperate. The whole thing reminds me of how things went with Preston after the summer. It was always me chasing and him running away.
I can’t go through that again.
I throw myself into my studies, head to my final classes and do the best I can on the exams. My statistics test was the worst, and it’ll be a miracle if I passed, but everything else seemed to go alright.
In order to keep myself from falling back into my old pattern of sleeping all day and crying every waking moment, I spend a lot of time in the art studio, working on a new painting.
I’m scrubbing red paint off my fingers with scalding hot water when Monica pokes her head into my bathroom doorway on Wednesday afternoon.
“Heya,” she says. “Any news?”
I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say.
She frowns. “I really thought this guy was different,” she says. “I don’t get it.”
“You and me both,” I say, holding back tears. “I guess I freaked him out by the way I acted the other morning and he just doesn’t want to see me again.”
She grips the edge of the doorframe. “I don’t know. I still think it’s weird,” she says. “Especially after he rushed right over here the second you didn’t answer your phone that one day. Hey, maybe he’s just waiting for you to come by his place?”
I lift my head, wondering if that’s what I should do. Should I fight for this? Should I make him listen to my apology and see what he has to say for himself?
My stomach feels sick just thinking about it. “I’ve got to go to work for a few hours this afternoon,” I say. “Maybe I’ll try stopping by his apartment after that. If he doesn’t talk to me, then at least I’ll know it’s over for good.”
Monica sighs. “I really thought he was special.”
“Me too,” I say again. I wipe my clean hands on a towel, then get dressed for work and head out into the cold afternoon.