Let’s Hear it For Rock Bottom

Holden

I’m fortunate I’ve never suffered through a bad breakup before now. When I was in high school, I had a girlfriend for three months, but we parted on good terms. She was pretty and popular, so I got the impression she was more interested in Phil, anyway. Then I dated a sociology major during my undergrad. She found someone she was more interested in after about eight months. Neither time was I in love, so there was no heartache. No self-loathing or questioning what to do with myself.

This time around, I feel like I’ve been gutted. My stomach has been an endless well of anguish for twenty straight days. I have barely eaten, haven’t shaved, and haven’t given a thought to my thesis beyond thinking that I should be thinking about it.

Sam and Phil have both tried calling for days, but I can’t bring myself to answer. That’s probably why the two of them are barging into my house right now and finding me sprawled out on the sofa watching reruns of Brooklyn Nine-Nine. If Captain Holt can’t make a person laugh, they must be dead inside.

“He’s aliiiiive!” Sam jests as he pokes me in the ribs. “At least, I think he is.”

My parents’ request to have keypads on the door with four-digit codes is just another one of their demands I resent right now. Another way for my mother to exhibit control.

“Oh good, he’s breathing,” Phil chides as he walks past me. “But he needs a shower. You look like rock bottom if it had a face.”

Looking down at my Offspring T-shirt, I try to recall which day I put it on. Pretty sure this is only day two. “Not in the mood, man.”

“For jokes or a shower?”

I shake my head as I prop myself up in a seated position. “Neither.”

“Yeah, I figured. We brought beer. In the mood for one of those?” Phil smirks, but it disappears quickly.

“No.”

For a comedian, Phil can flip to serious mode like a light switch. “I’m not going to ask what happened, but I’ll just make it clear that when you’re ready to talk about it, we’re here to listen.”

These two have been the best support system a guy could ask for, all through public school, until now. They were both the good-looking cool guys who had charisma and flair to spare. They took me, the quiet little nerd, under their wings and always watched my back. Most people assumed we had an arrangement where I did their homework for them, but they’re both as smart as I am. They were just good friends and continue to be to this day.

That may be why I feel so pathetic right now. I’m supposed to be a grown man and I’ve let my mother destroy the best thing to ever happen to me. My time with Dina made up less than one percent of my life, but somehow she consumed the entire thing. Like my life didn’t start until she was in it.

Phil hands me a beer as he drops onto the loveseat to my right. “You love her.”

I nod my thanks for the beer, crack it open and take a sip. If for no other reason than to delay confirming that. Not past tense. I didn’t love her. I do love her. “Yeah.”

“Then it’s not over. If she’s important to you, figure it out.”

“I can’t.” I set my beer on the coffee table and mimic Phil’s slouched posture in my own seat. “It’s not about me.”

Sam clears his throat and adds, “When it comes to who you love, it should only be about you, man. It’s not up to anyone else.”

Phil and I stare at Sam, who has been virtually silent until he drops a matter-of-fact statement out of nowhere.

“You guys need to give me more credit. You know musicians are deep thinkers. Stop being so surprised.”

Sam’s mock outrage makes my chest rumble with laughter, and I realize it’s been nearly three weeks since I heard that sound. It’s a nice change; something that even Detective Jake Peralta couldn’t achieve.

But I’m not ready to dish all the details of what happened. Not ready to confess what a coward I am. Or how I let Dina slip through my fingers because I didn’t want to offend my mother—who, in all honesty, doesn’t deserve that kind of sacrifice right now. But it’s so much more than choosing one over the other. A future with Dina, against my mother’s wishes, means tension and conflict. Things that often overshadow love and respect. As ashamed as I am over Imogen Edwards’ mindset—which is largely because of the Royal Family drama—I can’t turn my back on my family. I can’t ask the rest of them to pick sides, so I have to.

Every rational thought tells me to let Dina go. Give her the chance to find someone with a family who accepts her for the incredible person she is. Someone who can fill that gap she’s been missing for the past nine years. But that thought turns the beer in my stomach sour.

So instead of diving into the situation further, I dismiss it and move on. “Thanks, guys. Should we order food?”

A short time later, we’re diving in to Bajan food, while Phil and Sam laugh at something on the TV. I force a chuckle to make it seem like I was paying attention. I appreciate their offer to talk, but there’s nothing anyone can say to fix this.

For now, I’ll just take comfort in knowing they have my back, even when I smell like a donkey in a compost heap.

Nothing on social media ever interested me before. I have various accounts because that’s how people keep in touch these days and it helps connect with family still living in the United Kingdom, but I never found myself scrolling for hours, drawn to the content. Not until seeing the odd picture of Dina and Nacho pop up is the only bright spot in my life.

I could delete my account and spare myself the torture of seeing her but not being able to talk to her. Touch her. Kiss her. All things I miss. But I’m a bit of a masochist because the pain of seeing her is at least a reminder of the thrill of loving her—which I still do. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to stop. Our relationship was quick, intense, and life changing. Problem is, now my life has been changed, and I can’t change it back.

She posted a picture of her and Nacho in their cold weather gear, down at the waterfront earlier this morning. Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes look sad, but she’s plastered on a smile for the selfie with her beloved pooch. Nacho is rocking his signature angry eyebrows, looking unpleased he’s been forced into his sweater again.

Is she trying to appear unaffected? Or has she just moved on? It’s been four weeks. That’s more than half as long as we were officially together. I can’t expect her to stay hung up on me forever. Or at all. I don’t deserve that kind of commitment.

My finger hovers over the like button. Would it be wrong to click on it? To let her know I see her and I’m not indifferent to her striking brown eyes or soft pink lips? It feels rude to see it and not acknowledge it.

Even Napoleon sent a letter to the Russians in War and Peace, trying to come to a resolution. Granted, it seemed he wanted them to surrender, but he still tried. If he could reach out in the middle of war, would it be so bad if I did?

So many unanswered questions.

I’m desperate for an interaction with her, but worry that reminding her of my existence would only disrupt the contentment she seems to have found. Or at least it could get me blocked. If I lost my lifeline to seeing her photos, I’d be completely adrift in a sea of unresolved feelings I can’t navigate.

So I remove my finger, only to click on the photo and save it to my phone’s memory. Nothing says you’re moving on like a collection of your ex’s photos in your gallery to pull up at random moments. She can have her peace, and I’ll keep battling my internal war.

I set my phone face down on my desk and pep talk myself to get back to working on this paperwork. The weeks are ticking by, and once I submit my advisor request in three days, I will be full speed ahead on my thesis. This is the last phase of the nine-year-long process, but it doesn’t feel like an accomplishment anymore.