Page 113 of The Lucky One

But violence wasn’t me. I was going crazy again, reverting to the person I was the last time he hurt me. I couldn’t let him wield so much power over me anymore. I ran off without trying to get the last word.

When I was on the bus, I finally let the tears roll.

I could’ve had it all, but I chose not to have the perfect high school love story. No, I had to fall for someone who couldn’t love me back.

I’m sorry, past me, but I fell in love too much...

I stayed on the bus until I was out of town, heading to a specific destination—the place where I’d experienced the highest of highs this spring. The poetry slam bar was empty. No surprise, given that it was late afternoon on a weekday. The waiter eyed me suspiciously but allowed me to stay when I said I only wanted to watch the performers and have a Coke Zero.

I sipped my drink, looking up at the empty stage and recalling his words. One step forward, three steps back. But she came wandering in and got me back on track. In poems you speak the truth; you don’t lie only to make it sound nice. He spoke from the heart... but today all I saw in his eyes was darkness. He hated me.

I clenched my fingers around the glass. Maybe they were right after all. Danielle had never trusted him. And Kiki couldn’t change him, so why should I? Even Tim had warned me to walk away.

Eventually the bar began to fill, and the slam started. I listened to a story of firsts by a young girl with such a powerful voice, I was shocked it belonged to her. Then a man delivered a humorous piece about turning thirty. Everyone around me was laughing, but I didn’t feel like joining them. When the speaker called for a break, I pulled out my little black book and wrote down all the reasons Jon was bad for me.

The Jon List

Won’t marry me to stay in the USA

Makes me go crazy

Drug addict

Ignores me

Makes me sad

I couldn’t help but add points in favor of him:

He excites me

He makes me believe in myself

I love him

I shut my book. This wasn’t helping. I still had reasons to not give up on him, even though I was breaking apart.

A man cleared his throat into the microphone, and my heart clenched for a second when I looked up at him. With his pale gray hair, turtleneck sweater, and rectangular glasses, he reminded me of Richard.

“My piece is called ‘Ain’t Pretty.’” He cleared his throat again and gazed up at the ceiling. Except for some glasses clinking at the bar, the room was quiet. Everyone was listening.

“My kids called me a narcissist, which ain’t pretty.”

“According to plan, they played into my hands. Praise after praise, I was the best. Oh, how I relished the quest.”

“But with time they kept needing me less and less. Not caring, not bothering to tell me I was the best.”

“I blamed myself, was I in the wrong? But then I said: enough! And I was the one with a heart of stone. Unappreciated. Thrown out. I was replaced with boyfriends and a new crowd.”

“Daddy wasn’t right anymore—so all I did was ignore. Giving them what they asked for: a cold shoulder, gone was the charm. They moved out, barely called...”

“But they weren’t wrong. I realized it when I was all alone, my mind ringing like a gong. A narcissist I was, wanting to be the king of my ego-throne. Writing a grand plan with no twist or turn. The center of attention, the world revolved around me. Expected kids to act like grown-ups—the blame was on me.”

“The ego is so big, it’s like a black hole. It sucks in the praise and loses its soul. I stepped up, gave them what they needed. Only to discover, it’s me who ain’t pretty.”

Tears welled in my eyes, and I found myself nodding in understanding. There were always more sides to the story, I realized. I knew my side, my brother’s, my Mama’s—but I had never considered theirs.

I jumped up and darted outside the bar, to the brick wall where once upon a time Jon and I couldn’t get enough of each other. I scrolled down my contacts and found a number I hadn’t tried reaching in almost a year.

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