Page 78 of Best Part of Me

I am wrecked. Shattered. Utterly and completely destroyed. And I’m so afraid I’ll be too broken to ever be put back together again.

Lugging my suitcase behind me, I make the trek home. Only, when I get inside the quiet apartment and go into my bedroom, it hits me how long its been since I’ve slept here. I can’t even remember when the last time was. It will always feel like home here, the place Mom and Dad shared their life together for years, where Jones and I spent our adolescent years.

But I’d been staying at Chris’s apartment pretty consistently for the past year. Most of my personal belongings are there. I assume Chris has either donated everything to Goodwill or has set fire to them.

The room feels empty and cold, and this does nothing to console my aching heart and tears that won’t stop flowing. The only thing I can think to do is curl up in my bed and try to go to sleep, and maybe I’ll wake up and discover this whole thing was just a dream.

Except I never want to forget anything about the past ten days with Maverick.

Even though I don’t feel up to talking, Rosie is expecting a text from me.

Me

Home.

Rosie

And?

Me

I am destroyed.

Rosie

I’m going to fucking kill him!

Do you want me to come over?

Me

I’m exhausted. Gonna sleep. Text tomorrow.

Rosie

Love you!

Me

I know. Love you.

Unsure when I last slept in my bed, I sneak into the hall in search of clean sheets. The linen closet door creaks when I open it. I find a set of my favorite flannel sheets with skating penguins on them. Something my mom gave me for Christmas one year, despite the tag saying:From Santa. They smell like Mom. And like home. A tiny smidge of comfort unfurls in my chest.

Back in my room, I strip the bed and remake it. After a quick trip to the bathroom, where I avoid looking at my reflection, I return to my room and climb into my childhood bed. For now, the crying has stopped. But it left me with puffy, dry, and swollen eyes.

Instead of doing the sensible thing, like trying to sleep, I open the secret photo app on my phone. In the darkness of the room, I scroll through pictures from the trip. They begin with a photo I took of my hand out the window, feeling the wind whip through my open fingers. There’s one of my bare feet resting on the dash in Maverick’s Jeep.

I snapped a picture of the map before I began doodling on it. I don’t have to flip to the end of my photos to know there’s one of the finished map. It has little drawings of each campground we stopped at. A doodle of something special that happened at each one of those locations.

My chest burns as the memories flash into my mind with each photo I flip through. A few selfies of Maverick cause a slight smile to tug at my lips. Until my sadness is consumed by anguish, just like I assumed it would. It’s like I enjoy the beating. Like I deserve the punishment.

The reminder of the underlying reason why Maverick and I had to end things becomes front and center when Jones texts me. The notification feels like it taints the memories Maverick and I shared. I hurry to close out the secret photo album.

Jones

You’re home?

Me

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