Page 187 of The Perfect Love

“It is.”

“I just don’t know what process means? Process how she feels that my former roommate raped her? Process how she feels about me getting into a fight and getting arrested in defense of her? Process how she feels that the guy who raped her essentially said I helped him get away with it? Or maybe it’s to process how best to break up with me—”

“Stop.” Nick’s voice is commanding in the way I only ever hear him use with his three-year-old son. “Hyla told me… everything. And I don’t for one second think that Chelsea is figuring out how to break up with you. Her trauma was just thrown back in her face, and that’s a lot to deal with.”

“But—”

“No. No buts. I know how you are. I know how you care. And I know how you blame yourself and take on the weight of the world. But what happened was not your fault. I’ll tell you that as many times as I need to for you to believe it. I know you feel like you failed her, but you didn’t. You have done nothing but love her, wide open, with your whole heart. She knows that. Now you have to trust that she loves you the same way.”

“What if love isn’t enough?”

“If love is enough to transcend death—and we both know it is because we still feel the love of the parents we’ve lost—then it’s enough to get you through this. It’s more than enough. You can be hurt and angry and regretful all you want, but I won’t let you give in to that darkness—that heaviness—inside you that says it’s all your fault. So shut up.”

With that, he gets off the couch, goes to the freezer, and brings back two pints of ice cream. The one he hands me is some kind of mint and chocolate.

“Sorry. It’s not Mint-Ting-A-Ling, but it’ll have to do. And if you’re eating, you can’t waste your breath blaming yourself.”

I let out a whisper of a laugh at that. “I hate you.”

He blows me a kiss. “Love you too.”

Nick stayed the night last night and left earlier today. While his visit helped, I’m still mopey, pissy, and a bunch of other crankydwarves. At least I got dressed in something other than sweats and went to the grocery store today. That’s something. Still no sign of Robbie and no word from Chelsea.

I’ve wanted to call or text constantly, but she wanted space, and no matter how badly I want to apologize or talk to her or fix things, I will always respect her wishes. Even if it kills me.

With nothing else to do besides worry, stress, wonder if I’ve lost the woman I love, and rage over the fact that DJ might somehow still win in this scenario, I put on one of my favorite audiobooks earlier and started baking and cooking. Focusing on not fucking up a recipe means less brain space for intrusive thoughts and overthinking.

At least there will be plenty of treats for Chelsea to enjoy whenever she gets back.

Or for me to binge eat if she doesn’t come back.

Nope.

I dish out a piece of the soufflé I made and as many of the oven baked fries as will fit on my plate, and head out to the living room, where I turn on the TV and scroll through streaming services, hoping for something to catch my interest, but nothing does.

I’m close to putting onTerminator 2when my phone goes off.

As usual, hope soars through me then promptly dies when I don’t see Chelsea’s name on the display. Instead, it’s a text from Rae.

Rae: Hey, so Sarah and Joel had a thing a little while ago. She left and now she’s not answering her phone. Can you just let me know if you hear from her or see her?

I growl and throw my head back. Because of fucking course. What does Sarah do when she’s hurting? Push the people who love her most away. Rae’s texting because she thinks Sarah might come here. One other safe spot away from the restof them. But I doubt that. Alcohol is Sarah’s favorite coping mechanism.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to scream. The last thing I want to do tonight is deal with my ex-girlfriend’s bullshit. We’ll always be close friends, but this is not my fucking problem anymore. I have enough problems. The second I think those words, I feel like a selfish prick.

With a sigh, I read the texts again, then send a response.

Me: I haven’t heard anything, but I’ll let you know if I do. Do you want me to check downtown for her car?

Rae: Maybe if we don’t hear from her soon. I’ll let you know.

I toss my phone back on the couch and shake my head because despite what Rae said and how shitty I’m feeling, I already know what I’m going to be doing tonight. Because I care. I fucking care about the people in my life, and that drive to help however I can won’t let me sit here for long.

Hauling drunk people around is not my favorite activity, yet here I am on a Friday night, dragging my ex out of a bar so I can take her back to her current boyfriend. That is just par for the course of this shitty week.

How has it only been three days since I was sitting in the front seat of my car, having a conversation with Chelsea about having kids?

Before everything was completely fucked up.

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