Page 50 of Implode

I glance around the kitchen for the microwave and am surprised to find none exists. I see where it should be located, but it is just not there. Moving over to the stove, I push several buttons but nothing makes it come to life. It probably is disconnected. Ugh. Beggars can’t be choosers. I pick up the bowl and lean over to take a sip from the room temperature soup. It could be worse. It can always be worse.

I sit on a haggard-looking bar stool and devour the heavily processed, sodium-enriched soup. It is pretty gross, yet weirdly nostalgic. I am seated in the same location where I would do my homework after school, usually while eating a bowl of cereal. One day—probably between Thanksgiving and Christmas—I accidentally had my first real taste of soured milk. It wasn’t long after that my stomach rejected the spoiled food from my body. Now, as a result of that incident, I smell milk before I ever pour it, and because I mostly consume a vegan diet, I stick with almond or oat milk as my main source of calcium.

Similar to now, I usually had the whole place to myself while here. It was easy to invite friends over or whatever boyfriend I was seeing at the time and have it all go undetected. It should have been a teenager’s dream to have that much leeway and slack for their actions, but I was always crying out in a figurative way to be seen. To be heard. To be noticed. Getting punished would have been welcomed. At least then I would know that someone cared enough to try to steer me in the right direction.

The guys I would associate with told me I was pretty. They would attend the games where I would cheer. At lunch, I had someone to eat with me. I soaked up the fact I was no longer left alone and equated someone “showing up” as love, when in fact they just didn’t have anything better to do. So they did me. I had low self-esteem and that made me an easy victim. The littlest attention would make me soar. I was easy to take advantage of.

I wish I created better memories with the freedom I was allotted, but I don’t have that many. I lacked the structure that was needed for me to successfully establish boundaries with my relationships. The years in high school were not the best ones of my life. It was a time of competition. Competing for my parents’ attention and trying to seek validation of my self-worth with every guy I would “date.”

I am sure word got out fast that I liked the bad boys. I was simply looking for any type of connection with someone who just happened to be equally as damaged.

Shit.

That’s it.

Damaged people attract other damaged people.

That’s how I stuck around with Ethan for as long as I did, and that’s how I allowed Nic to infiltrate my heart and take up residence there.

We are just damaged souls, stumbling around in life trying to heal our past wounds.

Glancing around the empty house, I know that my healing process must start and end with myself. No one else cares about my welfare more than I do.

14

CLAIRE

I eat about half the soup. It is just enough to calm my hunger and keep my nausea at bay. If I was smart, I would have taken a chance on the airplane food. But hindsight is always twenty-twenty. I was never expecting to come here and find it deserted. The ability to give people the benefit of the doubt or multiple chances must be a deeply rooted character flaw, because no matter how many times I let my guard down, I always wind up getting hurt.

I meander about the main floor, walking from room to room, desperately trying to remember holidays and birthdays and any type of goodness. So much has tainted the good that it is hard to even see through the haze. I walk to the place I used to put up the Christmas tree. I would decorate it while jamming out to holiday music and munching on homemade cookies. I was one of those people who would make my own fun. I had a hefty allowance and would buy whatever I thought would help me achieve superficial happiness.

It is ironic that now that I have less, I feel like I am finally on the right road of figuring out what I really want in life. I want a job that excites me. Plus None checks all of the boxes. I want friends who are there for me—even when I am at a low point. I lacked that while living here. People wanted to be around me for what I could do for their social status. When I got into River Valley and met Angie and Blake, it was clear to see that I never had friends here. They taught me so much about myself and what I deserved. I want a man who wants me beyond sex. Someone who will fight for me. Defend me. I don’t want to be the option until something better comes along. I want certainty that what I have to offer is enough.

I’ve never had that type of connection with a man until I met Nic. Then he turned out to be just like the rest. I am past those days. I have moved on from this house and my old mindset. I want better for myself. I deserve better. I cannot keep repeating the same pattern of behaviors and expect anything to change. It starts with me. I have some control over my destiny.

I fish out my journal from my carry-on bag and write some encouraging phrases for the entry I started on the plane.

Always look toward the sun and what brings you joy.

You are not the same girl you were yesterday.

It is okay to make mistakes, but learn from them.

I carry my bags upstairs and find the door to my former bedroom. It creaks when I open it. I look around the room and see defeat. Boxes border the wall with the windows. With a black marker, my name is labeled with scribbles on the sides. The curtains look like they haven’t been washed in years. My bed? Gone. Dresser? Draped with dusty sheets. I can’t help but question why I even needed to come back in the first place. What is between these walls that I want to hold on to or remember? Nothing is really sacred or of value.

I wheel my luggage inside and instantly feel claustrophobic, so I open up the windows to let in some fresh air. With the breeze comes the outside noise of sirens and horns honking. Even in the wee hours of the morning, there are still signs of chaos. I used to embrace the noise. Now, I look for the quiet. I leave the windows open long enough to set up a makeshift bed on the floor using a few folded blankets from the closet and a rolled-up hoodie from my carry-on. Without the air conditioning running, I won’t need to worry about getting too cold on the floor. I just need a few hours of rest and tomorrow I can start packing up a few things.

Laying my head on my lumpy improvised pillow, I drift off to sleep thinking about how far I have come. I now realize how unacceptable my welcome home really is from someone who claimed to love me.

* * *

The sound of the front door opening startles me. I roll to my back and feel like I aged a decade overnight. My neck is sore, and my spine feels like it got slammed by a ton of bricks. I feel anything but rested.

I am wearing the same clothes I wore on the plane yesterday and feel another layer of grossness because of it. I really need to shower and get into something clean.

I hoist myself off the floor and walk downstairs to greet Mom in the foyer. She looks good. Her hands are full, holding two coffees, and she has her purse draped over her shoulder.

“Hi, Claire,” she says softly.

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