Page 62 of To Her

"That's not a breakup, Geri. That's someone who cares about you setting a boundary."

I finally looked at him, irritation flaring. "What's the difference? The end result is the same—he's gone."

"The difference is that he left the door open. He didn't say 'never call me again.' He said call when you're ready to stop running." James's voice was gentle but firm. "That's not someone who's given up on you. That's someone who's refusing to enable you."

His words hit too close to home, piercing the armour of indifference I was trying so hard to maintain. I turned away, blinking back unexpected tears.

"Whatever. It doesn't matter. I'm better off alone anyway."

James made a sound of frustration. "That's bullshit and you know it. You're not better off alone. You're just safer alone. There's a difference."

Before I could respond, the first customers of the day walked in, forcing us to table the conversation. I threw myself into work, grateful for the distraction of taking orders, carrying plates, making small talk with strangers. For a few hours, I could pretend to be normal, to be okay.

But as the shift wore on, exhaustion set in—not just physical tiredness, but a bone-deep weariness that made every smile, every "How can I help you?" feel like lifting a weight.

By the time my shift ended, I was running on fumes. James tried to convince me to stay for a coffee, to talk more about what had happened with Con, but I begged off, claiming I needed to get home to rest before my early shift the next day.

The truth was, I couldn't bear any more of his well-meaning advice, his gentle prodding at wounds that were still too raw totouch. I knew he was right—about Con, about me, about all of it. But knowing and accepting were two very different things.

The drive back to Riverside stretched before me like a metaphor for my life—long, solitary, with no clear destination in sight. I turned the radio up loud, trying to drown out the voice in my head that kept asking the same question over and over: What now?

What happened when you'd burned all your bridges? When you'd pushed away the one person who had seen all your jagged edges and wanted you anyway? When you'd finally proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you were exactly as unlovable as you'd always feared?

The answer, it seemed, was this: You kept going. You woke up each day and put one foot in front of the other. You worked. You ate. You slept. You existed in the spaces between moments, never fully present, never fully absent. You survived, even when survival felt like the cruellest punishment of all.

And maybe, just maybe, you started to wonder if there might be more to life than just surviving. If there might be a way back from the wasteland you'd created. If "getting your shit together" might actually be worth the pain it would surely entail.

But that was a thought for another day. For now, I just needed to make it home, to crawl into my bed in my empty room, and to hope that tomorrow would hurt just a little bit less than today.

It wouldn't, of course. I knew that. But hope was all I had left, and I was clinging to it with everything I had.

Chapter 24

Geri

The next four weeks passed without any issues. I had started to text Alex again, falling back into the easy banter we had. Just like having a boyfriend without having one. My phone would buzz with his messages throughout the day, little pings of connection that required nothing of me emotionally. Sometimes they were flirty, sometimes just checking in, but they never demanded anything I wasn't willing to give. It was comfortable, predictable—exactly

what I needed right now.

How's your day going, beautiful?

He'd text, and I'd respond with something witty or sarcastic, depending on my mood.

Just survived another shift without murdering anyone. Gold star for me

I'd reply, and he'd send back a laughing emoji or some equally non-committal response.

It was perfect in its simplicity. No expectations, no promises, no potential for disappointment. Just words on a screen thatmade me feel a little less alone without the risk of actually connecting.

My friends had invited me out a lot for drinks, and I had taken them up time and again, finding myself getting wasted more and more. Louise would call on Thursday nights, planning our weekend, and I'd agree to whatever she suggested. Clubs, house parties, bars—the venue didn't matter as long as there was alcohol and noise to drown out the thoughts in my head.

"You're coming out Friday, right?" Louise would ask, her voice bright with anticipation. "Nick's friend is having a thing at his place in Rivervale. Should be epic."

"Wouldn't miss it," I'd say, already calculating how many drinks it would take to reach that perfect state of numbness where I could exist without feeling.

Alcohol had never been an issue to me, just pills. But here I was leaning into getting blind as a bat every single Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night. The routine was comforting in its predictability: pre-drinks at someone's place, then out to wherever the night took us, drinking until the world blurred at the edges and my thoughts quieted to a manageable hum.

I'd wake up the next morning with a pounding head and fragmented memories of the night before—dancing on tables, laughing too loudly at jokes that weren't funny, flirting with strangers whose faces I couldn't quite recall. The details didn't matter. What mattered was the escape, the temporary reprieve from the weight of my own existence.

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