Page 89 of Still The One

Phil side-eyes me. ‘Thoughts?’

My own words being used against me doesn’t feel good. I wonder if this is how he felt the first time he read them? Wordsstraight out of Judge Ashford’s mouth when he married us, used as a weapon. God, I’m a bitch.

Without realizing it, I wipe away tears that have fallen.

‘It’s alright, honey. Cry it out, sometimes it’s all we can do,’ Phil says, sliding his arm around me and pulling me close, allowing me to cry on his shoulder.

Foster kept the note I left on him at all times, for five years. Probably hoping one day lovewouldbe enough. And then it was, and everything fell apart again.

‘He’s not coming back, is he?’ I say through sobs.

Phil’s face contorts into a frown, and I can tell that even he wishes for a different outcome.

‘It would be so romantic if he did,’ he says softly.

I feel torn, like Phil is the angel on my shoulder, and my conscience is the competing demon. Thoughtfully reminding me why I shouldn’t feel anything for Foster because he doesn’t deserve it. But my heart is on Phil’s side, unfortunately.

‘I thought watching him leave would give me closure,’ I admit weakly. ‘But now it just feels like a sharp and painful word.’

Phil nods in understanding, knowing all too well the complexity of emotions in a situation like this.

‘I’m sure you’ll get over him eventually,’ he says, trying to offer some comfort.

I’m not so sure about that. This feels like an overreaction to a break-up we never got to have. I wanted love to be enough last time, and I hoped it would be so much more this time.

32

GUY ‘FOSTER’

Standing in my kitchen, I feel like a stranger in my own home. The familiarity of the space only amplifies the pain that lingers from my recent heartbreak. It’s almost suffocating, and I wonder how I will ever survive this pain again.

The morning sun shines through the semi-closed blinds as I open cupboards, my stomach rumbling with hunger, only to find them nearly bare. I guess I haven’t been home in a month, which leaves me with hardly anything edible – just a few unopened boxes of crackers and some cereal – but no milk. Great – now I need to go to the grocery store.

I purge all the expired and rotten food from the cupboards and fridge, carefully sealing them in a trash bag before hauling it out to the cans. As I step outside, the warm and humid air of Florida envelops me, a stark contrast to the cool, damp climate of Portland that I have grown accustomed to. The sensation makes me pause, unsure of which I prefer now.

On the way back in, my pocket begins to vibrate with a familiar buzz. Retrieving my phone, Eve’s name flashes on the screen, catching me off guard and causing me to stumble overthe threshold into my house. I barely catch myself from face-planting into the door as I read her message.

Make it home safely?

With a heavy heart, I read the four words on my phone screen. They feel like a punch to the gut, almost knocking the wind out of me.

Home. Thank you, for everything, Evie.

My emotions are in turmoil. I feel like a ship lost at sea without any direction or purpose. The familiar warmth in my chest that her message brought on is now gone, replaced by a hollow ache that hurts with every beat of my heart.

I stare at my phone, willing another message to appear from her, any sign that she still cares. But as the notification changes from delivered to read, reality sinks in. She’s moving on without me. The ‘unofficial’ goodbye I never wanted.

Distraction, distraction, I need a distraction. I catch a glimpse of the Ziploc bag full of medication that I tossed onto the counter last night. I haven’t taken any of my meds since I left, and I promised her I would keep up with them. I suppose I should actually do that.

With a gentle shake, I pour out the contents of the bag onto the smooth black marble of the kitchen counter. The bottles roll against each other, creating a soft symphony of sound. As I sort through the various medications, my fingers graze over a piece of paper, folded in half with my name written across one side. I pause. It’s Eve’s handwriting, sweet and delicate, detailing the instructions for each medication. Despite her dislike for nicknames, she signed the note, ‘Love, Jellybean.’

I steady myself with my hand on the counter in front of me, the note staring back at me. It’s as if time momentarily freezes,and I become intensely conscious of the rhythm of my own heartbeat. Even though she claims to hate the nickname, she chose to sign a note with it.

The familiar scent of her lingers on the paper, filling my senses and bringing back memories of our time together. With a trembling hand, I hold the note close to my chest as if it were a precious treasure. I gave one away, and I got one back. Fate.

Despite trying to fight it since we arrived at the airport yesterday, there’s an overwhelming urge pulling me back to her. But deep down, I know that if she truly wanted me to stay, she would have used her words instead of remaining silent. We’ve come at least that far in the last month – or so I thought. I carefully attach the note to the fridge using a magnet shaped like my bike.

I spend what feels like an eternity at the kitchen island, one-handedly organizing each pill into the daily pill containers Eve so thoughtfully purchased to streamline the overwhelming process. The tiny capsules gleam in the sunlight filtering through the window; a rainbow of colors and shapes representing the multitude of medications I’ve been prescribed. Earbuds are nestled snugly in my ear, the haunting melody of a heartbreak playlist filling my head that speaks to my current state of mind.

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