Page 77 of A Play For The Heart
He just hums in response, rising from the bench and disappearing down the hallway. This time, however, I don’t call him back. I sit there for a moment, gathering my thoughts, and dissecting my feelings. Before this moment, I hadn’t realized someone else could be experiencing the same thing I was. At least, I hadn’t expected them to vocally express that they’re feeling that way.
For that person to be Declan is surprising, but knowing someone seemingly opposite to me relates to how I feel lightens the weight sitting on my chest. Even after making mistakes and poor decisions, Declan seemed to find out what he wanted and became someone he’s proud of.
If he can figure it out, then maybe I can too.
CHAPTER 32
“I’m a shoulder you can cry on, your best friend, I’m the one you must rely on”
Chiquitita—ABBA
Sawyer
Asachild,Iwould watch romance movies with my mom. The ones set in small towns during Christmas. Every time the main character had her heart broken, I would complain to her. ‘I just don’t get how she isn’t able to function’ I would whine, exasperated by how the woman would crumble to pieces, unable to do simple tasks like brushing her hair or eating when she had her heart broken. ‘It’s only a boy’ I would usually add, confused, since at the time I thought boys were stupid and had cooties. In true motherly fashion, my mom would laugh at my comments and say she hoped I never had to relate to the woman on the screen.
Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, I am that woman in the romance movie. The one who falls apart when the person she loves breaks her heart. Who’s unable to get out of bed and has no appetite. I foolishly made fun of those women as a child, never truly understanding how debilitating a broken heart can be. I can chalk it up to the viewpoint of a child, but even before this, I never thought it would be me. Some other people maybe, but not me.
For the last week, I’ve survived solely due to Maren and Nathalie’s efforts to keep me from totally spiraling. They really should be given a Nobel prize for how they’ve taken care of me. I’m not proud to admit it, but the two of them had to force me into the shower and feed me like a child to get me to eat. Maren flying potato chips into my mouth like an airplane was the first time I had laughed since I walked out of the hospital. I’ve barely left my bed and I’ve slept more in the last week than I have in years. After a few days, Maren was tired of my shit and forced me to go to work. So, I went. And I did everything on autopilot.
Nathalie covered the after-school program, so I went home and decomposed in bed. Or on the couch. The point is, I’ve done a lot of lying around and mourning. My boyfriend didn’t just break up with me, my best friend did as well. Which hurts worse. I haven’t been able to come to terms with either scenario. Half of my soul feels like it was brutally ripped out from my chest.
It’s not a great feeling.
With the start of a new week, I told myself I was going to pack up my emotions and throw them in a trash bin and then light said bin on fire with kerosene.
Adios, emotions.
However, easier said than done. I woke up this morning with every intention to leave the ‘mourning’ stage and enter the ‘moving on’ stage. I already went through my denial and anger stages, all that is left is acceptance and moving on.
Except I can’t move on, not from this. Not yet at least. I need Henry to tell me what he wants. When I told him to take the time and space, I meant it. He has the right to self-reflect, to find out what he wants his life to look like, but the waiting part hurts. A lot. Hence the difficulty to just move on. Damn near impossible without the closure.
Patience has taken on a new meaning, and I have never been the most patient person on the planet.
It’s been a week avoiding the after-school program, but I can’t anymore. I feel guilty leaving Nathalie to do it all on her own. It’s not her fault I’m heartbroken. She told me she would cover for as long as I needed, but knowing I may never completely mend from this, it’s time to put my big girl panties on and rip off the proverbial band-aid.
That band-aid? An interaction with a certain seven-year-old who may love Henry more than I do.
I haven’t had it in me to face Micah. It’s embarrassing to admit, but looking at his big, wide eyes and the Maverick’s jersey he refuses to take off will feel like a knife in the chest. I don’t have the heart to tell him we broke up, but I also can’t stomach him asking questions about Henry. Which is inevitable. He was hurt in the last game; he’s bound to have a million questions. I’ve spent all day bracing myself, coming up with hypothetical answers to any question he might ask.
The likelihood of crying decreases if I prepare.
Bracing myself, I push through the doors and wander into the gym. Immediately, I’m assaulted by the sound of giggling children and balls bouncing on the hardwood floor. Sticking to the sidelines, I quietly make my way over to the gaggle of volunteers, hoping I can blend in and Micah won’t notice me.
Now I’m hiding from a seven-year-old.
As if my life couldn’t get any more depressing.
“Miss Sawyer!” I hear hollering from the other side of the room. Painstakingly slowly, I turn from the huddle of college students towards the bundle of energy zooming towards me.
Deep breaths. It’s only a child. We will not cry in front of a child.
Not feeling remotely confident in my pep talk, I open my arms for Micah as he flings himself towards me.
“I missed you! Miss Nathalie said you were sick and didn’t want to spread germs.” Micah says into my stomach, his sounds coming out funny and distorted.
I mean, heartbroken is a type of sickness, I guess.
I peel him off my body and look down at him as he grins up at me, a tooth missing right in the front of his mouth. The odd pronunciation of words suddenly makes more sense.
