Page 71 of A Play For The Heart
“How could I think that all that I gave you was enough, ‘cause every time I get too close, I just go mess it up”
Mess It Up—Gracie Abrams
Sawyer
Ireturntomyapartment on autopilot. The fact I made it into the parking garage without crashing into anyone is a miracle. Numbness courses through my body. My mind is dull, and empty except the words that keep replaying in my mind, like a broken record. Over and over.
I stood and watched as he dropped on the field and it felt like my heart was out there with him. I nearly threw up and clutched onto Maren to keep standing. Having to watch as he got carted off was one of the most frightening moments of my life. Jack yelled to Maren that Henry was okay, but it didn’t make it easier to breathe. Because Henry was somewhere, injured and alone. The smell of disinfectant and the sound of beeping terrified me as I entered the hospital room, but when Henry’s deep, blue eyes connected with mine, I was finally able to take a full breath. Not in a million years had I thought I would leave that hospital room broken. A shell of the person I was when I walked in.
Getting out of the car, I move towards the elevator, feeling like I’m moving in slow motion. My limbs don’t feel like they’re my own, and I can hear the blood pumping in my ears. I shuffle out of the elevator and towards the apartment. Standing in front of the door, I dig through my bag to find my keys. My hands shake as I riffle through my belongings. Before I can find them, the door swings open, Maren standing on the other side, face tightened with worry. She won’t admit it, but she was as terrified for Henry as I was.
The worry on her face for Henry knocks down the last thing that has kept me standing, moving. I wasn’t sure there was anything left of me to shatter after Hurricane Henry, but I was wrong. In the hallway of our building, my world finally comes crashing down. The conversation in the hospital room catches up to me. I burst into sobs, and Maren drags me into her chest, closing the door behind me. Unable to stop, I use her shirt as my own personal tissue, tears staining her shoulder. She grabs the purse from my hands, leaving it by the entryway and backs me into the living room, to the couch, never releasing me from the hug.
Wordlessly, I sit, and she wraps a blanket around me. Tears continue to stream down my face as I watch her move through the kitchen, grabbing mugs and every piece of chocolate in the cupboard. Finished in the kitchen, Maren softly places a mug into my hand, then sits directly beside me. I take a sip, expecting coffee or tea, but instead, I take a large gulp of wine.
I choke from the unexpectedness of wine in my coffee cup and need a moment to compose myself.
“It’s easier to drink quickly with a mug,” she explains after I finish choking, taking a gulp of her own wine.
She doesn’t know what happened, but she knows something is wrong. Not that it's hard given my breakdown in the hallway. Gratitude floods me. I’ve never had someone like this in my life. That will help me pick up the pieces when I fall apart. The realization sends another wave of tears through me.
I know that I need to say something. Explain the tears and snot and complete and total breakdown, but admitting what happened feels like accepting it. Something twists in my chest at the thought, and panic swells within me. I can feel my breathing become rapid, the walls beginning to close in on me as what was said in that hotel room sinks in. Tears continue to roll down my cheeks as I start to hyperventilate.
Maren quickly scoots closer to me on the couch and grabs my hand. I couldn’t be more thankful for the physical touch than I am right now. She squeezes once.
“Breathe, Sawyer,” she commands, as she begins to take deep breaths in and out.
I follow her direction, timing my breaths with hers. The room begins to pull back, and the pressure in my chest lets up a little.
“He broke up with me,” I mutter, no louder than a breath.
Any louder makes it real. I’m not ready for reality. I don’t think I ever will be. No part of me believes I will ever truly recover from this.
I know she heard me by the sharp intake of breath. I do the last thing I want. I tell her everything. I relay every word he said to me in the hospital room. I share with her every way he broke my heart. Tears stream down my face as I relive every moment, and my heart aches as I repeat the words he told me.
I wait, expecting anger from her. For one of us to rage against the injustice of the situation. It should be me, but I’m too hurt to do anything but cry. I sit, clutching my mug of wine like a life raft, waiting for her to say something, but nothing comes. Just silence. It feels worse than fury.
Looking over at Maren, I see something sadder than rage.
Sympathy.
But I don’t want that. I want someone to be upset in the way I should be. For someone to throw things and yell and feel the indignation.
The sudden burst of anger in my body shocks me. It starts a small kernel in the back of mind and blazes into a raging inferno. I jump off the couch and begin to pace through the living room, the blanket around my shoulders trailing as I move back and forth. There are too many emotions coursing through my body to stand still.
Maren watches me cautiously from the couch, looking unsure of how to help or what to say.
“How dare he?” I mutter, mostly to myself, as I continue my heated pacing.
I begin to replay the entire relationship in my mind. Every touch, every moment. Henry was the one to admit his feelings. He made the first move. I was vulnerable with him. In ways I’ve never been with anyone before. And this is how he treats me? This is what he thinks I deserve?
I let out a humorless laugh at the situation. I have no doubt I look unhinged. I’m right back to where I was with Declan only months ago. My heart wasn’t shattered when I broke up with Declan. Not the way it is right now. But I’m still here. Alone. With one common denominator.
Me.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Maren asks from the couch. She sips on her wine as her eyes track me.
I stop to look at her, the weight of what I realized moments ago pressing against my chest. “Do you think it’s me?” I ask, vulnerability and fear lacing the question.
