Page 7 of Texts From My Exes
I had a dream you were choking me and my therapist says it says I want you to control me again—in bed or like anywhere, even the grocery store. You want to match-a? Ha HA! Call me. Oh also, I’m back on caffeine again. YOLO.
–Bryce
Ireached for my coffee, the annoying sound of rain pelting against my office window competing with the sound of my fingers typing. Instead of looking at my coffee, I glared at the window.
Dumb mistake.
The mug slipped from my hand, scalding liquid splashing across my skin before the ceramic shattered against the floor in my office like it was echoing something deeper. How typical, me reading into every nuance and thinking the universe was actively working against me even by way of my mug.
I hissed, shaking my hand, cursing under my breath. It burned, the pain reminding me of something deeper.
The mess was minor.
The memory it triggered?
Not so much minor as it was a major blip in the bin of past memories I’d rather set on fire than re-live.
It had been raining that night too. Of course it had. Like some overused TV trope—rain as a harbinger of heartbreak. How poetic.
The storm slammed against the windows, drummed against the roof, rattled the whole world like it knew what was coming.
She’d said she’d be late.
Late, not missing.
So I waited. The wine—her favorite cab—was already poured, waiting in two glasses on the coffee table in front of the TV. I’d ordered Korean BBQ, the spicy kind she loved with extra kimchi that made her nose run and eyes water and her laugh get all breathless.
And—because I’m a damn idiot—I’d even tossed rose petals on the ground. Not a full carpet. Just a stupid little heart shape. Like a joke. Like I was mocking every romantic sap I’d ever rolled my eyes at.
I still had my baseball cap on. Still wore my neon glasses. She never cared what I looked like anyway, she said she never wanted me to change for anyone, least of all her.
And it’s not like I was a troll—I just liked being invisible—I didn’t like the attention. Not anymore.
It was easier than being noticed and misnamed. Easier than someone calling you hot and then treating you like an accessory. Easier than being told you werealmostsomething.
So I stayed hidden. Behind books. Behind screens. Behind jokes.
Until that night.
When Ialmostdidn’t.
The key finally turned in the lock making such a loud clicking noise I immediately started sweating. I panicked—ran into my room, heart pounding, face hot, pretending like I wasn’t about totake a leap. I grabbed a novel off my nightstand and flopped onto the bed, grin still plastered on my face like a fool in a rom-com.
The door opened. I waited.
“Ummf, sorry,” she giggled. “My roommate probably has someone coming over. Oh my gosh—he’s being so cute! No way! I think he finally found someone!”
The smile slid right off my face.
“Look! Even a heart—and wine—and damn, son, get yours!”
I sat up, ready to tell her that nobody else was walking through that door, that she was it and would always be it, that the person I found had been standing in front of me and beside me and sometimes kicking my ass behind me my entire existence.
I was finally ready. I was going to march out there and say,It’s for you. It’s always been for you.
But I froze. There was another voice. I watched, unable to even blink.
A guy was with her.
