Page 126 of Things I Overshared
I haven’t posted anything yet, but I’ve started gathering my favorite Europe content into an album (sans Emerson, of course). For now, public comments will stay off completely. And I’ve blocked all the tabloids; even though that doesn’t make much of a difference, it makes me feel a tiny bit better. If strangers want to call me names in my DMs, so be it. I won’t check them. And if I do want to use messages, I’ll just delete and block like it’s my new favorite hobby.
I almost smile as I add Trina as a friend. It feels good, even if a little scary, to be going back out there. It feels like I’m no longer hiding from my past. I don’t add any dating apps.Hell to the no—and for a long-ass time! I know I’m not missing anything there.
A shard of grief pierces me, and I let myself feel it. No dweeb in all that swiping could come anywhere near the man I experienced for a few short weeks. I know that. A beautiful, meticulous, genius man who almost loved me, then chickened out. Who decided love, loving me, was too much for him. And it’s okay. When I’m healed, when I’m ready, I will be just the right amount for someone someday, and until then, I’ll be okay.
I scroll mindlessly for a moment, checking Canton Cards Instagram content. I don’t even think I might see Emerson in the images, which is a stupid assumption. The company continued on in my absence. Even the New York office, which apparently, according to Dina’s account, had a welcome party for a new . . . and there he is. Navy suit. Painfully gorgeous eyes. Longer hair. More stubble. A perfect navy tie. He looks somber, even for him. But also . . .
Wait.
What the hell?
Me: WTF is this?!?!?
!!!!!!!!!!!!
[Instagram link]
[Mind blown emoji] [Angry emoji]
Am I overreacting?
Skye: Wow. Wowowowowowow
Sadie: WTF
Sally: NOT overreacting.
Susan: I would say I have to agree.
Skye: Now the question is, what are you going to do about it???
Chapter 39
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
My pulse pounds in my ears like an angry war drum. One tiny glowing square on a screen, and one million pieces suddenly fall into place. It was me, after all. Me and my stupid rose-colored glasses, seeing the good in everyone.
Not. Any. Effing. More!
After more texts with my sisters, it all became as clear as day, and not a sunny happy day either, that’s for damn sure. Two years, a little over. That’s how long I’ve been an idiot.
I can’t believe you don’t tell everyone who you are.
It’s so lame we have to pretend when we go out.
If your sister is really talented, it won’t matter if her name gets out there.
You have more money than God. You’re not going to pay for our appetizer—really?
Oh, I’m sure, your dad “cut you off.” Must besorough.
And then the more painful realizations. So many meetings, she sat next to him. And how many times did she take in his lunch and then complain about it, change his schedule for Marge, and then bitch about her job. And yet she never mentioned wanting a promotion, wanting to leave her desk where she could watch everyone and everything, namely him. And then this trip . . .
What’d you dothistime?
Maybe you should skip this trip.
I feel bad for the guy.
