Page 7 of Give My Everything
I grin to myself and finish sorting through my underwear, folding them neatly into little squares and stacking them one on top of the next.
When I went away to college, everything changed.
Everything.
So many of the people I went to school with growing up allowed everything in their lives to stay the same when they left home.
They went to Ivy League schools that provided them with suite-style rooms and maids, with door service for laundry and healthy meal prep and a thousand other things.
I kind of went off the beaten path, I guess.
What Ben said last weekend about me moving away to go to ‘a subpar collegiate institution’—I roll my eyes just thinking about it—was actually true. At least it’s true according to most of the people I know.
Including my parents.
I didn’t pick an Ivy League. I didn’t go to an institute of higher education with some sort of reputation within the community of elite, wealthy families my parents socialize with.
But I went anyway. I ignored their rules, ignored their expectations, ignored their anger at my willingness to break tradition and cultural expectation and did exactly what I wanted.
I chose for myself.
And I fell so hard and so far that I’m astounded I didn’t shatter into pieces so irreparable nobody could save me.
Thankfully, I figured out a way to pick myself up and dust myself off, to allow the pain of my mistakes—and the brutal lash of others’ envy—to fade into the background as I refocused my energy and attention on something meaningful. I centered my attention on something purposeful, something that gave me hope.
I feel like I’m losing that part of me again, though.
With every day that I’m home, it feels like a little bit of the new version of me fades away, being replaced by the old me that was afraid and angry and didn’t truly know herself.
The amount of work that goes into fighting for your own life is staggering. I’m not sure I have the mental fortitude to do it again.
After finishing with my undergarments and tucking them into the top drawer of my dresser, I begin sorting through my pants. Jeans, leggings, skirts. Once that’s done, I hang up the few dresses I’ve worn since I’ve been back.
I love dresses.
The shorter the better.
They provide easy access when you’re feeling high strung and need a guy to help you find the release you need.
Knowing those days are behind me, I let out a sigh as I lift up the deep burgundy Armani dress I wore to The Wave last week. It was a mistake to go in the first place, but for some reason, I love to torture myself.
So I went.
I went and I sat in the corner and watched Lucas and Lennon together. The two of them with our group of friends, all of them smiling and laughing and enjoying themselves like nothing has changed.
There wasn’t a single nerve ending in my body that wasn’t on high alert. I was equal parts angry and irritated and sad and just…pissed the fuck off.
Until I realized something.
For them, nothinghaschanged.
Not really.
The only thing that’s different is that Lucas and Lennon don’t have to try to hide how they feel about each other in public. They’re free to smile and laugh and enjoy themselves.
And when I realized that—when it finally shifted in my mind that the only thing changed, the only thing different isme—I finished my drink and left as quickly as I could, not wanting anyone to see me sitting in the corner like an absolute fucking creep.
I mean, our decision to break up was mutual. Entirely and completely. It just happens to be a reality that he has someone to move on to and I…don’t.
