Page 8 of Bitter Truths

The phone buzzes again, and because he’s my greatest weakness, I pick it up and swipe to read my messages. Six since the last time I checked.

Griff: I miss you

Griff: Remember when you made a wish once that Billy Gander’s dick would fall off?

Chuffing, I roll my eyes. Yes, Billy used to tease me mercilessly until, finally, Griffin stepped in and told him to knock it off.

Griff: I heard he got crabs from some chick

Good. The fucker.

Griff: Hals . . .

Griff: I know I’m an ass. I just wish you’d let me explain

Griff: I wish . . .

Closing my eyes, I envision his pretty eyes, the hazel hue more green than brown when he surged inside of me, and with a shudder, I lay on my side and clutch my pillow to my chest. Truthfully, I miss feeling his arms around me. The way he commanded and I performed. It’s moments like these that I almost give in, but then I remember he dropped me over a stupid-ass lie.

Picking up the phone, I type out a response before I can think twice about it, and then power it off.

Hals: Billy Gander? The same Billy who poured coffee down my shirt freshman year while you watched . . . and did nothing?

Yeah. I don’t forgive.

It’s been an hour, and Mom is about to check in on me for the forty billionth time. If I’m in the same spot as I was before, she’ll freak. I try to be patient as she works through my shadows, but it’s not always easy. Maybe because I know it’s not death I crave, and she can’t see past the specter.

I don’t know how to explain the malaise I continuously fight that pulls at my limbs or the heavy feeling weighing at my chest that won’t fucking subside.

Still, I’ve gotten good at pretending. I’ve mastered the “I’m okay” smile and figured out how to make myself over just enough to pass muster. As it turns out, showering regularly and brushing my hair goes a long way.

Perhaps I missed my calling, and I should have been an actress instead of my foolish dreams of art because I’ve become quite good at throwing my mom off the scent.

Although I don’t want to worry her any more than she already is, I’m not faking my way through the day because of her. Nope. I paid my dues. I’m not going back to the fucking hospital.

What can they do but dope me up and force me to talk about my damn feelings again?

I’d rather claw my eyes out with a spoon.

I know I should be focused on the healing shit, blah blah blah, and in a way, I am. But on the wings of that is a furor of madness that circles my brain and burns at my bleeding soul.

Some days, I can’t breathe past it, and other days I lie in my bed and curl into a ball, wishing for it to all go the fuck away. Shit, I’ve lain in my own stink for five days, unable to move past the ugly. I painted the walls black. Hell, I painted myself, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for the denouement of this fucked-up love story.

There’s no coming back from that, even if the small, tiny kernel of hope in my heart that pushes through still flutters for Griffin and what could have been.

Pathetic, but true. I’m only human.

Although I would’ve liked nothing more than to sink into the mattress and never emerge, I worked through the fog and made myself get up every single fucking day this summer. I got a job in a daycare, watching people’s snotty-nosed children, making sure they didn’t eat glue and shit. It wasn’t glamorous, and I suppose I would have had a better outlook if I hadn’t felt dead inside.

Unsurprisingly, even after I spent a year in fucking therapy, telling my secrets to a stranger, I’m still stuck where I began. Why? Because you don’t get better after something like that. It’s not possible. You just learn how to live with the fucking ache.

“How was work, hon?” Mom asks, appearing at the threshold of my door.

She looks me over with a furrowed brow that she smothers beneath a smile, and I tighten my grip around my brush. Her concern is born out of love, even if it’s so stifling that I’m choking.

“It was fine,” I say, pulling my lips into the fake as fuck smile I’ve perfected.

It’s a testament to my efforts that she beams at me without seeing the truth behind the lies. I’m not fine. I’ll never be fine. Is anyone fucking fine?

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