Page 68 of Honest With You

I got so caught up in my pain that I created a block.

But what’s even worse than my heartbreak is knowing I caused hers.

This is my own damn fault. I can’t even blame Margaret, since none of this would have happened if I had just told Ava. I regret my decision to not keep Ava in the loop that weekend. I was just so afraid she would jump to conclusions, and I wanted her to hear the truth face-to-face, rather than on the phone.

I’m filled with so manywhat ifs.

If I had just made myself clear with Margaret that I’ve moved on, she would have chosen someone else to parade on her Instagram. As she so shamelessly put when I called her up to ask what the fuck was up with those posts. She said that she needed to keep her followers “engaged”.

She admitted to taking my picture after I fell asleep on the couch of her private suite, while we were waiting for her dad to come get her from the damn hospital. She felt no remorse after I told her that she fucked up my relationship.

I should have just answered all the text messages Margaret sent me prior to her showing up at Ty’s house, that way she wouldn’t even have thought of me as an option when she quite literally had a long list of chumps who’d show up for her had she bothered them instead.

But then I’m filled with guilt because she was basically relapsing when she seeked me out. If it weren’t for Ty, she wouldn’t have made it to the hospital in time.

Thankfully, this time she’s out of my life. We’re completely done. Even as friends because there is absolutely no way I’m going to let her be mine. Not after everything that happened between us. Not after she used me again.

The sound of my phone ringing jolts me out of my thoughts and I tear my eyes away from the view of the Coronado Bridge, picking up my phone that’s laying on the sand beside my guitar. I’ve been sitting on the beach for a while now, hoping the sound of the waves crashing against the dock and the busyness of the bay behind me would distract me from my shitty problems and I can finally write a half-decent song. My fingers are practically pulsing with the need to lose myself in music again.

I see my mom’s picture on my phone screen and have to grit my teeth to keep myself from biting her head off when I answer the call. She’s already called twice and if I don’t answer now, she’ll send a search party or worse, call Ava.

My mom’s been really worried about me. I’ve always been close to her. Before Margaret, I had told her everything.

Last night in a fit of frustration after she caught me with beers in my room, I told her everything.

Now she’s worried, upset and absolutely disappointed with me for not only what happened with Ava, but also for not telling her about Margaret.

“Mom?”

“Where are you, Jesse?”

I grip my phone tighter in my hand as I place my guitar back in its case and stumble to my feet. I swing the strap over my arm and rub my forehead. I didn’t drink a drop of alcohol but I feel woozy from all the damn thinking and lack of sleep.

“Mom. It’s Friday night. My curfew is one, right? It’s nowhere near that.”

I hear her deep sigh from the other end and I check my phone to make sure I calculated the time right. The boardwalk behind me was still buzzing and people were still eating at the restaurants that surrounded the walk, so I know it’s still pretty early.

I frown when I realize it’s past seven and I have been sitting on the beach for hours.

“Yes, but you need to come home–”

Now it’s my turn to sigh as I rub my stubbled jaw with my free hand. I desperately need a shave and a shower. I make my way through the parking lot and climb into my car, sticking my guitar case next to me on the passenger seat. I wait a few seconds for the bluetooth to kick in before I continue talking. I pull out of the lot, headed for home.

“Mom,” I repeat, “I’m–”

It’s her turn to cut me off when she snaps at me. “Get your butt off whatever beach you’re wallowing at with your guitar. This isn’t up for discussion, Jesse. I’m not asking. I’m telling you to come home.Now.”

Then she hangs up.

On the way home, my phone started playing the playlist Ava made for me and like a lovesick fool, I listened to itagain.

Now my heart feels like I used a butter knife and started chiseling it.

Fuck,this hurts.

I rub my chest, slinging my guitar higher on my arm as I fish for the key to my house when the front door swings open.

My dad is standing on the other side, his neck and face red with fury and his own keys gripped in his hand. My mom is standing right behind him, and before he can say anything, she eases herself under his arm, grabs my guitar from me and takes it back inside the house. Less than a minute later, she’s out the door, pulling me to my dad’s Escalade. That’s when I notice she has her coat and purse on her.

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