Outside the Lines(71)

I whirl around, not expecting that. And I’m not expecting the hurt on his face.

Oh, fuck.

“Ben,” I start but he’s already on his way out. His hand is on the doorknob. He turns, eyebrows pushed together.

“I never asked you to go to my fancy art events because I always take my mom. It’s her shoes you saw at my house by the way. She stays with me when she’s not staying with my dad, who has memory problems after so many head injuries fighting in the war and needs round-the-clock care. You could have just asked me about it. I don’t bring it up because it’s not exactly fun to talk about, and most people here don’t understand the culture on my mother’s side, and see living with their parents as a burden. But I thought you would.” He turns his head and our eyes meet for what I’m sure will be the last time. “I thought I loved you. I was wrong.”

Then he leaves.

And it hits me all at once: I did the very thing to Ben I hate that people doing to me.

I judged him. I made assumptions and filled in the blanks with misinformation. I let my own insecurities get the best of me, and I let Mindy fucking Abraham ruin my life, nearly ten years after high school.

You’ve won, Mindy. Again.

My chest rapidly rises and falls and I suck back a sob. I blink and shake myself, then sprint to the door. But I’m too late. Ben is already pulling out of the driveway, driving down the street. I watch, tears filling my eyes, as the tail lights of his Audi disappear.

Suddenly I can’t breath and it takes everything I have to go inside and close the door behind me. I fall onto the couch and cry. I messed up. Big time. I was so worried about getting hurt that I ended up hurting myself.

I am my own self-fulfilling prophecy.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN





I don’t know what to do. I wipe my eyes, sit up, and swallow a sob. My phone is in my purse, by the couch. I pick it up, madly rummage through for my phone, and call Ben. I get his voicemail. I wait a few seconds then call again. It rings once then goes to voicemail.

He hung up on me.

I close my eyes, barricading more tears, and try not to hyperventilate. He’s mad right now. Just like I was. He needs time to calm down, and he’s not even home yet. I fall back onto the couch and wait.

One minute goes by.

Then one more.

I want to call him again. Now. But it hasn’t been enough time. My heart is still pounding, and I feel sick. I fucked up. I said things out of anger and fear, things that make no sense and that I don’t really believe.

He said he thought he loved me.

And now I know that I really do love him. I fell for him even though I didn’t want to, even though I was sure he would hurt me.

I hurt him.

I hate myself for it.

And I have no idea how to make it better. I can’t take back what I said. I can’t delete this glitch, reprogram the day and start over. I bite my trembling lip and know the only thing I can do is tell Ben I’m sorry and wait for him to calm down enough to hear me out.

I call him again. Two rings then voicemail, and take a breath. The words die in my mouth and I’m hanging out without saying a word. I fall onto the couch, tears running down my face. I’m suddenly exhausted, and it feels like it takes an incredible amount of energy to put our dishes in the sink, grab a bottle of wine from the fridge, and go into my bedroom. I sink into bed and start drinking. I gulp it down, letting emotion be my guide, and soon I’m feeling sick before my mind hazes over. But I don’t stop now. I keep drinking until I literally can’t and pass the fuck out.

I want to wake up and have everything be better.

But that doesn’t happen. Instead, I wake up hours later feeling like roadkill warmed over, with a dry mouth and a full, angry bladder. I check my phone—no missed calls—and get up to pee. I shower because that just seems to make sense. Warm water pours over me and then I’m crying again, sinking down to the shower floor.

I messed up. Again. I let my insecurities get the better of me. Two times in my life I’ve thrown something amazing away. The first time it was because I didn’t want my shitty-ass boyfriend to leave me, and now it was because I didn’t want to get hurt. So I hurt Ben instead.

I crawl out of the shower, dry off, and collapse into bed. I set my alarm for work in the morning and let sorrow and sleep pull me into darkness.





*





“Rough weekend?” Mariah asks when I sit at my desk the next day. My eyes are puffy from crying. Ben never called me back, and he never answered my calls. Things were over between us, and I wanted to be mad at him for not even trying.

But I’m not.

“You can say that,” I mumble. “Drank too much. Have a headache.” I don’t want to be short, but I think that gets my point across so she’ll leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to explain what happened or even think about it for a second more than I have it. Because if I do, I’ll start crying again.