Page 2 of Tap Left
Mellie smiles. She has a warm smile when she’s proud of me, and even though I hate doing this, I know I’m lucky to have her as a friend. She has my best interests at heart when most others seldom do.
“Self-care is a right,” she says. “It’s okay to be selfish. It’s okay to take time for yourself, Lola. And saying no is a glorious fucking thing.”
My thoughts start to drift, and Mellie snaps her fingers to capture my attention.
“Say it with me.” She throws her hands in the air for emphasis. “Saying no is a glorious fucking thing.”
It pushes me from my comfort zone to say things like this out loud, but that’s why Mellie does it. I play along just so we can move onto the next subject. The important one.
“Now we talk about Tom,” she says. “Are you ready?”
I attempt to give her a verbal response, but it feels like there’s a piece of toast lodged in my throat.
“We’ve been practicing forever, sweets.”
I nod and force the words out. “I know. It’s time.”
"It has to be. You’ve given him five years of your life. It’s time to find out where you stand.”
"It is," I agree.
Mellie studies me. Her face is intense and slightly doubtful. "You’re sure this is what you want?"
"Yes.”
My answer doesn’t sound sure, even to my own ears, but she doesn’t call me out on it this time.
“You only get one life,” she reminds me. “It’s time to grab it by the balls.”
The notionof asking Tom to marry me seemed a lot less ridiculous when I discussed it with Mellie. I don't even remember exactly how the conversation came about. There was a rom-com on TV- Leap Year- and a bottle of wine involved.
I was in a happy, fuzzy place when I drunkenly blurted out that I should propose to Tom. It was the first time I ever saw Mellie speechless. She never really liked Tom, but within moments of me suggesting it, I’d somehow won her over to the idea.
I suspected that she knew it might all blow up in horrific fashion, which was the only way I could alter the flatline in our relationship. I'd gone along with the status quo for five years, and Tom still wasn't any closer to showing signs of proposing.
If I’m honest with myself, I’m still not sure it’s what I want, but it seems like the right progression. Five years is a long time to be with someone, and I’ve put in the hard yards. I’ve been mostly normal with him, even though the struggle has been real ninety-nine percent of the time.
I swallow and try to focus on the game plan. I just need to keep my fears in check and do what Tom can't. In my mind, I had it all mapped out in simple steps. Only now, as I stand here in his kitchen, it doesn't feel quite so simple.
I'm cooking, and he's at the counter reading the paper. By all outward appearances, it would look like the picture of domesticity. Except I'm terrified of splattering spaghetti sauce on the counter and leaving a stain because he's already scolded me once. And when I came in tonight with a bag, he seemed surprised that I was presumptuous enough to assume I was staying the night.
The reason I have to bring a bag in the first place is because I don't even have a drawer here. Or a toothbrush. Or anything. Tom says he likes a 'clean' look and it feels cluttered because the space isn't big enough for two people.
The space is in fact very clean, and with every passing second, it occurs to me that I don't feel at home here. And I should feel at home in my boyfriend's apartment. My boyfriend of five years. My boyfriend who is always impeccably dressed and has such a sensible job as a financial advisor.
He talks about the stock market while I wonder how and when to pop the question. We're practically already married, anyway, I try to convince myself. This is our routine. We eat dinner together on the weekends, have five minutes of missionary style sex, and then Tom falls asleep by ten pm. That’s normal, right? Totally normal.
This kitchen feels too hot, and my face is numb. The longer I stand here, the further my dreams feel from my reach.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t know where my life took such a left turn or how I got to this place. There were so many things I was meant to do with my time. I said I would backpack around Europe. I was supposed to see things and meet people and learn different languages. I planned to soak up life. I had a bucket list a mile long, and I swore that I would do everything. Every single thing.
But instead, it’s been a series of melodramatic tragedies, and they’ve all revolved around love. Love is my addiction, and for as long as I can remember, it’s been steering the course of my life. When my heart was shattered into a million pieces, something broke inside of me. And within that crack, a new craving was born. A frenzied and unquenchable need to prove that I was worthy. I would find someone who loved me. The real thing would have been great, but there have always been times when I settled for less.
My first post-trauma train wreck of a boyfriend was named Chris. Chris was so cool and fascinating with his swagger and fuck you attitude. I threw away my plans for him, thinking that would go somewhere when the only place it ever went was to the local Taco Bell. But still, I hung in there, determined not to fail again. I believed if I just loved him harder it would get better.
It never got better and ironically ended when I caught him at Taco Bell with a girl I went to high school with.
He was just one of many bad decisions in my life. I seem incapable of making any good ones. And this afternoon before I came here, I was dead set that Tom would be my good decision. He would be the one that paid off.
