Page 94 of Blitz
Barrett appears in the doorway, two bowls of popcorn in his hand. “Talk about what?”
“Nothing.”
Wes grunts again.
“I thought you’d be out with Mason and her brother,” Barrett says. “He doesn’t seem like a dick.”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
The downstairs toilet flushes and Amir exits the bathroom. “Talk about what?”
“I’m going to bed.”
Wes looks up from his book. “You two have a fight?”
“It’s over.”
All three of them stare at me, shock written all over their faces.
“But you, like, loved her,” Barrett says.
“Yeah, and sometimes that’s not enough.”
“You were perfect together,” Amir says.
“Nobody’s perfect. There were problems. I just decided I can’t ignore them anymore.”
“You should call her,” Barrett says.
“There’s no fixing this. It’s over. It’s done. I’m going to go to bed.”
Amir rolls his eyes. “Come watch this movie with us.”
“I’m really not in the mood.”
“Do it anyways.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder and not so subtly maneuvers me into the living room. He shoves me onto the couch. Barrett puts a bowl of popcorn and a Gatorade into my hands.
“Hydrate, motherfucker,” he declares. He hands the other bowl to Wes and flops onto the sofa beside me. Amir takes one of the armchairs, stretching out his long legs in front of him.
Wes turns on the movie, an Irish spy thriller from a no-name production company with a cast of no-name actors. I sit there and try to concentrate on the plot. The fight echoes in my head, replaying over and over again.
The defeat in her voice. The resignation in the pit of my stomach.
My moms said it best: sometimes love isn’t enough. I can’t force her into a box, shoehorn her into my life. I went to her parties, but she refused to meet me halfway. She would rather drink and have a good time than concentrate on being with me in the here and now. She would rather clam up and refuse to talk than try to explain her hangups.
I want forever with the Mason I used to know, not the current shell that simply looks like her. I want to build a life with her, I want to have children with her, but not at the expense of my own wellbeing. I can’t sacrifice my future for someone that doesn’t want the same things I do, that hides away instead of talking out her problems.
I sigh. It’s time to call someone. Between my stress eating induced-revelation last night, the realization that Mason has made no effort to resolve her issues, and doesn’t want to resolve them, I’m in over my head. I can’t handle this on my own. First thing Monday morning, I’ll go to the student counseling center and sign up to talk to someone. I don’t know what kind of specialist I’ll need to see; that’s their job to decide. Clearly I can’t do it on my own. I need help.
The last time I tried therapy, I was too heartbroken to make an honest go of it. I had too many unanswered questions. Well, I have those answers now. I know exactly why the wheels fell off the wagon on this one. Now I just need help working through all of it.
I’m too numb to feel anything more than resigned. I want to scream or yell or punch something. I want to curl up into a ball and cry. I want to do something, anything, except sit here in silence and watch a shitty movie with my best friends.
In the morning, I’ll be heartbroken. Once the realization that it’s really over finally hits, I’ll be devastated. But I trust myself enough to know that this time I’ll work on moving on. This time I’ll try harder. Sam and Miles are certainly happy: clearly love is possible at this stage in our lives, regardless of what’s going on with me. Maybe Sam can set me up with some of her softball teammates, help me get my feet wet. I’ll sign up for a dating app. I’ll put on a brave smile and try.
But not yet. First I have to mourn this. Mourn the future that won’t be, the life Mason and I were building for ourselves that’s crashed spectacularly to the floor. I thought I knew what I wanted. I thought we wanted the same things. Now I’m starting from scratch.
