Page 8 of Tight Ends & Tiaras
My sister Gabriela would never forgive me if I died in a car crash like our mother.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand.
Fucking Janelle. A call from her, and I almost drive off the road. Sounds about right.
When I finally make it home, I ignore everyone in the living room and head straight for the shower, where I close my eyes and let the hot water wash over me. My skin’s gonna be red and pruney when I get out, but whatever. It’s a Friday night, so I can’t call my therapist and tell her I’m freaking the fuck out.
Janelle is one topic I haven’t brought up. Kinda had my hands full dealing with crippling bouts of anxiety, my dead parents, adopted parents, and estranged sister.
Well, formerly estranged sister. Gabby and I are doing better these days. I think.
My sister is why I started therapy in the first place. When I moved in across the street from her last year, I realized I couldn’t dodge the problem anymore.
After I get out of the shower, I do ten minutes of those breathing exercises Dr. Patricia taught me until my jaw finally unclenches.
I slide on some boxer briefs and flop onto my bed. A few hours later, I wake up, and it’s dark outside, but the rain finally seems to be letting up.
I grab my phone to text Sienna. You get there okay?
When she doesn’t respond, I immediately start to worry, but it’s possible she’s still in the air. I don’t know her flight number or I’d look it up. But someone should worry about her. God knows Winston is too busy busting a nut to exert the effort on his actual girlfriend.
My phone buzzes a minute later, and I assume it’s Sienna and answer.
“Ben, thanks for picking up.” Janelle’s familiar voice guts me so fast, I can’t see straight. I double-check the caller ID to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Nope, there’s her beautiful, treacherous face, smiling up at me. Why didn’t I ever delete that photo? Or her number?
“The fuck do you want?” I growl.
She clears her throat. “It’s good to hear your voice even though...”
She lets the statement hang, so I finish it for her. “Even though you cut me out of your life?”
I’m only the asshole who dated her for two years and let her lead me around by my dick until she found someone she liked better.
Dr. Patricia is always reminding me I need to take responsibility for my role in things, owning that and only that. I’m not responsible for other people’s actions.
So here’s my role—I’m the dumb asshole who fell in love with the first girl I had sex with. I allowed that to cloud my judgment and was stupid enough to accept her lies.
“Listen, I know you’re probably still upset with me.”
I almost laugh. She breaks up with me shortly after we graduate from high school, blocks my number, and chooses a different college at the last second, and she describes it as ‘upset?’ It’s been three years, but her betrayal still feels shockingly fresh. Maybe it’s because every time I go home, I have to listen to my aunt and uncle rave how much they adore her.
Funny, but they never mention how she got knocked up by some rando the freaking second she left me.
All at once, my anger deflates. Why pine for a woman who doesn’t want you? Not that I was waiting around for her all this time. “Just tell me what you need so we can get this over already.”
She’s quiet so long, I look down at the screen to see if she’s still there.
“I miss you. I miss you, and there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
I ignore the words of affection because they don’t mean shit. She can flip that switch faster than anyone I know. One second she’s sweet and alluring, and the next, she’s sharpening a blade to stab me in the back. “Just tell me what you want. Nice of you to unblock me, by the way. I don’t have any of your stuff anymore. I left all your shit with your parents.”
That’s the hardest part—my aunt and uncle are best friends with her family, and they’re always conspiring to bring us together. It’s exhausting.
“Ben, you have every right to be upset with me, and I understand. I was a horrible person. I’m sorry for how things ended.”
“How’s Ernest?” I roll my eyes when I say his name. He’s some vegan, poetry-writing, musician douchebag.
“We broke up, but that’s not why I called. I need to see you. Please. I know you don’t owe me anything, but could we possibly meet up? For old times’ sake?”
