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“Oh, dear, are you all right?” An older woman comes over to me as I hobble and turn, trying to walk off my clumsiness.
“Fine. I’m fine, thanks.” I grit my teeth and smile, keeping my cursing under my breath as I take a few deep breaths as the throbbing picks up pace.
I keep walking, pushing past my embarrassment, but I also can’t stop watching Jeremy.
The little girl he’s with has the same messy hair as he does, even though she can’t be more than a couple of years old.
He has a child.
All the air is robbed from my lungs, and I can’t catch my breath.
I keep my awkward walk up until I reach the next bench, just out of direct sight of the play area, and I sit down. The bash to my leg has cut through my leggings, and I have a nasty scrape on my skin.
Cradling my head in my hands, I close my eyes, but all I can see is that little girl. Jeremy’s little girl.
No. I stand, pushing my emotions back down and stuffing them back in the box I thought I’d dealt with. I stand and start up at an easy pace, putting distance between me and the park. The limp keeps me slow when all I want to do is sprint home and hide.
How can I hide from my own feelings?
This shouldn’t be a problem. It shouldn’t affect me like this.
He left. I moved on.
I thought I was stronger than this.
When I burst open the door to the house, I go straight to the bedroom, pick up my wooden box, and tip the contents over the bed. Amongst my own chips is his and the letter he wrote to me.
My eyes scan the words, trying to remember what he said, trying to connect the vision of him with a child together with what he told me.
Until I can, and until I sort my own life out, I can’t be with you. Because I’m not the man you deserve.
Never doubt how much I love you.
How could he write that and then have a daughter?
I kept the note, along with his chip, as a reminder that this boy — this man — has been my weakness forever.
Only a few hours ago, I felt strong and in control, and then one look at him, and I’m flailing. I thought that I’d slayed my demons when it came to Jeremy — that I had accepted that there would always be something unresolved between us.
But this hurts.
It’s cold, like betrayal all over again.
I tear the letter into pieces, my anger and hurt spilling over and attacking the words that he placated me with. He didn’t even have the courage to speak them to me himself.
They fall like confetti on my bed, scattered amongst the coins.
“Fuck you, Jeremy Archer.”
I don’t cry. I refuse to give any more tears to that boy.
Marty is right. I deserve better. And this just proves it.
The cut on my leg needs attention, so I distract myself with some first aid while I gather my senses, which have scattered like marbles over the floor.
In any normal situation, I’d go to Marty and talk things over. But with the events of the last week and how his opinion of Jeremy is on a par with my mother’s, it’s not a good idea. Besides, given the circumstances, I’m not sure if I have a defence for my feelings.
I check the timetable to see if I can attend a meeting today. I might not be reaching for a bottle, but Jeremy is an addiction just as toxic. Talking and having support, even from afar, is what I need.
