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Ready or Not
Four months later…
My feet poundheavy against the treadmill, my body slicked in sweat, chest heaving to keep up with my body’s demand for oxygen. I’ve gotten my second wind, and endorphins hum through my veins. Though I’ve been focused on my stats on the treadmill screen for the past hour, something draws my attention to the TV on the wall.
Jake’s face makes my breath hitch.
You’d think I’d get used to seeing a story on him several times a day, but I haven’t been able to. There’s still so much between us left unsaid, the ends left frayed and tattered.
“Don’t worry, you’ll see more of me on the track,” he says to the reporter. “You’ll hear more about that soon. Stay tuned.” He’s in a sit-down interview wearing that white button-down shirt he looks so good in.
The reporter, who’s trying way too hard and being way too handsy, reaches over and briefly clasps his forearm. “And I know the nation is collectively holding its breath. We’re ready to see you out there doing what you love again.”
I roll my eyes and punch the End button on the treadmill.
Time to shower and head home.
I usually listento my playlist on the way home from my Saturday morning workout, but it died when I was in the shower. So, radio it is.
At a red light, I skip from station to station until I hear Johnny Cash and let the rest of the song play out. The light turns green before I can hunt for another song, and the next voice to serenade my ride home is Randy Travis’. It’s the same song Jake and I listened to on the way to McDonough all those months ago.
My fingertip hovers over the button to change it, but something inside me can’t do it.
My hand falls.
He accompanies me the rest of the way home.
Saturdays are also cleaningdays now. And then I make a grocery run because I meal prep on Sundays for the rest of the week. The last few times Mom has been over, she seems lighter. More at ease with the state of my life. And she doesn’t bug me anymore about getting a cat for companionship. She’s sensed the change in me since I’ve started counseling and have worked on untangling the mental yarn inside.
The Mitchell Mess, as I now call it, was a lot of things, but it was also a huge wakeup call. The catalyst. The final straw.
The thing that helped me see more clearly how bottled emotions and tampered hurts will only rot your insides, because they eventually give birth to self-destructive behaviors and poor decision-making.
I needed a makeover. A body, mind, and soul overhaul, if you will. And I’ve never felt better. Like I have my shit together for once.
Mostly.
But there’s still this nagging little voice in the back of my mind that pleads with me to call Jake and talk things over. As crazy as it sounds, I do miss him. I just can’t go back to that unless I know he’s healing himself too, and that’s hard to gauge over a TV screen. He looks good. His eyes are brighter, and his hair seems thicker. He’s cleanshaven and has a glow about him. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still numb himself in booze and women.
So, every now and then, I’ll look at his number. Longingly run my finger over the digits and wonder if he thinks about texting me too. Though, I don’t think he ever will. I told him to go away, and he knows I meant it. But I ultimately tuck the phone away and distract myself with something more productive.
Today, since the pull is particularly strong, I listen to anything but country as I tidy my apartment, take another shower, eat a quick lunch, and head to the grocery store.
My playlist finishes the last song and then shifts to suggested music.
Another familiar voice crowds the space inside my car...Alan Jackson.
And because the phone is inside my purse, I can’t fish it out and change it, so I let it ride. Before I know it, I’m taking a left onto the interstate and cussing through the windshield.
I meant to take the ramp to go north toward Trader Joes, not the one going south…toward McDonough.
I blame Alan.
Staying far right on the interstate, I watch for the next exit sign so I can get off and go north. And now I’m singing along with him. How can I not? And I’m transported back to that day when Alan played in Jake’s car. We’d just had sex against the side of the barn and were headed back to the main house…for more sex.
We are so incredibly magnetic when we’re together. It’s hard to fight. Almost futile. “Insatiable,” I breathe.
And before I know it, I breeze past the exit.
