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Was it because I asked if he would like to cook with us? Did he realize how I felt about him? Was that why?
Screw him. If that’s all it took to drive him away from me, then I don’t care about him.
I shouldn’t care.
But I can’t stop. That’s why it hurts as if my heart is going through the shredder. Corey says time will make it better. Not sure what Corey knows about heartbreak. If he goes through this every time he breaks up a relationship, then he’s superhuman.
Or has no heart. Maybe that’s why he says he doesn’t do love.
God.
It doesn’t help that I have something of his. Riot’s.
He forgot something at my place. I put my hand into my pocket, touch the silver earring I found on my bathroom floor. One of his. I doubt it’s of any great value. Just a plain silver hoop, but it’s burning a hole through my pocket, through my thoughts. I need to return it to him, cut off the last tie, get rid of the last excuse to see him.
Kill the hope he might drop by to inquire about the earring, about me.
Meanwhile, I’ve thrown myself into my studies again. It’s almost Christmas. The shops are in full multicolor deco, the streets covered in snow and lights hanging from the lamp posts.
Normally I go to Corey’s parents’ house for the holidays. My parents will be off to a ski resort somewhere, as usual, or so their last message said.
No surprise there. We’re not close, not since that night two years ago. My fault, too. My silence, and my pain pushed them away. Then I moved here, and I rarely ever see them anymore.
Regret clogs my throat for the first time in a while. I could call them. Hear their voices. Tell them...Tell them I’m better. Maybe we could meet.
Or not.
Better I may be regarding the past, but I’m not okay, and not in the mood to rehash what happened years ago and make amends.
Not right now.
Studies, reading, TV marathons with ice-cream and hot chocolate. That’s my cure, and I’ll take as much of this medicine as necessary until I’m fine.
***
“Heading home?” Corey is finishing his coffee as we walk between buildings. He throws the empty paper cup into a trashcan without missing a beat. “Thinking of going out later?”
It’s Friday afternoon. Hordes of students will be spilling into the town in a few hours to overtake every bar and dance club.
“I’m not sure.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat, my finger caressing the silver earring.
“Why not? Come with me. Frank will be there. You remember Frank.”
“Frank is the one who likes quoting dead authors, right?”
Corey laughs like what Frank does is really funny. “See, you remember him.”
“Who could ever forget him?”
“Well, we’ll be at Quincy’s, where you first met Frank.”
And Gale. And then Riot.
So no, I can’t go there. Not if there’s any chance of meeting Riot, just when the pain is starting to get bearable.
Or maybe manageable. I’m learning to live with it, like with a wound that won’t close.
“I will see, Corey.”
