I stared out of the window for a few minutes, lost in thoughts that I couldn’t recall thirty seconds later. I’d never felt like this before and kept telling myself that I was not really in love. This could not be love simply because of the fact that he was engaged. It wasn’t possible that the first man I truly loved belonged to somebody else but of course, wasn’t that the hand life always dealt?
The buzzing of my phone broke my wandering thoughts and I was almost afraid to pick it up. It was a text message from Becky, asking what we should do for dinner.
“Whatever you want” I texted back.
My phone indicated that I had more messages and I knew that at least one was from him. At least. There were a couple of messages asking if I was going tonight, one from him which I refused to open and one from work asking if I could come in for a shift tonight. I was tempted to reply back with a yes but I knew that I needed to be in a place of refuge right now and that was with Becky. The unread message glared at me and I dropped the phone as if it was on fire.
“Snap the fuck out of it”
I was talking to myself now. Great. I had to get out of here so I grabbed my headphones, phone, Becky’s keys and left. Walking the streets of our campus always made me feel better, for whatever reason. Maybe I just liked knowing that no one out there knew of my shame though I wonder if they could read it on my face. Was it written in blood on my forehead like the scarlet “A”? Only mine would be a scarlet “slut” because there was no getting around it. The feeling of regret did not exist in my gut when I thought of our kiss and the way he looked at me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
“Chubby’s in an hour?”
Dinner was settled. We’d be eating at our favorite place on campus and that hour gave me a chance to go and wallow in self-pity some more before I’d have to face Becky. I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, highlighted that tainted unread message in my phone and stood there as my thumb went back and forth between “Read” and “Delete”. My thumb pressed down on its own and there were the words that we’d repeat to each other as we figured out a way out of this rabbit hole.
Was he sorry because he said he loved me? Was he sorry because he let his lips take over mine? Maybe he was sorry because he did love me and he regretted those feelings. I bet he was sorry to have ever met me. Did I dare ask the question of “Why” because no matter what the answer, we were falling down our rabbit hole uncontrollably into the unknown.
Would either of us make it out the other end without a scar?