“She can take an Uber.” I walk out of Maggie’s house and head for Warren’s car.
It takes him a few minutes to finally walk outside. I’m sure he was reassuring Maggie. Let him. Maybe he can reassure the unreasonable, but I sure can’t.
When Warren finally makes it to his car, I open up my texts to Sydney. I don’t even try to justify the picture with an excuse. I’ll explain it all to her when I’m face to face with her.
Ridge: I’m sorry she posted that, Sydney. I’m on my way back to my apartment now.
Sydney: No hurry. I won’t even be at your apartment when you get here.
I get a separate text from Bridgette.
Bridgette: Dick. You’re a dick. Dick, dick, dick.
Sydney: And don’t bother coming to my apartment. Me and Bridgette are having another sleepover.
Bridgette: NO DICKS ALLOWED!
I close out the texts to both of them and lean my head against the seat. “Drive to Sydney’s apartment first.”
I sit down on the couch after Warren closes the door. I stare at the floor.
I bury my face in my hands.
What is wrong with me?
I pushed Jake away. I pushed Ridge away. I even told Warren to get the hell out of my house when he stayed back and tried to get me to tell him why I was acting the way I was.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me this week. This isn’t me. I, honest to God, don’t want to be in a relationship with Ridge, but when I woke up this morning and saw him asleep next to me, it felt good to have him back. I’ve missed him. But not in a romantic way. I’ve just missed his company. And I started wondering if he missed my company, or if Sydney is all he needs now. Then I started feeling insecure again because he was here, even though he expressed just how much he didn’t want to be here. And as I laid there and stared at him, I started thinking about the day I found all the messages between him and Sydney and I got angry all over again.
I shouldn’t have posted the picture. I know that. But I think I did it because I thought it would make me feel better in some twisted way. I missed him, I was angry at him, I was angry at myself. I feel like years of just trying to live despite this illness is catching up to me. Because Ridge is right. I don’t take care of myself like I should, but it’s because I’m sick of this illness, and sometimes I don’t care if it wins. I really don’t.
I pull out my phone and delete the picture; then I open a text to Ridge.
Maggie: It’s been the shittiest week of my life and I took it out on you and I’m sorry. Tell Sydney I am so sorry. I deleted the picture.
I hit send and then power off my phone and lie down. I press my face into the couch and I cry.
The problem with hating yourself when you’re all alone is that you have no one to remind you of any of your good qualities. Then you just hate yourself even more, until you sabotage anything good in your life and in yourself.
I’m at that point.
Maggie Carson. Not so much of a badass today.
I had so much fun last night.
I ate Bridgette’s disgusting pizza and then she told me all about how she and Warren started dating. That only solidified my opinion of their weirdness. Then we watched Justice League and fast forwarded through all the parts Jason Momoa wasn’t in.
I don’t remember much after that because we were several bottles of wine in. My sleep and my fun were both cut abruptly short today when Bridgette shook me awake and shoved Maggie’s Instagram post in my face.
I’m more hurt than angry. I’m sure Ridge will have an excuse. He always does. But what’s Maggie’s excuse? I know, in a sense, I’m the other woman who came between them. I was the Tori in that situation. But I honestly thought we were all beyond that. From the way Warren and Ridge made it sound, she took it well and was even mature about it. But this feels so…petty. Gross, even.
I couldn’t stand being in Ridge’s apartment after seeing her post. The way I felt reminded me of the stark and pitiful misery I went through while I lived there. And the entire place smelled like pepperoni and anchovies. I told Bridgette I was going back to my place, and she went to her room to grab her stuff and told me she was going with me.
I think she might be just as upset as I am, because she brought another bottle of wine with her, and now we’re drinking again and it’s barely two o’clock in the afternoon. But I don’t mind that she’s here. I actually prefer it, because I really don’t want to be alone right now or I’ll over-analyze this entire situation and come up with far-fetched reasons for him being on that bed before he can even explain himself.