After he leaves, I stare at the brown box for a few seconds wondering what it could be. Ripping the envelope off the top, I remove the small card, startled to discover it’s a gift from Reeve.
I’m pissed he’s somehow gotten his hands on my address. Sending gifts, while thoughtful, isn’t going to help me to forget him. I’m guessing that’s the point. I contemplate not opening it, but curiosity gets the best of me. As well as a brief note, he’s enclosed a gift card for CLOTH, a specialist fabric shop near Grafton Street. My hands tremble as I unwrap the sewing machine with tears coursing down my face, both hating and loving his thoughtful gesture.
God, Reeve.
A sob rips from my mouth as my fingers trail along the smooth edge of my new machine.
This reminds me so much of the sweet boy I loved, and it’s killing me. The loss hits me anew, and my heart hurts. So freaking much. Pain lashes me from all sides until I can barely breathe.
Why did he have to betray me and destroy what we had?
Why, why, why? I don’t think I’ll ever understand.
Resting my head on the marble counter, I give in to my grief, openly crying. My pitiful cries bounce off the lonely walls of my apartment, adding to my misery. I cry until I’ve exhausted all my tears and my throat feels scraped raw. The backs of my eyes sting, and I rub at the tightness in my chest. My head is still pounding, and my stomach sloshes uneasily at the memory of all the alcohol I consumed last night.
Unable to process this multitude of emotions while I’m feeling like death warmed over, I pop a couple of pain meds and crawl back into bed.
Waking a few hours later, physically, I feel better, but emotionally, I’m crippled. I lie in bed, going back and forth over whether I should message Reeve to thank him. In the end, I decide not to. I know if I message him it’ll only open a line of communication, and I can’t undo all my good work. However, I can send him a thank-you card in the mail. I doubt he’ll write back, so that way I can appease my conscience without any unwanted complications.
I head to CLOTH after I get dressed and order a ton of supplies to be delivered to my apartment. Then I grab takeout on my way home and perch my butt in front of the fire to watch a movie.
I settle into my new life over the next few weeks, doing my best to keep busy because it helps to distract me from my heartache. I go to my classes and attend physical therapy a few times a week, and I’ve even had a couple of sessions with a therapist. I join the team at the Trinity News, Ireland’s oldest student-led newspaper, as a contributing writer. I’m trying to cram activities into every spare hour, so I don’t have too much time to think, but the nights are the hardest. If I’ve nothing planned, I usually work out in the gym in my building for a couple hours, draw some designs, and chat with Audrey or my parents until it’s time for bed. Other nights, I go out to eat or catch a movie with my friends, and we usually do a bit of a bar crawl on Thursday nights, but I’ve avoided all social interaction involving Toxic Gods. I don’t think being around that scene or Dillon is what I need in my life right now.
But I’m so damn lonely, and I’m not sure I like living by myself.
Being here alone gives me too much time with my thoughts, and those are the hardest nights. Nights when I cry myself to sleep, feeling a physical ache at Reeve’s loss. Despite strong temptation, I haven’t checked social media, and I can’t deny I have gleaned some sense of inner peace from shutting out all that noise.
I miss Reeve so much. I hate admitting it, and I hate myself for missing someone who humiliated and betrayed me, but I don’t know how to force myself to not miss him. All I know is I want it to stop. I’m tired of feeling like this. Sick of missing someone who didn’t appreciate or respect me. Fed up of my happiness being tied to his existence in my life. I know it takes time to heal, and I can’t move on until I’m ready, but I wish I could press the fast-forward button and wake up happy again with all the pain left in the past and a bright outlook for the future.
With that in mind, I decide I need to do better, so I invite Ronan, Ash, and Catriona over for lunch at my place on Saturday.
Cat can’t come as it’s her sister’s birthday, so I set the table for three, heat up the butternut squash soup to accompany the chicken salad sandwiches, and move my sewing stuff into the spare bedroom before they arrive so the apartment looks less messy.
“Fucking hell.” Ronan whistles under his breath as he stands at the floor-to-ceiling window, staring at the stunning view from my open-plan living space. “This place is sick.”