57
WES AND I had never run together in Hyde Park, and I set off down the path, appreciating the dewy early-morning air on the cusp of a hot day, and the lack of memories. My feet hit the pavement, my mind ready to be out of the house and my body playing catch-up. I’d made a new playlist, and my footfalls matched the bass in the pop song. As I ran, I saw a few other early risers, and my mind wandered as muscle memory took over.
I hadn’t talked to Wes in two weeks following our breakup sex, which had been intense and emotional and had lasted as long as we were both able. But it had ended, and I’d left. I wouldn’t have been able to say a real goodbye to him. It had seemed easier. It hadn’t been.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
I’d been surprised that on top of missing Wes, I’d missed this. I’d missed that moment when I knew I was pushing myself a little farther, to go a little faster. I’d missed writing, too. I’d opened my journals and my laptop a hundred times, but I’d had nothing to say, so I stared at a blank screen. In a few days, I was going back to work, and my stomach hurt thinking about returning and facing everyone, especially Claire. I’d thought we were becoming friends.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
A familiar figure walking nearby caught my eye. Skinny jeans and an overly styled mustache. Ben was walking down the street near the park, talking on the phone. With his painstakingly messy hair and trendy clothes, I had to wonder what I’d seen in him for so long. Thinking about how into him I’d been was like unearthing a relic, something worn from time and dust covered—I didn’t recognize it. I slowed, not wanting to literally run into him.
I waited for the memories of that night to crash into me, for the shame of years of chasing a guy who didn’t want me to hit. It didn’t. Since him, I’d had Wes, who was a thousand times funnier and genuinely caring, not to mention sexy and generous and someone who believed in me. More than that, I’d had me! The last few months had given me countless opportunities to realize how much more I deserved than the scraps of time Ben had been willing to toss my way.
Ben shoved his phone into his pocket, head tipping up. That was the moment I could have met his eye and waved. I remembered Wes saying, Anyone who makes you feel you’re not good enough isn’t worth the breath it takes to tell them to go to hell. We could have had a friendly chat, or I could have told him off for ghosting me, but I filled my lungs with air, and neither option struck me as all that appealing.
The song switched to “Truth Hurts” by Lizzo. I smiled, returning to my run with the steady beat in my ears. In my periphery, Ben raised his hand and smiled, but I kept running. I had a race to train for, and I suddenly knew exactly what I wanted to write.
58
MOM GREETED ME with a hug, and I wanted to sink into her like when I was a little kid. I’d spent a lot of time wondering how I’d look her in the eyes, what it would mean if she kept using. I still didn’t know when I walked in the room, but standing there in her hug, I pushed my worries aside. I’d spent so much of the last six years running from guilt and pain, and trying to keep everyone safe, that it was almost a relief to just be there with her. When she pulled away, I breathed a little easier.
She was in rehab, which she’d agreed to at the hospital. I wanted to believe she’d stay clean this time. It sounded like she wanted to believe it, too.
“Chris.” She said my name a few times while looking me over. “Sometimes I just can’t believe you’re a grown man.” She glanced over my shoulder. “Where is your friend? Um, I can’t remember her name. The one with the big tits.”
I shook my head, a smile tipping my lips. It was reassuring in tandem with cringeworthy to hear my mom say “tits.” “Her name’s Britta.”
“Oh yeah.” Mom seemed so fragile sitting right next to me. “She’s your girlfriend?”
“Not anymore.” We’d never gotten around to labels, assuming we had more than forty-eight hours, but “girlfriend” and “dating” were so insufficient for what I felt for her. Soul mate. Love. Ex.
Mom grabbed my hand—such a small gesture, but I couldn’t remember her doing anything that sentimental in years. “What happened to her?”
I shrugged. “Nothing, we just broke up.”
She nodded and continued rubbing her palm over my knuckles. Her hands were tiny, thin fingers twining together. After a few beats, she looked up and met my eyes. “You should stop feeling guilty about what happened.”