Anyway, I don’t have the energy to type anymore today.
These memories are too painful. My tale too familiar.
I’m no longer part of a pair.
I’m singular.
Just Della.
And I have a life that I’m wasting.
A life that Ren gave me.
As much as I hate him for leaving, I can’t destroy what he gave me.
I’m going to move on.
For him.
Even if it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
CHAPTER FOUR
DELLA
2018
IT’S BEEN ANOTHER three weeks.
Three months since he left, and it hasn’t gotten any easier.
But…I actually have something to write about other than Ren.
To be fair, my life has been pretty mundane since the night Ren walked out the door. I’ve crammed as much as I could into daylight and night-time hours, doing my best to delete Ren piece by piece.
I’ve stopped asking myself ridiculous questions as I fall to sleep in an empty apartment.
I’ve given up trying to find answers I’ll never earn and accept that what I did was unforgivable.
I shouldn’t have kissed him.
I shouldn’t have tried to change us.
I shouldn’t have demanded more.
I’m nothing but numb bones, dazed heart, and paralyzed soul.
Who knows…maybe I’ll always torture myself with that night. Maybe I’ll always feel wretched for hurting him.
I just had to push and push, and when he had nowhere else to go, he did the one thing he was best at. He’d run from the Mclary’s because they were monsters who tortured him; now he’d run from their daughter because she’d hurt him too much to repair.
I have nothing.
Nothing but regret and minutes upon minutes of time to contemplate the What Ifs. The What If I’d let him go to bed and given him a few days to analyse how he felt? The What If I’d just been honest and said, ‘Ren…you know I love you, but what you don’t know is I’m in love with you. Now, before you freak out, it’s nothing to be afraid of and I understand if you don’t feel the same way, but just in case you do…just in case some part of you that feels a tiny spark like I do, then let’s figure it out. We always figure things out—together.’
And he’d say…‘Okay, Della. You’re right. I do love you. Now, get naked.’
And we’d live happily ever after.
That’s the worst kind of torture, isn’t it? The horror where every outcome and scenario delivers a happier one than the life you’re currently living.
But it all comes down to choices.
I chose to sleep with David, and I chose to slug back a few glassfuls of wine to dull the ache of entering womanhood. I chose to embrace my recklessness, strip, and yell at Ren.
I was tipsy and hurt.
And I wish I could take it all back.
But you already know all this, so I’ll stop.
The real reason I wanted to write is…I needed someone.
Summer is well and truly here, and Ren is not, and that’s left me empty to the point where I’ll do anything to fill up the darkness inside me.
I’m ill-equipped for adulthood where I return to an empty apartment every night, the couch still smelling of him, the air still laced with his voice, and the night still warm with his hugs.
The memories nick my heart with their tiny, painful blades—giving me a thousand cuts until I bleed out slowly.
It’s so slow, I don’t even notice I’m dying.
I’ve run my immune system down. And the week after I handed in my assignment, I got sick.
Just a simple flu—karma for lying about being ill—but it knocked me on my butt. I could barely get out of bed from the body aches and fever. I had no food and no way of getting to a doctor without sneezing over some Uber driver.
I stayed in bed for two days, eating dried Ramen noodles because I couldn’t stand up to put the kettle on from shivering so bad, and sipping tepid tap water for my raging sore throat.
In the middle of the second day, I honestly thought I would die, and no one was left to care.
Ren…ouch.
God, the pain never gets any easier to bear.
Thinking of him is a syringe full of poison to the heart. Dare murmur his name and it’s a mallet to my bones. Risk imagining him sitting here, wiping away fever-sweaty hair and kissing my brow while feeding me chicken soup, and it’s a cannonball to my entire chest.
By the third day of curling up with chattering teeth, I knew I couldn’t keep doing this. I wasn’t dead, but it wouldn’t take much to finish me if I didn’t stop grieving.
Ren would be furious if he knew I’d gone from chasing everything to uncaring about anything, especially after all the sacrifices he made for me.
That was the only reason I managed to grab my phone, log in to Facebook, and look up all the Davids close to me.
It took a few page refreshes and an hour of stalking social media, but I found him.
The man I lost my virginity to.
Technology connects all of us and, for some reason, I despise that.
I hate the fact there’s no barrier anymore. No corner to hide from prying eyes.
David was easy to find, but not Ren.
He’s no longer in reception.
He’s returned to the wild that lives in his blood.
I have no way of contacting him and, believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything but smoke signals.
And thanks to that butcher’s blade to the heart, I needed someone even more.
His Facebook page said his full name was David A. Strait. His birthday was New Year’s Day, he was four years older than me, and according to his relationship status, he was single.
Funny that I’d willingly searched for the man who took my girlhood—a man I knew nothing about—yet almost cried in relief when I found him.
My message was lacking and needy:
Hi David,
You probably don’t remember me, but I’m the girl who pathetically asked you to relieve her of her virginity. You took me up on the offer, and then got beaten up by the guy I was trying to forget. Remember that messy evening? If by chance I’ve jogged your memory, I hope it’s not too forward to be honest with you again.
That guy? He walked out on me twelve weeks ago. I thought I was ready to survive on my own, but then I got sick. I hate that I’m asking you this and fully expect a hell no, but if you don’t mind being kind to me one last time, I need your help. My address is Apartment 1D, 78 RuBelle Ave. I’m just a few blocks from your place actually—walking distance really…
I coughed wet and ugly as I pressed send.
It showed as delivered a few seconds later.
For a few hours, I dozed with congestion in my nose and a continent the size of Africa sitting on my head.
I almost forgot I was waiting until my phone chirped with new correspondence.
Even though I knew it wasn’t Ren. Even though I knew, knew, knew I’d never get a text from him again; it didn’t stop my ridiculous heart from jumping off a building and hurling itself onto painful concrete.
It wasn’t Ren.
But it was the next best thing.
I’m on my way.
Love, David.
CHAPTER FIVE
DELLA
2018
SORRY IT’S BEEN so long.
I meant to tell you what happened when David appeared at my apartment, but the guilt…
The guilt of welcoming him inside, letting him sit on the couch Ren used to sleep on, offering him water from glasses Ren used to drink from, sharing the space that Ren used to share with me…
The guilt hurt even worse than the bone aches from the flu.
Not that I have anything to be guilty for.
I’m single. I’m alone. I’ve committed no crime.
So why does it feel like I’ve cheated so many times on Ren in the past few weeks?
Let me explain.
David arrived with store-bought mushroom soup, fresh ciabatta, and a pharmacy bag full of painkillers, decongestants, and throat lozenges.
I welcomed him in, almost hyperventilated having him in Ren’s space, paid by Ren’s money, made possible by Ren’s sacrifices, and stiffened in his arms as he hugged me and said, “You can’t stay here on your own. Pack a bag. You’re coming with me.”