By the end of week two I was not getting any better.
When I turned up to work on that Friday I was surprised to find Patrice waiting for me in my office. “Stella called me. She’s worried about you.” Patrice’s gaze drifted over me and she threw up her hands. “What are you wearing?”
I glanced down at myself.
I had on the skinny jeans I loved so much.
But that wasn’t really the problem.
I was wearing a white T-shirt with a giant coffee stain on it.
Oops.
Patrice hurried at me, her eyes searching my face and growing wider by the second. “You’re not wearing any makeup. And your hair—” She gestured to me.
I patted my head where I’d tied my hair up into a messy bun.
“When did you last wash it?”
Oh, and I might not have washed it in a while.
My friend sighed. Heavily. Then she grabbed her purse off my desk, and then came back to me. Taking hold of my arm, she led me out of the building, calling good-bye to Stella before I could say anything.
“Where are we going?” I asked, totally confused.
“Back to your apartment.”
I didn’t need to ask why.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“What has gotten into you? This isn’t like you.”
I’m wallowing. I gave myself permission to wallow. “A month tops,” I suddenly said.
“What?” Patrice frowned at me as she marched down Beacon Street.
“It was supposed to be a week of wallowing. Allowing myself to grieve for the bastard. You know … get it out of my system before I move on to bigger and better things. But I’m thinking—” I glanced down at my stained T-shirt and my unmanicured fingernails as they clutched at the T-shirt. “A month tops.”
“I’m thinking neither. It stops. Today.”
I glared at her as she marched ahead.
You couldn’t just tell your heart to stop wallowing! And I never allowed myself to wallow over Nick, probably because he wasn’t worth the time. But it was my right now to wallow over he who shall not be named!
Pain constricted my throat as I rushed after Patrice.
By the time we got to my apartment I was beginning to panic that she might actually force me to stop my pity party before I was ready.
“Keys,” she demanded when we reached my place.
I handed them over and then, like a sullen teenager, followed her in and up to my apartment. When she opened the door, she gasped with all the melodrama of someone walking onto a murder scene.
As she stared dispassionately around at my space, I realized in a way it was. A murder of neat freak Ava Breevort.
Every inch of the place was covered. In dirty clothes, food wrappers, soda cans, takeout cartons, and the kitchen sink was overflowing with dirty dishes.
What?
I was wallowing.
“Oh my God.” Patrice gaped at everything. “This is not your apartment.” She took a sharp inhale of breath at finding a curry stain on my cream carpet. “Have you seen this?”
I shrugged.
Her eyes widened in horror and she reached out to grab me by the upper arms. “Ava, are you in there?”
I rolled my eyes. “Patrice.”
“The Ava Breevort I know would die at seeing her apartment like this. There is never an inch of you or your apartment out of place. This … Oh my God, what is going on?”
Seeing mold gathering on my dishes for the first time, I began to feel a niggle of shame. “I should clean.”
“Yes, you should. But more importantly, why aren’t you losing your mind over the state of your apartment?”
Now it was my turn to be disbelieving. “Really, Patrice? Really?” Tears burned my nose and my lips shook as I waved at the place. “I should care about a stain when I feel like my insides have been torn out!”
The words echoed around the room and I bit my lip, wishing I could pull them back because they’d acted like a huge sledgehammer against my comfortable numbness.
Patrice’s eyes shone bright with sympathy. “Darling … I’m so sorry I ever thought matchmaking you with Caleb was a good idea. Still, I never thought I’d see the day when nothing else would matter to you but a man.”
Not sure if I was being reprimanded, I stared her down. “I’m allowed to be heartbroken. It doesn’t make me weak.”
“I never meant that.” She stepped over a pile of laundry to take hold of my hand. “I just don’t want you to lose yourself.”
I nodded, wrinkling my nose as I saw the apartment from her perspective, and repeated, “I should clean.”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t think it’s a bad thing to stop caring about the things that don’t really matter. So much of my life felt out of my control that I became obsessed with the little things I could control. Like my apartment and my appearance. I wouldn’t even buy a pair of skinny jeans, for God’s sake.”
“Uh … you’re wearing a pair of jeans.”
“Yes. I am. And I intend to wear more. I’m going to clean my apartment and I’m going to wash my hair … but after I wash it I might just throw it back up in a messy bun. And I might not wear mascara if I don’t feel like it. Or high heels.”
Patrice seemed unsure. “To work? Events?”
I laughed softly, the act of it a relief. “Don’t worry, Patrice. I’ll be my immaculate self for work and to any of your wonderful events. I just might give myself a break on the weekends if I feel like it. And I’m changing my carpet because there’s a stain on it and I live my life tiptoeing around my own apartment, worrying about my guests leaving stains on the carpet with their footwear and following them around with coasters. It’s exhausting and I’d rather spend my time on things that matter.” I gazed at the floor. “I think I’ll put down hardwood and a nice big rug.”
“Oak.” Patrice nodded, tapping her mouth in thought. “It’ll warm the room up. And I’d get rid of your white sofa.”
“I hate that sofa,” I agreed. “It looks pretty but I can’t eat cheese puffs on it.”
“Then it should go.”
I locked eyes with my very understanding friend. “I’ll stop wallowing.”
“Good. You can be as heartbroken as you want for as long as you want. There is no magic number of days or weeks or months, my darling. But wallowing makes you look and sound just awful.”
I cracked a smile at her bluntness. “I’ll jump in the shower.”
“And I’ ll …” She made a face at the kitchen. “Call my cleaner.”
“I can clean my own apartment,” I said as I made my way into my bedroom.
“Yes, but Stella said she needs you at the office. Hello, Anne-Marie? Yes. I have an emergency … right now … I’ll pay you double …”
I rolled my eyes as she talked on the phone presumably to her cleaner. But I did as she asked. I stripped and got in the shower.
And as soon as the water poured over me, I let go of my numbness and let the pain back in again. I muffled my sobs, squeezing my arms around my chest to try to stop the harsh racking of my body.
I missed him.
So much.
Knowing I’d never touch him again or feel him smile against my skin while he was kissing me all over.
Knowing I would never be able to turn to him again when I needed him the most, that he would never be a strong, supportive presence to help bear the weight of future burdens.
One day I’d have that again with someone, but it wouldn’t be the same. I couldn’t imagine anyone ever making me feel as safe as he did. And I’d lost him before I ever really had him.
I never knew anything could feel so unbearable.
Finally, the sobs slowed to tears and I wiped them away, still shaking but feeling calmer. And I promised myself that that would be my last meltdown.
I had to let him go.
I just … I had to.
Not wanting a serious relationship because of Vince isn’t healthy,” I said the following night.