34
Gatsby takes a beat. My patience is wearing thin. I don’t know why he’s blocking my exit if he’s so keen on kicking me out. I’m about to ask him to move when I feel him grab me. His hands dig into my shoulders, and his lips press hard against mine.
“What are you—” I manage to get out. But then he kisses me again. Without my consent, my tongue moves on its own and intertwines with his.
“Gatsby—” I push him away, but he comes at me. He presses his body against mine and buries his hands in my hair. We are kissing again. He pushes me against the wall. I want to push him off, but lust mixed with anger takes over. I kiss him back hard. Our kissing is frantic and out of control, mimicking the feelings that we are feeling for one another. I want to tear off his clothes. I want to put him in my mouth. But I resist the urge. Instead, I capture everything I feel about how much I hate him in my kiss. And then I push him away.
“Gatsby. No,” I say definitively and wipe my mouth.
It takes him a moment to collect himself. He smooths his suit, adjusts his tie, and runs his fingers through his hair.
“Yes, of course.” He nods.
“Can I get through, please?” I say. He’s standing in the doorway again, blocking me from leaving. I want him to drop to his knees and beg my forgiveness. I want him to ask me to stay. I want him to say he was sorry and to forget everything that he has just said to me. I want him to say that I’m not fired anymore.
But he doesn’t.
The kiss was just a kiss. Perhaps something of a good-bye kiss for both of us. The chemistry that binds us is undeniable. He knows it. I know it. But perhaps this chemistry is all we have.
Finally, he moves out of my way.
“Annabelle…” he says quietly while I wait for the elevator.
I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. Please forgive me. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. You were right. I just couldn’t admit it. You’re not fired.
I wait for him to utter any one of those sentences. Or any other words that resemble those. But he says nothing.
“Yes?” I urge him. I give him another chance. His eyes shift back and forth, and I see him struggling to find the right thing to say.
“Good luck in finding another job,” he finally says.
I want to scream and run at him full force. I want to slap him so hard that it leaves a bright red welt across his perfect face. I want to punch him in the eye.
“You will, of course, receive comfortable severance to tide you over until your next place of employment,” he adds.
He’s making this unbearable. I can’t breathe. The elevator can’t come fast enough.
Ding. Ding.
The elevator doors open and I leap in. Tears are flowing down my face before the doors close again. Who is this asshole? Why did he have to kiss me again? Why am I such a fool?
I hate him. Hate him. Hate him.
I hate myself more. I’m weak. He has broken me. Or maybe I was broken all along. That’s why he was there for me. That’s why he had such a power over me.
I don’t know how I get home. But some time later, I walk into my bedroom and plop on the couch. I want time to stop. It seems like it’s speeding up. Maggie Mae isn’t home. Thank God. I can’t explain anything right now. I can’t talk. I can only sob, cry, and bury my head in my pillows.
Gatsby Tristan Wild.
He will be the hardest man to get over.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but it’s getting dark outside. Suddenly, I get an overwhelming urge to run. I look through my closet and toss out almost all of the clothes on the floor, but I still can’t find my jogging clothes. I haven’t used them in ages. Finally, at the bottom of my dresser, in the last drawer that I look, I find a sports bra, shorts, and an old USC shirt that I’ve used for jogging and hiking. This will do.
I drive to Runyon Canyon. There’s hardly any parking as always, but I’m lucky enough to find a spot right near the entrance.
People in Los Angeles call Runyon Canyon a park, but it’s really a giant, steep hill made of yellow dust and dirt that rises a thousand or so feet above the city. The trail leading to the top is crowded with hikers, runners, walkers, and their dogs. I haven’t been here for a long time and start out walking. As thoughts of Gatsby flood my mind, I speed up my pace. I start to walk faster and faster to escape those thoughts.
He has hurt me. Again. I had forgiven him the first time. I had forgiven his lies and his deceit. But this time, there will be no forgiveness. Not that he was even offering me any. And that’s what I hate most about him. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was just trying to help, and he has banished me, fired me, excluded me from his life for NOTHING. Absolutely nothing.
About half way up the hill, I realize that I am running. The more I think about Gatsby, the faster I run up the hill. I’m winded and out of breath, but something keeps me going. Something continues to fuel my climb and pushes me harder.
How dare he fire me? How dare he push me out of his life for trying to convince him to do what’s best for him? He is a spineless asshole who doesn’t deserve a second thought, but I can’t stop them from coming and taking over my body. I can’t think of anything but Gatsby. And the harder I try to run away from him, the more I think of him.
Finally, I make it to the top of the hill. From there, the expanse of Los Angeles fills the horizon all around. The view is breathtaking, but that’s not why I am out of breath. I’m sobbing so hard that I can hardly breathe. With all of my might, I try to take a full breath of air, but nothing comes in. And then, everything fades away to black.