Chapter Twenty-Two
There was something empowering about writing that threatening email to Kirk, Sasha thought. Yes, it was blackmail. Yes, it was childish, but it felt great.
She imagined Kirk sitting over a pint with a close friend, confiding about what had happened; regaling him with boastful tales of how he’d wangled another shag out of his ex, then moaning about how she had turned round and blackmailed him. ‘She said she was going to email Denise; going to tell her everything that happened.’ His mate would let out a low whistle and say, ‘That’s you in the shit, then. She’s on to you.’
Kirk would be looking over his shoulder the whole time, wondering when the bomb would drop; wondering if this would be the day that Denise would find out. Every time Denise’s face clouded over or when she was in a bad mood, Kirk would be convinced this is it. She’s found out. Or if Denise said, ‘we need to talk,’ Kirk would brace himself for the accusations. ‘Did you cheat on me? Did you go to see Sasha?’
Of course he’d deny everything. Of course he’d charm his way around her; tell her that Sasha was ‘nuts’; mentally unstable. But it would still be a hassle; a bridge that he didn’t want to have to cross.
So yes, it was blackmail. Yes, it was nasty. But where had being nice got her? Being nice got her treated as a doormat. She may as well have said, ‘Hold on and I’ll lie down so you can stamp all over me. Oh, and then come back and stamp on me one more time.’
No, being bitchy felt empowering. Being bitchy felt like she was holding a giant shield in front of herself and saying, ‘Just you dare try. Just you dare try to cross this line one more time…’
And she didn’t hear from him again after that. Not one single line. It worked. The threat of blowing the whistle meant that there were no more late-night emails; no more links to songs that were loaded with memories; no more late-night drunken reminiscing.
Granted, if he had emailed her, it would have gone directly into the trash can. She still had the filter on her email so that his emails went directly there. And this time, she wouldn’t go rummaging through the (virtual) bin to find his emails either. Such was the nature of her disgust with him, she had absolutely no interest in anything he had to say to her anymore. Nothing would help. Nothing would change. If he was capable of coming to see her, shagging her, then going back to Denise and choosing Denise over her, then there was absolutely nothing more he could say to her.
The fantasy was over.
The fantasy that he secretly loved her, that, deep down, he was harbouring feelings for her, that one day he’d come back, was gone.
The reality was that he had chosen Denise over her. Even when she had laid herself on a platter, he still went back to Denise.
It was like a final rock bottom; that crushing clarity that not one single ounce of hope remained. It was over. Well and truly and utterly over.
And even if she did somehow come across one of his emails, she didn’t think she’d bother to read it. There was nothing else he could say to her. He had trampled over her enough.
He wasn’t capable of love, Sasha thought. He doesn’t love me. He says he loves me, but his actions don’t reflect it. If you love someone, you don’t want to see them hurting. If you love someone, you don’t walk out of the relationship because of a ‘vibe’. If you love someone, you don’t try to change them continually. If you love someone, you couldn’t bear the thought of walking away from them and straight into the arms of someone else.
She could go on and on. The point is, she had stopped kidding herself. She had stopped secretly believing that one day he would wake up and realise what a horrible mistake he’d made, and come running back to her with open arms. It was never going to happen.
What was going to happen (if she allowed it) was that he was going to keep emailing her when he was drunk or on drugs. He was going to reminisce about her when he was feeling morose and depressed. He was going to wave the carrot of hope in front of her every time he’d had a row with his girlfriend. He was going to land on her doorstep for a shag every time he and his girlfriend were on a break. And Sasha was going to get her hopes up every time. So her heart would never fully heal, and she’d never be able to fall in love with anyone else, because it was continually being broken by Kirk. This would go on for years and years, until Sasha eventually had a nervous breakdown or took drugs to cope, or ended up in a mental hospital.
Dramatic? Possibly. But that was the reality. And by playing the tape forward, Sasha was finally able to break free.
Yes, it was hard. Yes, she felt depressed. Whereas earlier she had held a grain of hope that Kirk would return, now there was none at all. All she had to look forward to was one pitiful date after another with online geeks who had no charisma.
So she had to think. And she had to think fast. How could she cope? She felt hopeless. How was she going to deal with this situation?
The only way she knew how to deal with it was to change her thinking.
I am going to think about every last thing I am grateful for about being single, and not being with Kirk anymore, she told herself, writing a list:
Gratitude:
• No more talk-a-thons
• No-one putting me down
• No-one telling me I need to change
• No list of rules telling me what to do
• No one-month breaks with no contact
• No ultimatums
No spending a fortune trying to impress someone – my money is my own
I have my own place, my own space, and peace
Sasha read the list to herself every morning. And after only a few days, something shifted. After months of pining for Kirk and what she had lost, suddenly her perception shifted. She was happy. Happy to be single. Happy to be free.
Content in her own skin.