Chapter 24
Delilah
“Broken crayons still color.”
~ Grant Turner
My phone vibrated on my nightstand and my heart—that had no common sense whatsoever—leaped at the possibility that it could be the one that shall remain nameless. I picked it up, and confirmed what my head already knew, it wasn’t him. It never was.
It’d been a week since we’d been down at the river in his truck, and that had ended so abruptly it had given me emotional whiplash. While he was still holding me in his arms, he’d gotten a call that his dad’s blood pressure had dropped and he needed to get back to the hospital. I’d told him that I was fine walking home from the river, but he’d insisted on driving me. The ride back to my house was understandably silent. He dropped me off, and that’s the last I’d seen him or talked to him.
The shop van though had magically appeared at the shop with all the repairs that they’d quoted me—and some that they hadn’t—done two days after it broke down. I’d asked Manny, the owner of Wishing Well Automotive, who’d authorized and paid for the work. It wasn’t me, I’d been trying to talk my dad into purchasing a new vehicle. He’d told me who it was before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to. Then he’d told me to forget what he’d said.
Sawyer Briggs. He’d taken care of all of it while he was dealing with everything that was going on with his dad. I’d tried to call and thank him, several times, but it would ring once or twice and then get sent to voicemail. Which meant he’d seen it was me that was calling and purposefully ignored it.
At first I thought his inability to pick up or call me back must be because he was busy with his dad. But then, when my dad found out about his generosity, he called and Sawyer answered on the first ring. When my dad had insisted on paying him back, Sawyer explained that Manny had owed him for some work he’d done on his house so it really was all taken care of.
It was time I faced reality.
He hadn’t returned my call. He hadn’t texted me. He hadn’t stopped by to see me.
There was an indisputable pattern there.
So why was my first instinct to think that every knock, every phone buzz was him? When it inevitably wasn’t him, I’d be crushed. Every single time my heart would break just a little bit more.
In an attempt at breaking the destructive cycle of anticipation and disappointment, I came up with a new rule for myself that I was implementing today. I wasn’t allowed to think or say his name. I was going to try and Jedi mind trick myself into thinking that he didn’t exist in the hope that my expectation to hear from or see him would disappear.
So far…it wasn’t working.
I stared down at the message on my phone from Jade O’Sullivan. She was checking to make sure I was bringing the wine for Movies in the Park. Tonight they were showing The Princess Bride, one of my favorites. I was meeting her there early to ensure we claimed prime real estate on the grass. We were going to enjoy some wine, some food, and of course, some gossip. All signs pointed to it being a lovely evening, and I had zero desire to go.
Fighting the urge to bail on the night out, I sent back a reply telling Jade that yes, I was bringing the Moscato and I would be there soon. I was forcing myself to go even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.
I lifted the blankets that I’d been hibernating under this past week and forced myself to get out of bed. I refused to wallow any longer. Since our last encounter, I’d been living a Groundhog Day existence where I slept until the very last second I possibly could, hit my snooze button a dozen times, threw on some clothes and arrived at the shop with seconds to spare before opening. Then, the second operating hours were over, I closed up, rushed home, and crawled right into bed where I stayed until the entire process started again the next day.
Enough was enough. I’d gone into this with my eyes wide open. I couldn’t even use the fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me, defense. He hadn’t fooled anyone. If there was any foolery, it was self-inflicted. I’d convinced myself that I could handle the aftermath of the emotional, natural disaster that I’d created. But, I’d overestimated my ability to walk away, unharmed, from the damage the storm that my intimacy experiment and declaration of love had caused.
The pain I felt from missing him was nothing short of crippling, but I was done allowing it to dictate my life. I had so much to be grateful for. My life was good. It was better than good, it was great. And, I had to believe that I would have everything I’d always wanted, it just wouldn’t be with him. This was a detour. It was not my final destination.
Pushing off my mattress, I marched to my closet, pulled out my cutest cutoff shorts and tank top, and even grabbed my cowboy boots. I rarely wore them because I was more of a flip-flop and tennis shoe gal, but when I needed an extra boost, these babies came off the bench.
After laying my outfit on my bed, I got in the shower and turned the water as hot as I could stand it. I stood beneath the spray and did my best not to let my mind wander to forbidden territory. In addition to not allowing myself to say or think his name, I’d also placed a ban on memories of our time together. Maybe someday—after time had passed—I’d be able to look back fondly on the past three weeks and smile when I thought about the way his lips felt against mine, the way he intuitively knew my body and its needs, the way he looked at me like I was the sexiest woman alive.
Today was not that day.
Today, those thoughts, those memories, those recollections caused emotional pain so severe it morphed into physical pain. Today, I wanted to burst out into tears thinking about the way the crook of his neck smelled like wood chips and soap. Today, I wanted to wash the phantom sensations of his hands on my body off so that I wouldn’t feel his touch.
But…maybe someday that wouldn’t be the case.
I took my time shaving my legs and let the lavender aroma of my body wash soothe my shattered soul. I forced myself to focus on my plans for the screened in porch. This next week I was going to move forward. I was going to be productive. I was going to look towards the future and leave the past where it belonged, in the past.
When the water started to get cold, I took it as my cue to get out. I dried off, applied a decent amount of lotion all over my body and took a moment to stare in the mirror. I was surprised at what I saw, or should I say how my brain interpreted what I saw.
Instead of my eyes immediately zoning in and judging the areas that I had considered my problem areas, my wide hips, stomach pouch, and upper arm fat, I saw all of my body. All the curves that made me the woman that I was. I didn’t see flaws, I just saw me. And I liked me.
As I continued studying myself in the mirror, an epiphany struck me. All my life I’d been worried about the wrong things. So what if I had cellulite? So what if I had stretch marks? So what if my stomach wasn’t flat as a pancake? Did any of those things really matter? No.
If there was one thing that I could take away from my experience over the past few weeks it was whatever disconnect he-who-shall-remain-nameless had with me, it wasn’t physical. In that, at least, we were on the same page. He’d had no problem with the extra weight that had taunted me and held me back from truly enjoying life.
Not once had I felt insecure or nervous about my body around him. If I traveled back in time and told myself that a year ago, I would’ve laughed in my face. My body image had been such a huge struggle my entire life. I’d been sure that it was going to be the biggest obstacle if anything actually happened with my dark angel. But, as it turned out, that had been the one non-issue we’d had. I’d never once worried about what he was thinking about how I looked. I didn’t have to. I’d lived in the moment.
With him, I was enough. I was present. I was happy.
And that shouldn’t change just because things hadn’t worked out the way I’d wanted.
Taking a deep breath, I stated aloud, “I am enough. I am present. I am happy.”
Well, two out of three ain’t bad. I’d find my happy again, and until then I would fake it until I made it.