Time To Live

Chapter 23: Hype

"But of course," he called. A wave of déjà vu traveled down his spine at that second, enveloping him in a warm, glowing contentment. How many times had he and Jen watched movies together before, pausing the film for bathroom breaks or beverage refills, or, as in this case, to answer a pesky knock at the front door? It was so commonplace, so completely bland that it made his heart swell. Maybe he'd been so focused on hoping for some earth-shattering, epic event that would signal change that he had overlooked a subtle turning point in their relationship. Maybe, just maybe, they had already crossed that point, and he was searching for signs in all the wrong places?

* * *

Arrangements had been made for Christian to spend the night at his father's home, and Jenna returned to her apartment feeling an awkward blend of relief and longing. Part of her was ecstatic to have a night off from any responsibilities — professional or personal — and part of her did not want to be left alone with the vicious cycle of thoughts that were continuously storming in her mind.

Trying to harness this rare opportunity to do something for herself, she filled her small bathtub with steaming water and some coconut bath oil. Locating her Kindle quickly, she tossed off her clothing and sunk down into the deliciousness with a happy sigh. Shit, it had been far too long since she'd been able to even think of pampering herself. She was seeing a counselor now, and just yesterday her counselor had made a very good point: how can you care for someone else if you don't also take care of yourself?

Leaning back and closing her eyes, she considered her homework for the week. Yes, homework. Her therapist, Amy Meisler C.S.W., believed in giving out assignments to her patients, whom she referred to as clients. Somewhere in her mind, Jenna rolled her eyes at all of this. Meisler was an intriguing woman, neither wholly likable nor entirely off-putting. Either way, she seemed to know her shit. Emphasis on 'seemed'.

But Jenna was already avoiding the homework. Fuck. Meisler had urged her to sit down and compose a letter to, of all people, that piece of shit Ryan. The idea behind it being that there were clearly many, many things unspoken, and the only way to move forward was to purge those emotions from her system once and for all. There was probably the option to track that scumbag down and tell him to his face how badly she wanted him to suffer, but that didn't seem the very best of ideas. After all, she didn't want to end up in jail.

Since taking her laptop into the tub was a bad idea — though a life goal for a writer — she leaned back and stared at the greasy surface of her Kindle. Opening a new document, she frowned. "Dear Ryan, fuck off and die," she laughed to herself. "I hope your dick gets caught in a wood-chipper." She typed frantically and then giggled. "No wait, I hope that your next girlfriend is Lorena Bobbitt." Pausing to consider this, she winced. It was all so very immature of her, but the boiling pit of rage in her stomach was a real entity that needed a voice.

She sighed and began to chew her bottom lip, trying to find a more adult manner in which to phrase the ferocious hatred that she felt for the man who she once loved. She had seen a future with him, had trusted him around her son. How could she have been so stupid? Maybe Meisler would say that a portion of her anger was a projection of the frustration that she had with herself for falling for his lies. Shit, that was insightful, she smiled to herself as she pondered her phrasing. Would that be considered a miniature breakthrough, an epiphany?

"Alright, shit," she began to speak aloud to herself as she deleted and began to type anew. "Ryan, I write to you now to ask why, why did you have to choose me? What did I do to you that was so horrible that you can even begin to reason your actions as defensible? I understand that we've already had this conversation, in part, but your response was wholly unbelievable and leaves me feeling empty. I feel that I am within my rights to demand a proper answer to my question."

She wrinkled her nose at the sound of this spoken aloud, then groaned. It sounded ridiculous. She was trying to speak reason and demand an answer for a heinous action from a man who was clearly a sociopath. You couldn't speak logic with an insane person, right? So, why did she suddenly seem to believe that pleading for insight would get her somewhere with a psycho?

"Fine," she sighed as she deleting everything she had just written. "Ryan, I am writing you this letter not to demand answers, because I realize now that you likely don't possess any, but to tell you how I feel about what you have done. I will probably never understand why you selected me, why you felt that I was the woman whose life you should ruin."

Before she could continue, she heard a deep baritone laugh from inside her bedroom. He stepped into view and quietly jiggled his keys in the air with a smirk. "Well, as I said previously, you were in the wrong place at the right time, and you chose the wrong dude." Jingling the keys a bit more for emphasis, he grinned. "A word of advice for the future, you probably shouldn't give a key to your sociopathic boyfriend. He might use it to come watch you sleep or, better yet, take a bath."