[2022 Wattys Winner] When love cynic Madison Watson starts university, she vows to follow three simple rules.
One: Work out at least twice a week.
Two: Get an internship.
Three: Stay away from men.
But after a chance encounter with th...
That's all we can do. No pity, no judgment. No fruitless words of unfounded advice. Just assurance that I was doing my best. Maybe even assurance that my reaction to my trauma—however big or small—was normal.
Dredging up memories of my dad always left me feeling like I was treading water, like wave after wave was crashing over me, pulling me into the pit of a never-ending black sea. It's why I seldom did it, why I pushed every memory with him—of him—to the back of my mind. Why, with James, did I feel like I could handle it? Like I'd finally found a buoy to tether me during the storm?
The lilting song ended, and James and I came to a slow, swaying stop. I looked down at the floor while the other dancers parted, drawing a sobering breath. Slowly, James stepped back. But when I glanced up at him, he was still smiling softly.
He guided me back to the table, then pulled back my chair. "Can I get you a drink?"
I tried to smile when I sat. "Lemonade, please."
"Sure. Wait here?"
I nodded. And had every intention to. My heels were practically nailed to the floor, my fingers drumming the embroidered tablecloth impatiently as another song began—a pretty serenade between harp and violin. The dancers on the floor dipped and twirled, the women's gowns rippling when their partners spun them. I felt a stare pelting me. Turned, and saw Joanna glaring at me from the bar, where James was getting our drinks.
She placed a hand on his arm, then threw back her head of hair, laughing. But my stomach hollowed out for a whole different reason.
My phone was vibrating. I pulled it out of my purse. I shouldn't have. But I did.
Drove past that chapel on the cliff this morning, the text from the unknown number read. The one overlooking our beach that you wanted to get married at. I thought about what that would have been like all day, all while you've been holding hands with somebody else.
My chest was rising and falling quickly. The room fogged over. The music was too loud. It screeched against my skull.
Noah .... He'd tagged me in a photo on Instagram. A behind-the-scenes snap he'd taken when the wedding party had been on that little hill, and when James had, indeed, been holding my hand—and only because the photographer had told him to. Eli, though blocked on his own account, must have been trawling through mine—on the same friend's phone he was texting me from now, probably.
The music was getting louder. My pulse was too fast, too heavy. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't escape Eli, or the memories of what we'd had, of what I'd left behind. What he'd destroyed. Why was he turning it back on me? Why was he trying to make me feel guilty for moving on? Why was I letting him? Why did I have to feel so damn much?
My eyes burned. I was going to cry. And I wasn't about to do it in a room full of people who probably already saw right through me.
So I broke my promise to James.
I left the dance floor.
Left the marquee.
I walked and walked and walked through the blur of green hedges and rose bushes, tears streaming down my face as I tried to find a place where I could breathe and exist without feeling guilty about it.
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