I still couldn’t believe what had happened the night before. I made my way into my bathroom, turned on the lights in the vanity mirror, and saw the frighteningly pale reflection of someone who I did not want to accept was me. I rubbed my swollen eyes, bulging from sleeping through tears, and looked at my phone again.
“How do you feel this morning?” Carly tried to ask.
“Fine,” I could hardly whisper while wiping off the leftover mascara on my face.
“Hey, you alright?” she prods again.
“I don’t know.”
I didn’t want to but almost had to keep replaying the scenes over and over again in my head from last night, wondering how things could turn out so horribly wrong, how it was just a Friday night like any other night, and things were—no, are—supposed to be just fine. But as much as I didn’t want to admit it, Patrick and I did have one of those fights that we can never take back. The ones that involved slamming doors, hurtful words thrown like daggers, and mean threats screamed without any concern for who we could possibly be disturbing at 2 in the morning. We had one of those fights that had it come from one of my neighbors would have gotten a comical sneer from me but because it was my fight, well, forever burying my head in a dirt hole still couldn’t save me from the embarrassment of it all.
How could he not have called me yet? I wanted desperately to know. Patrick was always the chaser in the relationship and even though it fed into my sometimes passive approach to relationships, this was something I liked about him—his persistence at things in life he can’t get. My phone beeped and my heart jumped, my stomach twisted, and
Hey Miss. Just wanted
to make sure you are ok.
Please let me know if you
Time: 11:36 AM
No, not who I wanted to hear from. Don’t’ do it, don’t do it, but I did. I called Patrick once, twice, and they all went to voicemail. I dialed again because I just knew he was as confused as I was on the other end holding his phone, watching it ring with urgency. I just knew that he wanted to talk to me, even for but a moment, too. I mean, he just had to, right?
“Hey,” Patrick’s voice poured out of the receiver like water in a desert.
“What have you been up to?” I asked gently.
“Just trying to get some rest,” he responded but I was sorely disappointed with his answer. Hasn’t he been thinking of me, about our fight, about trying to fix what we had almost irreparably shattered?
“So what are we going to do about everything?” I wanted to know. How are you going to make this up to me? When will you come over to my place so that you can say how terribly sorry you are, or at least to leave flowers by the doorstep?
“I don’t know,” his answer again too short. “We’ll just have to see what happens.”
“What do you mean by that?” I say, frustrated by his despondency. “Do you even know what happened last night?!”
“Missy, I am a beat man, I am tired, I just don’t know what we are going to do. You really hurt me.”
“And you didn’t hurt me?! Look,” I tried to reason, “Why don’t we just spend the weekend apart. I…I don’t think I can be with you anymore and I need a lot of time to figure out what to do next.”
“Yeah,” Patrick quietly agreed. “It’s whatever you want, Missy.”
I was baffled he wasn’t fighting harder for me like he has done so all the times before. I secretly hoped he would adamantly insist on coming over to my apartment to see me and to make things better no matter what I was otherwise proposing for us to do. I actually thought we had a chance at making amends before the conversation but after hearing how detached he was and his denial that apologies were owed, I emotionally began to shut down. I’m DONE, I decided. No more chances, Patrick.
“Look,” he continued, “let’s just have the weekend apart and talk about this next week.
I love you.”
“I…don’t know anymore,” I barely choked out before hanging up the phone.
To be continued.