In the week since Guy had confronted me in the grocery store, I couldn't stop thinking about the situation. About what he'd said and challenged me to do. About what my mother had said. About why I was thinking about him at all.
But I found it was my mother's words about confronting Guy for the first time in three years that kept nipping at my heels so continuously that I was afraid I was going to get tangled up in them and fall down. Instead of feeling like I needed to run from Guy, she suggested I should run at him and take the opportunity to give him a piece of my mind for my own peace of mind. Get the closure I'd denied myself for three years, as she reminded me.
Maybe it would let you finally put things to rest if you got everything off your chest. Really let him have it while you unloaded on him. I'm not saying you have to or you should, I'm just saying think about it. Maybe it's not about what he wants to say to you but about what you need to say to him.
While I was working, or driving home or in my bed at night, I thought about whether her advice was any good. Ever since Guy ambushed me in the produce aisle, my emotions had been all over the place. I was agitated in a way I hadn't been for two years, and my mother had known that.
You had all those emotions and no target for them because you never unleashed on him.
It was true, but that had also been my choice, my way of taking control of a situation I'd been thrown into against my will. If Guy wanted to break up with me after all those years without giving me a say in the matter, without talking it over with me, then he would receive the same consideration from me. There would be no opportunity for him to plead his case. He would not receive a hearing.
Maybe that had led to my year of living not dangerously, per se, but freely. The one thing I had examined in detail at the time was if I was seeing those men out of revenge or because I just wanted to both numb myself and feel something at the same time. After much self-reflection and digging deep, the honest answer was it had been ninety percent wanting to numb myself, eight percent needing to know I was still capable of feeling something and two percent revenge. Something my mother had tagged me on.
I'm all for new experiences if they're for the right reasons, but if they're simply to put a bandage on a wound, you're just covering up the hurt and the pain. Eventually, they'll fester into bitterness and keep you stuck in the past.
I'd denied it to my mother, of course, because you can't let them know they're right too often, but I'd cautiously unpacked that box labeled Guy in my mind to see what jumped out of it after three years. Mom was absolutely right: I'd packed away the hurt, pain and bitterness without first sorting through them. There was a ton of anger in that box, too, along with disappointment, sadness and loss. Crushing, soul-stealing loss of the future Guy and I had planned -- we'd planned, not just me -- for the eight years we'd been together. All our love and plans had ended with a phone call and a confession. And even if that sounded like the title of a country song, it had been our lives that he'd brought to a crashing halt, which kept me coming back to whether or not I should talk to Guy and let him know how much he'd hurt me.
That led directly to the Signs From The Universe game. Was I the only one who played that? For example, if I make this light, it's a sign that I'm supposed to stop at Krispy Kreme donuts on the way home from work. Or, if I end up driving behind a black, gray, silver or white car, it's a sign that I'm supposed to skip going to the gym tonight. Or, if a certain song from my playlist starts and the artist has an A or an E in his or her name, I'm supposed to go shopping at Target. All of those I took as clear-cut signals that I was supposed to do something or act in a certain way. They should in no way be seen as a way to justify doing something I wanted to do. Or not do.
I began playing that game about Guy.
If I see Guy between 6:05 and 6:10 a.m. at the corner gas station by pump three, I'm meant to talk to him.
If I'm at at a red light at Thirteen and Main and I look to my left and Guy is in a black convertible, I'm meant to talk to him.
If I walk into room 412 at the hospital and Guy is in the room, I'm meant to talk with him. (Never mind that it was the Labor and Delivery floor. It could happen.)
So far in the last week, none of those scenarios had happened, so according to the rules of the game, the universe clearly didn't want me to talk with Guy. Unsurprisingly, I was OK with that, except...I'd started rehearsing my Scathing Speech in which I unloaded three years of repressed anger on Guy. I practiced it in front of the mirror a couple of times a day, going through my points so brilliantly and so sarcastically he would most likely die from the verbal slings and arrows I was shooting at him. I even got the hand gestures for emphasis down pat.
However, what my game hadn't taken into account was the inescapable rule of sometimes life just fucks with you, also known as never bet against the house because you'll probably lose. In this case, the universe was the house and I was about to lose big.
I'd had a great day at work and was looking forward to two days off. I was humming the song that'd been playing as I got out of the car with my bag of takeout. My immediate plans included changing out of my scrubs, pulling on a pair of loose, comfy pajama pants and an oversized hoodie. Then I was going to find a new series on Netflix and eat my weight in loaded nachos. After that, maybe I'd go to bed or start a new book on my Kindle. The next night, I had plans with some high school friends that involved drinks and axe throwing, a combination that didn't make much sense to me but I was willing to try anyway.
Except when I walked up to my apartment, Guy was sitting by my door, his long, powerful legs stretched out in front of him. When he saw me, he jumped to his feet, and I couldn't help think that a body that massive shouldn't be that nimble.
He was definitely not part of my plans.
But the universe (and my mother) had beaten me at my own game, and since I had it ready, I guessed it was time to unload the speech I'd been practicing on him.
He looked at me solemnly. "Hi, Eden."
No, you don't get a civil greeting like we're old friends.
"Here's what's going to happen, Guy. Since you pushed this by showing up uninvited, I'm setting the rules. I'm going to let you into my apartment. You're going to sit on my couch. You're going to keep your mouth closed and if you say even one word, I'm tossing you out. You're here in listen-only mode because I have some things to tell you that I never gave myself a chance to say when you threw me out like I was garbage. It's time I allowed myself to let you know a few truths. But before I open my door, I want to hear you agree to my rules."
"I agree," he said.
"And when I'm done, you leave. You don't get a chance to speak. You had your chance three years ago. Tonight, it's my turn."
He nodded.
Unlocking my door, Guy followed me in and sat down on my couch. I went into my bedroom and grabbed some papers from an envelope I had tucked away in my closet. I walked back out and his eyes were steady on me. Calm.
I wondered if they'd stay that way when he realized that my presentation included visuals.
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WORK IN PROGRESS: Guy and Reason
العاطفيةHe cheated on me right before the NFL draft. He blew up our dreams and for three years, I refused to talk to him or talk about him. Then one summer, when I was home unexpectedly, he came home, too. Guy was done being ignored. And he was done living...
