Can a broken heart ever heal? Maybe. When, many years later she found herself staring back into his dazed eyes, as he lay semi-conscious in her dental chair, she gripped the tooth-extraction pliers just a little tighter. Surely, he deserved losing...
Reaching deep into his raw and bleeding gums, I begin my assault on all of his teeth.
Tears blur my focus, but I'm not trying to be accurate, or even careful. I probe. I cut. I make him bleed. Just like he did to me.
Why didn't I see the warning signs? Why didn't I walk away?
Only days before my wedding, Kasidy met me. We were huddled in the corner of Starbucks. She agreed to meet with me before she went to her law firm. Impeccable dressed, fabulous red shoes and matching Italian bag, how could she know what it's like to face a life of serving coffee, of carpools and icing cupcakes.
"You have to block his number Cori," Kasidy said to me. "Shit. You're not going to that. Here. Give me your phone."
"No," I said. "We can still text. Be friends."
"Friends?" She gave her latte a stir. "You can't be in the same room for five minutes without hopping on each other like jackrabbits."
"Not true," I lied.
"He texts 'I miss you' and you're flying to him like a moth to a flame," she said. "No, more like a car to a brick wall."
"That's a little harsh."
"You're right. More like a car on a road of hot grease without brakes heading toward a brick building with sharp barbs sticking out."
I folded my arms. I hated that her lipstick never comes off onto the coffee cup. "You just don't understand."
"Good God Cori, do you think Morice actually loves you?"
"He says he—"
She leaned into me, nearly knocking my tea into my lap. "He is an 'effing liar."
Her words dug at my body like a dull spoon scooping out my gut.
"Sometimes I do block his number." I mumble as I move my tea to the side. "But he finds me and gives me his puppy dog face and promises not to do anything I don't want to do. He says he just wants me in his life. Just to talk sometimes."
"Do I really need to repeat myself?"
I swallowed and looked down. "What am I going to do?"
"Well, obviously not listen to me," she said.
"Hey, remember when we were in 8th grade? And we were going to buy a Chinook and drive across the country? And not tell anyone. Just leave. Just leave and follow the roads."
She took a last drink. "Ya, I do."
6:01. Dr. Rumee''s late. Good. I have a job to finish.
"Do you remember what you said to me when I found out?" I said through my gritted teeth, no doubt smeared in red from my reopened and flowing wound. "Do you? Do you?"
He moaned and sputtered.
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