Page 34 of I Love My Mistake
Chapter Nineteen
After That Bomb Exploded
As the summer passes, we do the usual New York things. We watch movies outdoors in Bryant Park. We eat only at places that have outdoor seating, to enjoy the sun. We wear loose or light clothing that doesn’t wilt in the humidity and we carry tissues to blot our faces from the ‘glow.’ We go to Central Park only once because, when we walk by the lake, Jess sees a turtle. She melts into tears and tells the story of the last time she and David were here. Amber hugs her. We each take a hand and lead her out.
“It won’t always be this bad, Jess. It’ll get better,” I say.
Amber agrees. “Yeah, you’ll heal over time.”
But Jess just says quietly, “I don’t know how.” Then she looks at us. “I’m sorry I’m such a downer, guys.”
“Don’t apologize!”
“You take as long as you need!”
We don’t push anything. She’s taking the breakup hard and her personality is a shell of its normal self. We do everything we can to keep subjects light, the activities fun and easy. Amber helps her find an apartment in the East Village, and we both hang her pictures and unpack her clothes when she moves in. She even laughs when we goof around, pretending to want the silverware in her bedroom and the couch in the bathroom, yelling as we push on it, “It won’t fit!!!” and making ridiculous noises like we’re fighting a massive attack of constipation or something. It’s so good to hear her laugh, that we’ll do anything.
Poor thing. It doesn’t help that her boss is already hyper-sadistic and freaking out about the impending craziness of Fashion Week that’s coming first week in September. From the stories Jess tells, The Bitch has been acting extra-bitchy. She is that special kind of person who needs a cage instead of an office. If I ever get the opportunity – when it wouldn’t hurt my girl Jess or come back to bite her in the ass, of course – I plan on telling The Bitch off in no uncertain terms, in such a manner as she will never forget.
Things aren’t good with Amber, either. She and Josh are drifting apart, a fact that has cemented in my mind what I’ve always suspected: relationships don’t last and you should keep your heart safe, for only you to enjoy.
And me? I’m beginning to forget what Michael looks like. His face has become a fuzzy blur… over a very clear image of his sinewy, sweating chest, adorned with a single sexy leather necklace. But at least his face has faded; it’s a beginning. Neither of us has reached out to each other in any way, for months. I’ve done things to tear him from my mind and build up my Immune-To-Michael system. I wear my hair straight now, not wild like he liked it. I don’t get Chinese take-out anymore. Other kinds are fine, just not Chinese. I don’t go to the Meatpacking District, even when there is a great sale or an amazing party. Under no circumstances do I drink Syrah. I’ve even told myself he no longer lives in America. This is an untruth of immense proportions, but I have told myself he’s moved back to Spain, so often and so vehemently, that I now believe it.
Almost.
The candles, I’ve kept. I’ve reclaimed them to light the way when I work. I use them without thought of him, because everyone owns The Light.
I protect my heart now. I have no intention of falling in love again. I will keep my light, sexual liaisons and have fun. I will paint and go out with my friends, and that is it. Who needs love? I sleep better without it.
Life is simply… easier.
But you know how it is. Just when you get comfortable, things go tits up.