From Bully To Beloved

It’s over quickly.

It’s me who pulls away, because I can feel the beginning of tears stinging my eyes and nose, and I don’t want to cry. I don’t want him to see me cry.

“Take care of yourself, Cal,” I say, my voice choked with emotion.

After I reach for my bags and the easel, I move to push past him, and he stops me, his hand on my arm. I look up at him. With emotion-filled eyes, Coltonstares at me one more time, and for once, has nothing to say.

What else can be said?

We’ve said it all, we’ve told each other where we stand. This is the result. I only nod with understanding, leaning in to press my forehead to his briefly before I break all contact.

And walk out the door.

My old apartment is a sight for sore eyes. As much as I loved Mrs. Bianca’s place, part of me missed this. The friend of my friend had left the day before, and the apartment is spotless, probably the cleanest it’s ever been, if I’m honest.

With a deep sigh, I collapse face-first onto my couch. My heart is heavy as I sink onto the cushions. Oh, my God, this is not perfect, but way, way better than that lumpy old thing I’ve slept on, and I almost feel bad that a part of me is humming in satisfaction.

It’s quiet and comfortable.

My stomach grumbles, and I remember that I barely ate anything today while running around.This is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

I look toward the door where I kicked off my shoes, almost as if I miss seeing Cal’s boots next to them. Even though he was always out and about, I knew he’d always return home. Home. Shit, Mrs. Bianca’s place did become my home when I wasn’t paying attention.

My stomach churns, and I’m suddenly no longer hungry. I decide to call it a night and go to bed. The second I lie down on my mattress, I know I’m not going to be able to fall asleep. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m grabbing the pillows and blankets I bought for Mrs. Bianca’s place and making myself a little bed on the couch.

It takes a long time for me to fall asleep.

CAL

Monday

Everything is cold and empty without Sera.

That morning when I wake up alone, I feel lonely for the first time in my life. It’s different, and I don’t like it. My chest aches. My stomach feels like lead. My insides tear me apart. This woman is slaying me alive. One month sharing a space with Sera, and now that she’s gone, it’s like she took a piece of me with her.

Instant fucking regret.

That’s what I experienced the moment she walked out the door.

For what I said. For what I didn’t say. For letting her go.

I get up and spend the early-morning hours exercising, trying to work out my thoughts. It doesn’t help.

In a ridiculous attempt to make me feel less like shit, to make me feel like she’s still here, I throw the pillows into a messy pile like she always did because it helped her to get more comfortable when she was drawing. After that, I rush into the bathroom, squeeze the fucking toothpaste in the middle, really anywhere, until it looks like a wild animal chewed on it, and I do the same with my tube of hair gel. For good measure. I feel better immediately.

After that, I return to the living room and toss the couch blankets around. A vase falls down in the process and shatters.

I stare at it. Motionless.

The stench of a burning cigarette fills my nostrils. I close my eyes to fend off the memory, but to no avail. I see myself opening the door-carefully and quietly, because when Dad was home, the slightest noise could take him from zero to a hundred.

The sound of the belt buckle hitting soft flesh is unmistakable.

Weakness is not an option.

I open my eyes.

It’s pathetic.

My blood freezes when I look around and realize how right Sera was. My past. My childhood. Why I clashed all the time with the one girl who was courageous enough to stand up to me, why I did what I did, using her as my outlet, why I never even felt bad about it.

Why I kept pushing her. To this day.

Years ago, I beat my demons back into submission. But that’s not an excuse. It will never be an excuse. No wonder she carries apprehension, maybe even resentment toward me.

I used to push her back then, and I’m still pushing her now-relentlessly.

Fuck. No wonder she got out as soon as she could.

Knock. Knock.

It’s 8:42 a. m. Who’s that? It’s her. My heart lurches. “Coming, baby!” I reach the door within a second.

It’s not her. It’s Vance.

He stands there, mouth open, staring at me, at my messy hair, the squished toothpaste in one hand, a jumbled couch blanket in the other. His eyes fall to the mess behind me.

“Buongiorno, Mr. Ashton,” he finally says, his poker face back. “Is everything all right?”

“Just having fun, what’s up?”

He hands me the divorce papers. And a set of keys for Gran’s storage room.

As soon as he’s gone, I rip the papers apart and toss them into the trash can. Nobody’s getting a divorce on my watch.

I want to tell her to come home, tell her I need her.

I don’t just want to be inside her body.

I belong in her heart.

But given my realization just now and how we left things last night, with Sera saying she needed space, I need to tread carefully. I need to give her the time and space she asked for. Luckily, there’s enough to occupy my mind with the opening, scheduled for this Saturday.

But a text just to remind her that I’m still here for her, and flowers to celebrate her success with Amoria (which I don’t doubt for a second) won’t hurt.

I will not rush her. I’ll just tell her I’ll be there, arms wide open, if she needs me.