Controlled Demolition

Isn’t it silly that no matter how bad things get, some people just can’t recognize it? Or is it sad?

I think I’d rather describe it as silly in my own vain attempt to make it less sad than it actually is.

But let’s look at the facts. Pete was avoiding me. Sad. Pete went out more. Sad. He sought me out when he had been drinking. Sad.

All things that made me sad, made me lonely, and in some ways, desperate. I was desperate for that connection that had brought Pete and I together, and somewhere along the way, I didn’t realize it had gone.

Looking back, it’s always so clear and obvious that it had abandoned us really quickly. But I was still holding on, clinging to Pete by the skin of my teeth in hopes that everything would work out on its own. That we could have a so-called “happily ever after.”

It was this desperation that had me ignoring all the signs that we were doomed. Pete would come to me smelling of booze, and after that first moment of resistance, I caved. I wanted Pete in any way that I could have him.

I ignored the awkward fumbling when we were collapsed on Pete’s bed, the sloppy kisses that tasted like whiskey, the faint scent of cigarettes and another woman’s perfume. I focused everything on Pete, pulling him close to me as we kissed and enjoying the feel of his hands on my hot skin.

After one such evening, as Pete and I lay together in his bed, quickly on our way to sleep (we always set an alarm so I could be back to my own apartment before my mom returned home), I said something I knew I shouldn’t have said. I regretted it the moment the words left my lips, and in my mind that’s where the problems started (though we all know our issues had been with us for much longer).

But I said them, and there was no taking it back. No going back to where we started.

“I love you,” I whispered into the quiet darkness of his bedroom. He was lying on his back and I was curled at his side, my eyes closed. I waited for any sign that he heard me, any small movement or acknowledgment of my confession, but none came.

Thinking he had already fallen asleep, I slowly opened my eyes and looked at his face. His eyes were open, directed at the ceiling, staring at nothing.

I watched him, waiting for him to look at me, but he never did. I moved away from him, disentangling our limbs and sat up slowly. From the corner of my eye I saw him run a hand through his hair.

I got dressed silently and when I turned around to say “goodnight” or some sort of goodbye, Pete’s back was to me so I just left.

I hadn’t felt this alone in a long time. I’m not even sure if I had ever felt this alone.

When I got back to my apartment, I quickly changed into pajamas and slid into my bed. But I couldn’t sleep. It had been a mistake to tell Pete that I loved him. I should have known from the way we constantly fought and bickered, from the way Pete was always so stand-offish, that it had been the wrong thing to say.

I think somehow I thought that if I said it out loud, Pete would come to some startling revelation that he felt the same way. But that just wasn’t the case. I needed to somehow come to terms with the fact that Pete and I were going nowhere. This was it. This was as good as it was gonna get.

I was still awake when my mom came home. My bedroom door creaked open slowly as she checked on me, as she usually did.

“Mom?” I said as she turned to leave. She jumped before opening the door and coming into my room, sitting on the edge of my bed.

“Did I wake you, honey?” she asked quietly, stroking my hair gently. I shook my head as best as I could, before bursting into tears. I sat up as my mom tried to hug me, whispering comforting words to her. “What’s wrong, Lucy?”

I shook my head, continuing to cry into her shoulder, because honestly, how do you tell your mother that your high school history teacher is breaking your heart?