I crashed on Tess’ couch that night. After
only three hours of sleep, my appearance in the morning matched the way I felt.
I would have slept longer, skipping my morning class, if only there wasn’t a
quiz.
My
day is miserable. I wander absent-mindedly through campus, ducking into every
restroom I pass when I can’t maintain a straight face. I wish I could be the
kind of woman who may be going through hell, but is able to put on a façade of
complacency so no one suspects a thing. But there is no way I can ever be that
person.
Back at Tess’ apartment, she has prepared
an evening of sappy chick flicks and not one, but two cartons of Ben and Jerry’s. I wear my designated “fat pants” for
this night of unabashedly consuming my feelings. I also haven’t showered in two
days, so now I know I look as gross on the outside as I feel on the inside.
Nonetheless, I’m surprised I can actually
laugh at the movie we’re watching. Tess’ roommate brings over a small group of
friends later that evening, and I am instantly embarrassed. Had I known that
more people would be coming, I would have made more of an effort to look
somewhat presentable. I think, judging by some of the looks I got, they are
able to see that something isn’t right. Thankfully, no one asked or said
anything to me.
When the movie ends, I’m still stuffing my
face with Doritos, which Tess has to forcefully pry from me – “Enough,
Anna-Kate!” She then has to literally pull me up off the couch. “You and I have
something we need to do.”
“I can’t move,” I tell her. “I think I
gained ten pounds in the last two hours.” Surprisingly, the other guests laugh,
though somewhat cautiously.
“Glad to see your sense of humor is back,”
quips Tess. “Now up!”
Reluctantly I stand, and a pile of crumbs
fall from my lap (which I promise to clean up later). We leave our friends in
the living and go to Tess’ room, where she closes the door and pulls out her
laptop. “You ready for this?” she asks as it boots up.
“No, but what choice do I have?” We sit on
the floor, and I draw my knees up to my chest, trying in vain not to start up
the tears again.
“Do you want me to do it?” she asks
gently.
“Please.”
The most I do is log in to my Facebook
account, praying Jared is not online and hasn’t left me any messages that will
cause me to lose my nerve – but I don’t think Tess will allow that to happen.
Once that’s done – no messages waiting in my inbox – the rest is up to her, and
I turn away so as not to catch any unwanted but curious glimpses of recently
uploaded pictures of this new woman of his. With just a few clicks, Tess has ceremoniously
removed him from my friend’s list, and un-sarcastically tells me “All done. I’m
proud of you.”
“I didn’t exactly do anything,” I say.
“Well, you provided your account
information, so if nothing else, that makes you an enabler of long-anticipated
closure.”
“Long-anticipated” is an understatement.
Breaking up with Jared should have been done years ago. There are so many
regretful “should have” thoughts swirling in my head that I decide against
contacting him by other means to speak my final piece; some kind of
well-scripted monologue about how I’ll be a better woman without him, after
which I saunter off with unmistakable confidence. That’s not the woman I feel
like right now. I doubt I could even pretend
to pull it off.
It helps to have friends like Tess –
friends who aren’t afraid to tell you that the man you loved for four years
really was a scumbag; that the woman he’s with now is probably a ditzy airhead
blonde with a ditzy, airhead name like Candy, who never graduated college and works
part-time at a tanning salon. More than that, the now-nameless man I used to love
has damned himself to a lifetime of grief with this new woman, who has undoubtedly
trapped him into a relationship by getting knocked-up accidentally-on-purpose.
It’s nice to have friends like Tess, who
draw up these ridiculous stories to make you feel better, even if you think the
real reason the love of your life left you is because you aren’t good enough.
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