I woke up around six, as was typical for me, never being able to sleep in much. I had a neighbor who had an early day and a snooze button habit, so his alarm trained me to wake up an hour or so before I needed to be up well over two years before. Even when I wanted to sleep in, I never could. It worked out, though, because it gave me a head start to my day, more time to read, maybe even get coffee with my mom before she was off to school.
I tip-toed around my room, feeling the chill creep in through my skin, getting into my bones, as I was getting dressed, planning on taking my book and a heavy blanket, and maybe sitting on one of the Adirondack chairs I'd seen from my window to get some fresh air before the storm came through.
But when I got down to the main floor, the rich scent of fresh coffee met my nostrils, making me peek into the room to find it empty, but half a pot sitting on the burner with a large metal travel mug sitting there waiting for me.
To be honest, I was more of a tea person than a coffee one, but the gesture was nice, and I hadn't gotten very good sleep the night before.
I wanted to blame the creaking house, the night animals outside—invasive and unfamiliar—but the fact of the matter was, it had nothing to do with those things.
It did, however, have everything to do with the man across the hall from me, likely peacefully sleeping the night away.
While I fretted and obsessed and had thoughts I had no business having about the man.
The situation was sticky enough already without me getting too wrapped up in this giant fantasy world I had created for myself. And therein lay most of my anxiety, my restless sleep plagued with worries.
That maybe he knew.
Or he might come to know.
About the calls.
His calls.
About who was the one making them.
"God," I whimpered, burying my face in my hands as I stood alone in the kitchen, mortification making the heat rise up my neck, blooming across my face.
It wasn't supposed to happen.
Of course, it wasn't.
What can I say?
It was the night that my divorce was finalized from a man who—when I had served him divorce papers—had told me that I could keep the car (which was mine to begin with) but that he was never going to let me get his precious Playstation or collection of comics.
I had been feeling really, really small.
Infinitesimal, really.
Damn near invisible.
I'd felt that way a lot in my life—overlooked, unnoticed—but something about the failure of the marriage that, admittedly, had only been a band-aid to my confidence issues from the beginning, made it feel all the more terrible.
I felt scratched raw, a wound you kept picking and picking and picking open, never letting it heal right.
And I was desperate for something, anything, that might make me feel better. Even for a moment.
My mind went to all my usual coping mechanisms.
A therapy visit.
But that would, at best, be first thing the next morning.
Calling my mom.
But she'd already taken me out to a "Happy Divorce" party where I had faked being relieved and happy to start again.
I didn't want her to know I had been putting on a show, that I was feeling this more than I should have, more than I ever would have imagined.
Not because of Blake, mind you. Good riddance to him and his utter inability to put the seat down, or pick up milk on his way home, or give me five minutes of his undivided attention on any given day.
But just my own deep well of dissatisfaction that was now mingled with a heady dose of failure.
I hadn't failed alone, of course. Blake had been an active part of the dissolution of our relationship.
We'd both seen it coming for months, a year, even.
But neither of us wanted to fix the underlying problem. So we spent our time angrily scooping water out of our sinking boat instead of patching up the hole that was causing the leak in the first place.
I guess it hit me so hard because I wasn't sure any of the nonsense I had said to my mother could ever be true for me. That I would ever be ready to date again. To feel the humiliation of a first date where someone who got incredibly frustrated with my inability to carry on a normal, casual conversation with a complete stranger.
God, I wasn't even sure I would ever find someone who would ask me out again.
I wasn't someone who had friends, who went out with them. Which left online dating. And my crippling fear surrounding it. Because I could be all kinds of things behind a screen, given space and time to think about my replies, to let my real self through, unhindered by the social awkwardness, my bumbling tongue, my shyness. I could be smart and interesting and, even at times, funny. But then someone would get me on a date and I was a nothing like that woman online.