I am never going to win her back at this rate. But how the hell can I win her back when I don’t even know what the issue was in the first place?
For what must be the thousandth time, I lean back in my chair and replay the last phone conversation we had. “I love you, Rick,” Kara had said, her voice oddly expressionless. “But I don’t think this is going to work.”
“Why not?!” I asked, dumbfounded. I thought that things had been going great. More than great, in fact. We cooked and laughed and watched movies together, cuddled and kissed and made love constantly. We held each other as we slept, her lush body pressed up against me every night. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so close to someone, if ever. I had seriously doubted that I would, or could, find love again after my shitshow of a divorce. Kara has been the greatest gift the universe could have ever provided me.
But evidently, she felt otherwise.
“We’re moving in different directions,” she’d said, a vague enough statement that I audibly snorted. “No, I mean it, Rick. You’re busy at the hospital, and I’m busy at school. We’re on different paths.”
“Kara, I don’t understand,” I said, trying to keep my voice as level as possible as I felt my world begin to crumble. “Where is this coming from? We love each other and we’re happy. What’s changed for you so suddenly?”
She was silent for a moment.
“Nothing has changed. I just feel like we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”
I’ll admit, I pressed her for answers a little more aggressively than I should have. But she just kept offering the same canned responses, never going into detail, and never saying, I think, what she really wanted to. Eventually, I felt a vein pulsing in my forehead and my hands clench into fists, and knew that this conversation was no longer productive--if it ever had been in the first place.
“Okay, Kara,” I said. “I don’t get it. I don’t understand. I love you so much, but if you think this needs to be the end--”
“I do,” she said, with a hollow tone in her voice. “Goodbye, Rick.”
And then she hung up.
It took every ounce of restraint I possessed not to call her back over and over again, and not to drive to her dorm to demand answers in person. As sudden, shocking, and painful as this was, I had to respect her decision. She’s a grown woman who can make whatever choices she wants to; isn’t that, after all, how I justified our relationship in the first place?
Still, the entire conversation left a bitter taste in my mouth, like blood. I thought we were happy together. I was even getting ready to take things to the next level, maybe by coming out and telling our friends and family. I was tired of sneaking around like a bunch of teenagers. I wanted to make our relationship public, even if people were going to be scandalized.
But I guess Kara had other ideas.
Shaking my head, trying to clear these painful thoughts, I chug about half of my beer. I am desperate not to feel these things anymore, not to feel anything at all. I haven’t smoked weed in about two and a half decades, but I have a sudden longing for the spaced-out, placid state that it provides. Anything would be better than my current fucked-up emotional turmoil.
I rise from my chair and slouch my way to the living room, sitting heavily on the couch. Beer in one hand, remote in the other, I browse listlessly through various TV channels, my eyes unfocused. All I can think about is how regularly Kara and I would sit on this couch and do the same thing. She loved laying with her head in my lap, her golden hair fanned out, begging for me to stroke it between my fingers. Every now and then, she’d peer up at me, that innocent cornflower blue gaze going straight to my heart.
“Let’s go into the bedroom instead,” she’d say, her grin turning mischievous, and I’d lift her into my arms and carry her to my bed without a second thought.
“Shit,” I mutter, turning off the TV with a disgruntled click of the remote. I can’t do anything without thinking of her. Is she thinking about me, too, or have I already been erased from her mind?
I stand up and pace the length of the room, my fists clenching and unclenching. If it weren’t fucking three in the morning, I’d go to the gym to work out this excess energy. I can’t even go to bed because I’d just lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, imagining my beautiful blonde girl sleeping peacefully beside me.
What else is there to do?
Finally, as I’m about to give up and lay on the mattress to stare at the ceiling for hours, I decide to call for backup instead.