“I missed you,” I confess, heaving a big sigh. “I thought I was losing you. I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”
“You never lost me,” he says firmly. “I lost you. You’re the one who didn’t want me anymore.”
My gaze meets his as I stare at my phone screen. Everything comes back at me, all those horrible old feelings, the memories, the tears. So many tears. Having a new daily reminder of how much you epically fucked up your life really sucks.
Jordan is that new daily reminder. I don’t know if I like it.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” he asks when I still haven’t replied.
Fine. He wants to hear what I have to say? Here I go.
“That’s the biggest problem you have with me, right? I’m the dumbass who broke up with you. I’m the idiot who cut you off, who hurt you before you could hurt me. It’s all my fault.”
“Amanda, no. That’s not what I’m saying—”
I end the call before he can finish his sentence.
And pull the covers over my head, too many painful thoughts running through my brain.
It hurts too much. Talking to Jordan. Remembering what I gave up, how I believed that’s what he wanted as well. It hurts too, thinking that he could want me back. Knowing that I broke his heart—that’s all on me.
Can we really pick up where we left off? Can we—he—forget I broke up with him?
Or our there too many years and too much distance between us?
I show up at work the next morning dragging ass. I didn’t get much sleep, tossing and turning the entire night, thinking about Jordan and our stupid argument. How he offered me the chance to make the next move and I…didn’t do it.
Yet again, I’ve ruined everything. I’ll probably never see him again.
I even teared up a little on the commute to work, enough to make my mascara run and ruin my entire look, but who’s really paying attention? Cade is too busy with endless appointments, and Lena’s assisting him today, which is pretty typical. We swap out, assisting the various therapists each week, though our schedule is fairly regular. I like the change, though. It keeps me from getting bored.
Today, I’m not bored—I’m sleepy. It’s hard for me to focus and more than once, whoever I’m working with has to repeat him or herself. Lena avoids me, doesn’t even sit with me at lunch. Instead she must’ve gone out, because I’m left mostly alone in the lunchroom, eating a dry sandwich and watching Dr. Oz while I skim my phone.
I hate that Lena is keeping her distance, but I respect her unspoken wishes and keep my distance too, though I desperately want to talk to her. Tell her my Tuttle troubles, let her know she can have Cade.
Will she believe me? God, she’ll probably hate me for having two men supposedly chasing after me. One of them the guy she has a just-admitted crush on.
Turning off my phone, I slump in the chair and stare up at the TV. Dr. Oz is talking about a new lifesaving procedure and I sort of don’t care. All I can focus on is myself. I’m having a pity party and no one else is invited—how silly is that?
Since when did my life get so complicated anyway? I swear, things were downright boring before I watched that episode of Inside Football. I send Jordan one innocent message—that’s what I’ll keep telling myself—and now it’s like I’m living in this surreal world where nothing makes sense.
The Dr. Oz episode concludes and dejected, I go back to work. I’m in the rehabilitation room, setting up for the next patient I’m assisting with, when my phone buzzes. It’s from our receptionist Rhonda.
There’s a delivery here for you! The text is accompanied by a bunch of blushie faced emojis.
Curious, I pocket my phone and head for the front desk, racking my brain. Did I order something from Amazon in the last few days and forget? That’s about the only packages I get here at work. Sometimes I order clothes too, but that’s rare. I have to watch my budget, and really I don’t need a lot of clothes. Wearing the various Atlas polos I own five days a week takes care of that.
As I round the corner and start to enter the lobby’s parameter, I spot what looks like a gigantic flower arrangement before I can even see the front desk. I slow my steps, savoring the moment as I come closer, knowing exactly who the flowers are from before I even read the card.
“Look at these flowers!” Rhonda says, bouncing in her chair when she spots me. She actually claps her hands. “Aren’t they gorgeous?”
I stop in front of the counter and stare at the wild arrangement. There are pink and yellow and white flowers of all shapes and sizes, mixed in with bursts of greenery. The vase is huge—it looks heavy—and when I see the card clipped to the plastic insert sitting there, waiting for me to rip into it, I hold back, letting myself soak up the anticipation.
“Who are they from?” Rhonda asks when I still haven’t said anything. She leaps to her feet, her hands on her hips as she glares at me, dying for me to speak.
Ignoring her, I touch a soft pink petal with my fingertip, then lean forward and breathe in the fresh, floral scent. It’s a riot of color, a mountain of blooms contained in one arrangement, and I almost want to giggle with happiness.
But I don’t. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m a responsible adult who just got sent the biggest floral arrangement I’ve ever seen in my life.