I round their street corner and groan from the ache in my chest as Bobby’s house comes into view. My sprint slows to a jog, then a snail’s pace as I stare up at Izzy’s window.
Every day I lie to myself; I tell myself I won’t.
That lasts a moment, then I acknowledge I’m a fucking liar, and I begin the process of arguing with myself.
Stop looking, stop looking, stop looking.
Because no matter what I see, it doesn’t help. It doesn’t make me feel good.
It just fucking hurts.
But I look anyway, because seeing her is like food for my soul. I can’t live without her. But while she feeds me with one hand, she rips my heart out with the other. It’s a vicious cycle that always ends with me at my house on the verge of death by heartbreak.
My steps falter when her silhouette passes by the dimly lit window. She’s up. She’s awake. She’s so fucking close, it hurts.
What I wouldn’t give to have breakfast with her. To pour her coffee and plate up a huge stack of pancakes dripping in syrup. I know she loves pancakes. And now she’s got the baby to eat for, too.
The worst part is, she’s always been so much a part of my life. A year ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated to waltz in and have breakfast with her. We’re family, after all. But now everything is different. She’s so far out of reach for me, I’d probably sooner touch the moon.
I start running again before Bobby catches me. He’d know what I’m doing, then he’d look at me with the sad eyes again.
He’s only recently stopped.
Seven months of acting better than anything Tom Hanks ever put out, means my family have finally stopped watching me like I’m some poor mutt sitting in the rain.
Fuck. My life sucks.
I turn at the end of the block and force my eyes to point straight ahead.
It’s symbolic, really.
I’ve convinced everyone else that I’m fine.
Now it’s time to convince myself.
I have a date tonight.
I run and think about the poor girl I agreed to date. I don’t know her, she’s not from here. She lives in the city, so I’ll drive in after the gym.
I spent my teen years panting after my best friend. I never went through that stage a lot of guys do where they hide a dozen dirty magazines under their mattress. But like my phone is now that magazine, I hid away a few weeks ago and signed up to a dating site.
I need to meet someone who doesn’t live here. I need to meet someone who doesn’t knowJimmy Kincaid – MMA fighter, former champion.
Loser.
I didn’t lie on my profile. I used my name, a grainy profile picture, and a spiel about my work in construction. I didn’t lie. I just kept some things to myself. Including the fact I’m absolutely emotionally unavailable.
But I’ll try. Because if I fall in love with someone else, maybe I won’t hurt any more.
Joanna –JoJo– is twenty-five years old, according to her profile; older than me, but barely. She’s an accountant, like Kit. She’s five feet tall; like Tink. She’s friendly. Hasn’t sent any obsessively annoying follow up messages since we agreed to tonight, nor have I had any creepy ‘likes’ on social media from two years ago. So far, I’m winning.
She’s short and sweet as pie; she’snotfive-seven with long mahogany hair, chocolate eyes, and the ability to tear me to shreds.
She’s perfect.
It’s basically a slam dunk for me. But I already feel bad for the girl who’s no doubt excited for a first-date tonight. She has no clue it’s with an unavailable asshole… An unavailable, twenty-three-year-old, in-love-with-someone-else, virgin.
I was playing my game. I held my cards close to my chest for a long time. I was waiting for the girl to be ready for me, but she blew my hand wide open.
I was all in. And I lost everything.