Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I’m hit with ice this time when she says, “I got away once. I can do it again.”
“But I wouldn’t have caged you in the first place.”
The resolve she’s garnered to see her father isn’t granted to me. She tightens the belt around her waist, and her shoulders fall as her interest in finishing this conversation wanes. She finally looks at me, and I wish she hadn’t. Disappointment colors the greens as she stares, and says, “Hides behind words and masks behind ideas instead of truths. Wasn’t that what the email said?”
It’s been years since I heard those words from her the first time as she read that email. They’re words that stuck with me and shaped me as an author. Now used to strike their intended target, effectively hitting my ego where it hurts most. My purpose. My savior from a life I didn’t want. My writing. “I’m impressed how you’ve saved that in your back pocket to use without discretion.”
“I haven’t been saving it. I’ve had my own shit to deal with, but you still haven’t taken your professor’s advice.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I ask, “And what’s that?”
“You can say whatever you want, phrase it however you best see fit, but that doesn’t make it an eternal truth. That’s just your side of it.” I lose our connection when she pulls her gaze away from me.
“Sosie, I—”
“It’s a medical situation,” she says, taking a sobering breath. “Not a trap I’m falling into.”
I’m not near the door, but give her a bigger berth by moving closer to the window. “I’m not stopping you from going. I know it’s something you need to do.”
She walks out without another word, not even giving me the courtesy of a backward glance before I lose her presence entirely. I stand there, staring, as she disappears down the stairwell, the rush of her footsteps slowly fading as the distance grows between us. And silence. What feels like minutes passing, I’m still staring through the open door like she’s going to magically reappear when I know she won’t.
I fucked up.
My gut twists at the realization that the hollow in my chest means I might lose her anyway. I should run after her and catch her before she slips into a cab. Even go with her to the hospital. But I don’t move, giving her time to get away, not because of what I said, though I’m already drowning in regret. I don’t go because she needs to do this on her own. She needs to be the one not only to fight for us but, more importantly, for herself. We can’t be together with this hanging around in the background, looking to attack us when we let our guard down. In the long term, we’ll never be free until she finds that peace that any kid would want with their parents and living on her own terms again.
Although too brief, a weight had lifted since we left that pub together. I could see it in how she started moving through life with less tension in her shoulders, even daring to dream and talk about the future like she used to do. I finally got my muse. I don’t want to lose her again.
“Fuck,” I sigh, unsure what I’m supposed to do next. The urge to fix this is stronger than the logic of her doing what needs to be done to fix herself. Doesn’t make it easier. I swear it makes it worse, even if it is the right thing to do.
Walking out of her apartment, I latch the lock on the inside and shut the door to secure it because this is the place where my soul will exist. It just won’t exist as a part of me any longer. I’m really starting to wonder if we’re cursed.
My phone vibrates in my pocket when I land back out in front of the building. A spot of good news would have been welcome at any other point in the day before my girlfriend ran back to a life that excludes me. But sure, I’ll go identify the culprits who attacked me. The fuckers.
I head to the police precinct, where it takes less than twenty minutes to point them out and sign the prepared statement. I collect my stolen wallet, which is missing all the money and the credit cards, but they were kind enough to leave my old NYU ID and my New York City library card.
I take the two cards out and toss the wallet into the trash on my way out.
The detour was a temporary distraction from the situation with Sosie and the fears I have if she’s not given a choice to return. I catch a cab and head home, hoping to see her belongings still around the apartment—her makeup bag open with products spilling across the counter and her seven hair products littering the ledge of the shower. But it’s Winifred the Wallaby I hope to see still napping in the middle of the bed. As long as she’s there, I know Sosie will return. If not for me, for her.