Last night

Last night, I gave him a chance.  He gave us a chance.  Not the same us we'd been for 5.5 years, the new us we're trying to become.

I had two of my girls all day, so I hurried home to change out of my marker-, juice-, lactose-free milk-, germ-infested clothing into something cute.  I know I can't have him back, but I could at least look attractive, right?  I paired black leggings with a black tank, neckline encrusted with chunky stones and jewels, and I found my new sequin-covered Steve Madden flats to match.  It was cold, so I put on a denim jacket that still fit from before I  lost nearly thirty pounds.  I pulled back my newly-highlighted hair and threw on the rings I now wear in place of the $12,000 piece of rock that meant forever.  I half-heartedly put on more makeup.  Did I really think it'd stay on the entire night?

He got here, late from work, as always.  I refrained from texting back, "Predictable."  I got in the car like I had about a million times before, buckled my seatbelt, and locked my own door.  I got a 3 minute version of his last three months, and then he asked, "What's new with you?"  Umm, my doctor raised my meds since I can't stop crying over you?  I take really strong pills at night to make me sleep since all I can think of is you?  Or how about Sunday, Mother's day - did you even remember your mom without me there to nag?  Even though you had been a stranger, you still knew my health was deteriorating, I had lost 20% of my weight just in 90 days, you knew I was going to Florida in a few days, and you knew you had a lot of apologizing to do.  You asked if I was there to hear you speak at our church youth group.  I told you I made sure to slip in and out so you'd never know I was there.  I cringed at each word you spoke.  Meanwhile, how could you stand up there, all together, at least pretending so well, when there I was in about a million pieces?

You said you were ready to be friends, and I said I didn't know if I could.  You'd taken too much from me, too soon.  I asked what you promised me.  You've always said I ask weird things.

I don't know what the future for us holds.  I know what it was supposed to hold, though, and am I wrong for being bitter?  What's so wrong about having everything - so much I never even dreamed about, such perfection - and then not wanting to let it go months after it'd been stripped away?  Can you blame me?  The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord?  I only forced myself to say it.

I eased into a comfort I'd felt each of our previous days together.  I told you what I was afraid of.  I told you what I needed help with.  I told you I wanted you to get over worrying about your mom and let me come eat dinner at your grandma's.  I told you I was falling faster than anyone knew.  I told you I hated going to your sister's wedding shower.  It felt like cruel and unusual punishment, and I did it for her and her alone.

For miles, I looked out my window and sobbed.

"Is this hard for you?"

Do you realize that was a dumb question?  

We couldn't figure out where to go, mainly because I didn't want to go anywhere looking like I'd just lost everything I'd ever had.  So you pulled over.  10 minutes from my house, in a stripmall parking lot, there we sat.  You let me plug my iPod in, and I hoped "Need You Now" wouldn't start playing or else I'd lose it for sure.  Instead, almost every equally torturous songs came on, and before I knew it, I had crawled across the car and begun sobbing in your lap, sort of how I did that night you told me it'd be the last.  I sobbed and shook and gasped for air, and you rubbed my back and put your head on mine.  A few times you put your face in my hair like you did when you used to gently kiss my head.  Is that what you were doing last night?  I couldn't tell, but if it was, shame on you. Or thank you.  It's reassuring to know you're still head over heels in love, trying and pretending not to be.  We're pulling ourselves apart as hard as we can but quite frankly, neither of us are much good at it.  I took your other arm, and like instinct, you put it around me and just sat and let me lose control.

Finally I asked you to take me home, and you did.  Between all of the Ativan I had took during our night together and my sleeping pills, I was able to get some rest, but it sure didn't feel like it when my alarm went off at 5:40 and I subsequently drove my car into oncoming traffic and about exploded my tire.

One of these days we're going to figure out how to be really close friends.  One of these days, what we had can make me happy, not send me into a fit of hysteria.  After all, you promised a close friendship is what you want, and it doesn't take a promise to know it's what I want more than life itself.  I need you in a way that I need air, in a way that your heart has to pump blood out to your body if you ever want to survive.  Years and years ago, I told you I'd never let you in, but you kept pushing.  And now there's no turning back while every force in the world is screaming, you need to go back.  What do you do with 5 and a half years?  Just give them up like that?  Not exactly possible.  Build a friendship on them? Easier said than done.

People tell me it's okay, I can do better.  It's okay, he bothered you sometimes anyways.  They say you're just a guy like every other "stupid" one out there, but do they know how maddening those statements make me feel?  I want to put up a huge sign that says "FIVE AND A HALF YEARS AND IT WAS PERFECT." You had every part of my soul - even when I pushed you away - for five and a half years.  Tell the naysayers how much it all meant to me, to us, and watch them fall away.  Sure you didn't lock the car doors, you didn't get your haircut until you thought it was too long, you were always late coming home from work, and sometimes you watched TV shows I had to pretend to enjoy.  But I never imagined I'd wish I had each of those things back.  And now?  For just one of those things?  I'd trade the air that I breathe.

Thank you for letting me sob in your arms last night just like I used to do.  Thank you for talking to me and getting me just like we used to do.  Thank you for being there for me and making an effort now... just like you used to do.

We'll get there, I surely hope and pray to God.  Oh, what I wouldn't give for us to journey together to that point we're we're both okay, not faking or hiding anything.

I miss you.