A Normal Day: 25 Years Old

All names have been changed. All memories, I'm sure, have been altered due to time. But they're as close to the truth as I know.

I don’t cry as much as I thought I would.

I sleep better than I thought I would.

The grief holds hands with guilt and I can’t tell where one starts and the other ends. I won’t fully grieve this relationship for two more years.

The guilt lives in so many places, one of them is when I wake up alone and am immediately hit with joy and dopamine. This still hits me every time I wake up and fall asleep alone. There is nothing like this to me.

I’m in a smaller bed, a smaller room, a beautiful house. A French renovated, old home in East Nashville. H is already at work, and I have the mornings to myself with her kitten. I journal and she plays with my pencil.

The band is doing well. Really well. Our first single for the EP is really popular and got minor press attention. The music video was featured in a magazine I love. We’re releasing the next song soon, and the full EP in the Fall with a killer show.

K’s fingerprints are all over this project. The guilt wraps itself around my neck while I draft Instagram posts and Canvas’s for Spotify. Listening to his mixes, his production, my voice through his mic.

The guilt lives in my cheeks and throat. But my heart- that used to feel stiff and aching- feels fluid and dances almost everyday. It’s a lateral move with minor improvement.

It dances when we practice the new songs and they sound - for the first time in my life - exactly how they felt in my body when I wrote them. When H and I are chatting on the couch at the end of the day. When CK and I share wine in her backyard now that she moved back to Nashville. When I’m at Mickey’s with my new friends from my new job, sipping gin and soda’s and taking shots of fernet.

When we make eye contact across the table between our group. When he slides his hand over my thigh under the table. When we kiss in the alley and promise not to tell anyone.

I get ready for work in the early afternoon and take my 2012 Chevy Equinox to the Optimist. We set tables, we learn about the crudo, and we talk shit. I knew I enjoyed serving when I worked at the coffee shop, but it was casual and I was managing most of the time. At the Optimist - I really love it. It’s fun, and fast paced, and I’m constantly learning about food and wine and cocktails. I like going to work - as embarrassing as that is.

And I like going out afterwards.

I like going to the dive bar with everyone and taking Ferrari shots and yelling about the kitchen and management and laughing at ourselves.

And I like when me and him sneak away.

He told me he has a rule that he won’t hookup with anyone from work (anymore). So we do it in secret. This makes sense to me, at 25.

After starving for attention for years, I melt into his hands that seem to always want to touch me. He quenches my thirst for desire. He’s gorgeous and wanted by others - my favorite flavor. He takes me to nice restaurants and shows me nice wine and martinis and amaros and how to sit down and enjoy a meal. He’s loud and I’m pretty sure that means he’s funny.

After going to Lakeside, we go into Attaboy so we can kiss in the dark.

I’m nervous when we’re alone. His attention is intoxicating. The kind where you’re not sure how much more you can take until you’ll be nauseous. He asks where I want to sit and I respond with something passive.

He snaps at me. Hard and piercing. I don’t remember what he said the moment he says it because my blood is busy freezing and the room becomes foggy. I’m used to getting triggered with K, but it’s not like this. It was never like this.

I’m frustrated with myself for leaving so quickly and going inward. I hate that I scare so easily. I also know I’m about to cry. Because I’m scared. And I know that if I cry. Things will be worse. They always get worse when I cry.

He’s talking, his mouth is moving. But all I am doing is trying to manage my physiology to come back to stasis, to not be afraid, to not cry.

Stay still. Don’t move. If I move, the feelings will come out.

“Why are you acting scared of me right now?” He whispers. “Your embarrassing me. I know people here.”

I nod and excuse myself to the bathroom for an unauthorized emotional evacuation.

I hold toilet paper to my bottom eyelids and bend my at the hips so I make an ‘L’ - the best way to have a visceral sob without ruining your makeup.

I get as much out as I can without causing suspicion and then I go back out. I’ve released enough where my muscles can manage a smile. But he’s not buying it.

He wants to leave. I follow him with my eyes bowed.

We get to the car and he tells me how this is a red flag. This drama is a red flag. Me not being able to talk to him and acting scared is a red flag. The tears won’t stop coming now. Which makes me more dramatic. He tells me to get in the car. I say no. I shock even myself. He drives away, saying this is a red flag, and it’s over.

I get home and the guilt escapes its chrysalis as shame. All of my triggers and I still can’t get myself under control. I think of how K never made me feel truly seen, but he also never made me feel scared. I’m grateful for a few tears of grief. And I’m grateful I’m in bed alone. And then I’m guilty that I’m grateful I’m in bed alone.