Out of My League

Chapter 31 (Izzy)

It has been two months since I'd last seen Noah. 

Eight weeks since I'd last woken up to him sleeping next to me. 

Sixty-one days since I'd last watched his eyes light up as he laughed, one of those full-face laughs that always gave me butterflies. 

One-thousand, three-hundred, and forty-four hours since I'd felt his arms around me and had felt safe, secure, like nothing in the world could hurt me again. 

Eighty-thousand, six-hundred, and forty minutes since I'd looked into his beautiful, multi-colored eyes. 

And, most importantly, four-million, eight-hundred and thirty-eight thousand, four-hundred seconds since I'd left him. 

I had felt every, single one of those seconds like the pounding of an irregular heartbeat, like the span of distance between us - two-thousand, two-hundred, and eighty-one miles - the distance that'll never be crossed again. 

I'm not sure what's worse: that he called almost everyday in the initial week post-breakup, begging me to call back and try to fix things or that he hasn't called since that last one, that I haven't heard his voice in almost two, full months. 

The silence haunts me. 

Reagan hasn't come home yet, but has called me everyday since, checking in on both me and my situation. 

I always lie and tell her I'm fine. 

I can't blame her for staying in Los Angeles, of course. If my source of happiness was still there, I would've stayed too, as long as Noah asked me to, maybe even permanently. 

As it stands, my one, true source of happiness remains Jesus - the one thing Noah introduced me to that doesn't make me think of him, but of me. 

Of the horror and treachery and fear that Jesus saved me from and continues to save me from everyday. 

In the last three weeks, I've mostly cleaned myself up and tried to start over, tried to pretend the last eight months hadn't happened. 

I'd even gotten a new job, one that was neither a baseball manager nor a grocery store shelf stocker, but a waitress at a restaurant down the block. 

It isn't ideal, but it pays well and I usually get pretty good tips, so it keeps me afloat. 

Right now, I can't ask for anything more than that. 

I'd even, remembering Noah and I's conversation, applied to the local community college. I'm intending, if I get accepted, to work towards my teaching degree, something I can look back on with joy about Noah and I's relationship, something that doesn't make me want to cry. 

Who am I kidding? The only thing that makes me want to cry about Noah and I's relationship is that I ended it. 

In order to cry over that, though, I would have to come up with one, really good explanation as to how it wasn't best for him. 

I don't think I could do that. 

I can only hope that in these past two months he's found a new source of happiness - one that doesn't keep him up at night with their nightmares and cry for no reason and ruin every relationship they've ever had. 

I hope he's truly, unremarkably happy. 

It's the least that he deserves. 

Upon returning home, unpacking nearly two weeks later, when I finally found the energy to do so, I'd found the shirt I'd worn the very first time I'd ever stayed with him - the one I'd thieved from his drawer when I'd returned from our date and realized I had nothing to wear to sleep.