Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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If this were six months ago, I would break up with Erik King. No, I would dump him like a sack of molding potatoes, as if I were a farmer that couldn't handle rotting produce tarnishing my image of selling fresh product.
I would do it politely, cordially - maybe over text or through some long-winded email that you have to highlight the main points in bright yellow because nobody will actually read the whole thing, just skim. And after he read it, I would make sure it sent me a read receipt so that I, like any killer of hopes and dreams and sunshine, would know that it was done.
Eventually, we would both get over it - after all, the only romance where both parties would rather choose death than life (even if mediocre without the other) is Romeo and Juliet. And seeing as Shakespeare is dead, or at the very least only lived on in tenth grade AP classes, nobody would expect that of us.
He would marry some blonde real estate agent-turned Instagram model that got sales from networking and sucking dick on the side. Okay, I'm being bitter, she wouldn't suck dick, just flirt a little here and there. Justifying it as just being very friendly.
They would get married and he'd knock her up on the honeymoon and they'd both live happily ever-after.
I, would marry some thirty-year old tax accountant or administrator in crushing people's dreams with bureaucracy. I'd go for someone older because every man around my age would remind me of Erik; only to be compared and constated and determined a failure. Until I found Bob, or Rob, or whatever the fuck his name would be.
Then we'd also live happily ever-after; except we'd never really know each other and just live beside each other rather than together. Maybe we'd have kids; or maybe I would become so engrossed in my career because the person I always dreamed of having kids with, would be having kids of their own.
I want that to be reality. I want to be the same person I used to be, that could walk away from anyone and anything that didn't suit her. Unless it was Mr. Fluffypants in which I would just be forced whatever that little fucker gave me. Sniffles and all. He's the only one that will put up with me soaking him through my sleep.
Well, him and Erik but those are two different types of soaking.
"I'm freaking out." I tell Erik, the he whom I would break up with, whom I should break up with. It's obvious by his parents' gift (an old wooden box with his favorite recipes that his mother not-so-subtly suggested I cook); his sister-in-law and brother's given piece of apparel (a denim jacket which although cute, serves it's purpose as me wearing it to games to cheer on my boyfriend); and his parents and family's general disinterest in anything surrounding my future career prospects.
It's obvious that what goes in his family is the woman staying at home, taking care of the kids while the man earns the proverbial bacon. And the last few years, I read Breaking Mom religiously, promising myself that I would never become one of those women. A woman who puts her faith and ability to breathe and feed the kids, by the winded gusts of a disgruntled man.
