Exit Wounds

12 | material girl

T W E L V E

LOS ANGELES, CA

          The morning of the funeral, as I sit in my rented bedroom and nurse my insomnia, there are two new developments.

          For starters, Theo blows up my phone with calls and texts, demanding to know why in the world I'm in Los Angeles, neglected to tell her about it, and refused to join her in New Haven for this, which, in retrospect, would have been a much better use of my time. Replying to her requires a lot more cognitive and communicative effort than I can muster at the moment, so, unfortunately, she'll have to wait.

          Secondly, Nick also tries to contact me, but he's much more respectful of my boundaries and timezones and decides to text me once instead. I have to remind myself he doesn't know the truth, either, and I can't expect him to know every single one of my dirty little secrets, so I try not to take it too personally that he's not sending me condolences or wishing me luck for the undoubtedly hard day I have ahead of me. I keep him on a need-to-know basis, the same treatment I've given everyone in my life whose name isn't Sadie Girlboss, even though, realistically, I should let him in just a little bit.

          NICK ST MARTIN, 06:11 AM: Thinking of you today (had an Aperol Spritz first thing in the morning, as one does). Proceeded to drink three more. Come home soon so I don't humiliate myself even further. Please.

          I smile at it, especially at the selfie he sends alongside his plea for help, surrounded by empty cocktail glasses, hair all disheveled from the wind. He's still built like a wall, despite being slender, and I hate that the first thought that comes to my mind about a man I trust is that he's much taller and stronger than me and I couldn't possibly take him on in a fight if it ever came down to that. 

          Shame fills me to the core and I shudder, certain this is exactly why no one is ever going to love me; if I can't stop doubting even the one guy I'm supposedly this devoted to, how am I supposed to ever allow myself to be so vulnerable around anyone?

          He waits for a response, and I wait for the courage to pour my heart out to him. It's not nearly the same thing.

          It's noon there now, nine in the morning on this side of the country, and I have to leave the house in thirty minutes. I can hear Sadie getting ready across the hall, her blow dryer echoing in the silence of the hallway like a vacuum cleaner, and I'm still in my underwear. I've showered, which is a good sign, but I'm not sure I have it in me to glam myself up for a funeral I have no intention of attending or feeling sad at. I'll have to wear black and behave, the bare minimum of respect, but I also don't trust myself to keep my feelings in check around the golden trio that is Adam, Michelle, and my mother.

          Letting out a frustrated sigh, I roll out of bed, where I've been lingering for hours almost uninterrupted, and search my bags for the most decent black dress I've brought along with me. I didn't waste much time packing before I left, as I barely had any time to process the fact that I'd be reliving every single memory I'd been keeping at bay for over half a decade, and did little more than pull random pieces of clothing out of my closet. There are things in here I'll never wear when I run the risk of being in the same vicinity as Adam, and they're incredibly inappropriate to wear to a funeral.

          Would it be funny to wear them, though? Yes, absolutely. No matter how funny it would be, there are times when my safety and my father's dignity come before my deep-rooted desire for revenge, and this is one of those.

          I'm putting on a pair of pearl earrings—classy, I know—by the time Sadie marches into my bedroom, dressed like we're headed off to Paris Fashion Week, but I'll give credit where it's due. I can very well ask her to read the room instead of acting like she has to make a statement everywhere we go, but there's a reason women do this sort of thing. It's more likely to be an extra set of armor, an illusion that we're untouchable, and women tend to use that to fuel their jealousy when faced with a confident woman, but that confidence is often a façade.