Open My Eyes

{Ch. 23} Smile Despite The Odds ✓

          I called in sick the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. I just couldn't face him when my heart was frayed and my hands shook and my face turned red and splotchy.

Maybe this was red: the patches of red and pink on my cheeks, the quivering of my chin and lips, my bloodshot, puffy eyes, the mascara tracks on my pillow. Maybe red was heartbreak.

When I came home early that afternoon, after Iggy had ended things, I pretended everything was fine. I forced myself to hop and skip and jump as my mom told me about her day over dinner. I repeated to myself that this was okay, I was okay—that the breakup made sense, especially with everything Iggy was going through.

But as I roused from sleep at three a.m. and his words came rushing back to me, along with the rib-crushing emotions, it struck me: this wasn't okay—I wasn't okay. Despite how much sense it made, it still hurt. I returned to my breakup with Hank: the sting that burrowed beneath my skin and festered in general mistrust that only time fractured; the pounding ache that dulled with each month that passed; the ugliness; the misbelief that I was unlovable, never to find love again, never to find that kind of love again.

Now the hurt fell heavier. As though the stomach-churning loss had piled onto an already too-large pile of unresolved moments. And as I lay awake at four-oh-four a.m., I wondered if I had ever gotten over Hank or if losing Iggy felt a lot like I hadn't ever gotten over anyone.

Because of my zombie-like behavior on maybe four hours of sleep, calling in sick (and convincing my mom to let me) happened easily.

However, after ignoring Sam's phone calls and declining Kae's attempts to video chat, the ruse came to an end. And I cried on Mom's shoulder, then on Sam's. Kae looked ready to climb through the phone to comfort me as I recounted Iggy's breakup proclamation.

I waited for the I-told-you-so's and the "he's stupid, you deserve better." They didn't come that night or the next day or the day after that—and it made me feel better.

__________ __________

"Honey, it's been three days. You've gotten over your fake cold enough to go back to H and M."

"Mooooom," I whined, flopping onto the couch with my teddy bear, "I'm not over my fake cold."

She put a hand on her hip and arched a brow at me. "You aren't?"

"No. I still want chicken noodle soup."

With a shake of her head, she chuckled and kneeled beside my head. She caressed my forehead, sympathy pressing her lips together. "I know you would rather get a real illness than face him, but you don't volunteer there to see him. You're there for the kids. Hmm?"

I stared into her eyes, and I transported back to the day Dad left. Did Mom want to run away? Did she want to gorge herself on chicken noodle soup because someone once told her it was good for healing a broken soul and her soul was so broken, she'd take anything?

A slow sigh released. "You're right."

She pecked my forehead before straightening. "Your shift starts at eleven, so you'd better get ready now."

"Do you think they'd be opposed to me showing up in pajamas?"

"Shouldn't risk it."

Upstairs, Sam lounged on my bed, consumed by her phone. When I entered my room, she set her phone down and studied me.

Sighing, I crumbled onto the edge of my bed. "Mom's making me go to H 'n M, and I really don't want to."