|
How did we get here so fast?
At minute five, I say, “Pilot, this isn’t working for me anymore.”
Pilot blinks and refocuses on me. “What’s … not working?”
I shake my head and gesture to the general room. “This.”
“This what?” he says slowly.
I heave in a few more steadying breaths and stand to pull my purse from
the table.
“What are you doing?”
I open the little zipper compartment and pull out the silver object inside.
“Shane,” he says cautiously. “What are you doing? Please don’t do that.
Help me understand what you’re thinking.”
His voice is full of patience. It breaks my heart. I grip the locket hard in
my palm and let the bag fall across my chest.
His voice wavers. “Everything’s been really great with us. This past week
has been amazing.”
“Pilot, I’m losing myself here.”
“What, what do you mean?”
I mash my lips together. “I’m losing myself and I’m becoming
us
.”
He shakes his head, bewildered.
I fall back onto the edge of Babe’s bed. “Whatever this is—” I have to
heave the words from my lungs. They come out saturated and heavy. “I can’t
handle it. All I’ve been thinking about—is you … Pilot. I’m starting to
physically feel the loss of you when we’re apart.
“You know, I’ve been so distracted that I haven’t had a substantial
conversation with my best friend in six days … She literally sleeps in the
bunk underneath me. I’m not that girl.” I swallow. “I’m so distracted that I
was two hours late for my first day at the most promising shot at my dream
job I’ve ever been given. I’m
not that girl.
I never want to be that girl.”
I bring my palms to my cheeks and drag them down my face. “I’ve been
texting you endlessly at work. How did I think that was okay? And I’ve
barely posted on my blog. I haven’t done anything substantial to work toward
this huge life goal that I somehow miraculously got a second chance at.
Today, Wendy told me getting a piece published in
Packed!
was no longer on
the table.” I throw my hands up and gesture wildly. “It’s off the table, Pilot!
Just like that! Because I’ve been acting like a distracted teenager at a summer
job!”
Pilot’s face crumples. “Shane. I’m so sorry b—”
“I … failed here, and I can’t sit and endure this failure all over again. I’ve
already lived it. I’m
not
going to stay and watch my family find out about
this and disown me as their daughter a second time.”
“Shane.” Pilot’s voice quakes. “I know you’re upset right now, but please,
let’s just take a breath. We can figure this out. I am so sorry. I will leave you
alone as long as you need. Please, just think this through, okay? Think on it
for the next twenty-four hours. Please. Let’s check in again in twenty-four
hours. We have something really great. I mean, at least, I thought. I, I don’t
want to give up on us, on here.” He swallows.
I sob-breathe. “Here is hurting me, Pilot … I can’t choose us because
I
need to choose me.
I’m not ready for this. Here, I’m still in school and I’m
still dependent. I can’t break from my shit path. But in 2017, maybe I can
do
something.
I have some money saved, and I’ll break up with Melvin and start
over or something. I can figure something out there.”
“Shane,” he breathes.
“Pilot, I want to reset. I need to steer my own boat, and I can’t do it with
you in my head. Just go back to Amy. This was a mistake.”
A tear rolls down Pilot’s cheek. “How can you say that?” He scrunches
his eyes closed and swipes his palm across his face.
My mouth quivers as he gets up and leaves. The door shuts quietly
behind him. I cross the room and slam my back against it. Nausea fills my
gut. I sob freely as I slide to the ground. The chair Pilot was sitting in looms
in front of me. I rein in my legs and explode outward, kicking at it. It blows
over sideways, right into the chair next to it. The second chair starts to fall as
well, and I scream in surprise as both it and Sawyer crash to the ground.
“No, no, no, no, nononononononono.” I leap up, grasping at the metal
legs and throwing the chairs away from my computer. I frantically drag my
finger back and forth across the touchpad.
The screen flickers to life with a huge black crevasse stretching across its
center. Even the lit-up parts fade and flicker as if in shock. I hold down the
power button to restart.
“Please please please please please.” The screen goes to black, and then
half a buffering circle fades into view on the screen. The top half is blacked
out by the same thick, dark crevasse. “Please just turn on,” I beg.
It buffers and buffers and buffers, but never
whooshes
on.
All my half-finished stories.
The detailed outline for my great American
novel. The three thousand words I threw up onto the page my first day of
take two. The cloud doesn’t automatically back up my shit here. It’s all gone.
And I don’t have the money to replace it.
Am I breathing? I feel like I can’t
breathe.
I stand and put Sawyer on the table. I think I’m suffocating. I run
upstairs and barge out the front door of the Karlston.
My boots carry me down the sidewalk. The locket is slick in my palm.
My insides are fissuring.
I can’t be here anymore.
I only make it to the corner
before I unclasp my hand, flip open the locket to reveal the obsidian-black
heart-shaped button within it, squeeze my eyes shut, and bring down my
thumb to detonate.
Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: |
