More Than Him
Page 20
Truth is, I know it was my fault. First, the shit that happened that summer with her. And then that. How could it not be my fault? How can anyone ever say that if she hadn't have met me, if she wasn't part of my life, that that shit still would have happened? No fucking chance.
I switched my phone off and refused to answer the door. I know Jake was there a few times, and even Cameron and Lucy, but they knocked a couple times and left. That was it.
Dad came in and told me that she'd been released a few days later, and everything was fine. Of course, I didn't say anything. I laugh about it now, because it seems so pathetic, but I hid out in the darkness of my closet. I had no idea why until I told the psychologist today. He thought it was my way of punishing myself, like they used to when I was a kid.
It makes sense.
After the fifth day, Dad told me about how he went to 'find himself' after Tina, his high school sweetheart died. He said he gave himself six months to sort his shit out, and then he'd come home. He said it helped him. It even motivated him to make the most of his life, with or without her. I wanted that. I wanted that reassurance that I'd still be able to live a normal life without her. He offered me the same thing. Six months. No more.
I agreed.
He made the plans.
All without me saying a word.
Then Amanda showed up.
Diary, I'm going to skip the part where my heart breaks, because there are no words.
I almost stayed. I almost took the few steps it would have taken to have her in my arms and fake that everything was okay.
Then I remembered what I’d caused. I remembered the first thought I had when I decided to leave her there in that hospital. What if I leave and her life is better? Like my asshole parents left me, and my dad came along. He gave me this life, gave me a home, and somehow, made me feel worthy of it.
What if someone else offered her that? Some other guy she meets a week from now, a month from now, a year from now? What if he could give her the world, and all I could give her was a broken heart, and a broken arm? Then what?
I told her I loved her. She needed to know.
And then I left.
*
Thirty-two weeks post Amanda.
I've been MIA, and for that, I'm sorry, Diary. Truth is, I've been doing better. The meds help.
I wrote to her. It took all the courage in me to actually send it. I wonder if she burned it. I probably would have.
*
Thirty-five weeks post Amanda.
Rebekah, that girl from France that I wrote about before, she tried to kiss me. I pulled back so fast I think I scared her. She said she didn't know I was with someone. I told her I wasn't. Not really. But then again, really. Does that make sense?
She said even if they didn't know it, or I didn't know it, my heart belonged to her.
'Tell me about her' she said.
So I did.
Not all of it. Just the good stuff. It felt nice to talk about her. To remember her the way I wanted.
When Rebekah left, my thoughts were still on Amanda. I always thought about her.
*
Thirty-eight weeks post Amanda.
Jamal and Manny organized for me to come back to medic camp, just for a few days. I was excited to see them again. But what was even more exciting is why they asked me to come back.
A fully recovered Amuhda waited for me.
Call me a pussy, but she was a sight for sore eyes. I admit, I cried.
‘Hello Mr. Loma,’ she’d said, with the quietest, softest voice I'd ever heard.
I smiled huge. First time I'd smiled like that since leaving Amanda. She had to have a translator, but we talked for a bit. She said I was handsome, and that I was her prince. I was no one’s prince, but I'd let her call me whatever she wanted. Then she asked me if I would marry her. Poor girl. I told her I couldn't. I said my heart belonged to another girl. Her name was Amanda. She found that hysterical. Amanda and Amuhda. I loved her laugh. She held her stomach just like Amanda does.
Diary, I know you're sick of hearing this. But I miss her.
Nightmares: getting better.
Dreams about Amanda: Too many. And they're all so, so good, that it hurts so, so bad.
*
Forty-three weeks post Amanda.
Dear Diary,
It took forty-three weeks, but guess what? I think I'm healing. Being here has opened my eyes to so many things, and even though I didn't travel so much, I saw the world. I saw what I needed to, and that was enough. I've learnt to control my anxiety when necessary, but honestly, it's gotten a lot better—to the point where I can go a day or so without flashbacks. The heart palpitations are few and far between, the shakes . . . they're there, but it's better than screaming and pissing my bed at night.
When I was kid, I used to always find it odd when bullies made fun of other kids and asked them to go cry to their mommy. I remember wondering if they knew that some kid's moms were the cause of their cries, not the other way around.
Huh. I wonder who I cried out for.
*
Forty-five weeks post Amanda.
I have nothing to write. Just that I'm here, and I'm okay.
*
Fifty Weeks post Amanda.
It's time.
I'm ready.
Dad and I have been talking about what I'm going to do when I get home. He'd organized that I defer, so UNC still awaits. I don't know if Amanda is still there. I still haven't spoken to anyone yet. Apart from that one phone call from Jake, no one else knows anything. That's the way I wanted it. Dad said housing was full on campus dorm-wise, and he'd prefer that I live off-campus anyway, just in case . . .
Just in case.
I don't know what he meant, but I sure as shit would prefer it, too.
Because I was getting back a month or so before summer break started, we'd have enough time to get things sorted: a place to stay, a car, all that shit. I made sure he knew that he wasn't to spend a single cent on me. Not until I got there. Sixteen-year-old Loma—fuck—I'm calling myself Loma now! Anyway, sixteen-year-old me loved that Mercedes. Twenty-one-year-old me? Not so much. I'd be happy with something that gets me from A to B.
To be honest, a part of me hoped that Dad would transfer me to a different college, somewhere further away. But I knew he wouldn't. He wanted me to face things head on, deal with the consequences of my actions, all that shit.
I'm prepared. I think. Actually, I have no fucking clue. All I know is that I'm ready to face it. I'm ready to take whatever the world has to give.
'You're staying in the main house when you get home,' Dad said. It was my punishment for being gone the extra six months. Whatever. The pool house just reminded me of Amanda, anyway.
First date. Final goodbye.
Sill missing her, Diary.
Next entry. I'll be home.
*
Home.
It's been three days.
I'm still hiding out.
Bought a car, though, that's something. It's a shitty old truck. It'll do. Anything will do. Dad said he wants to sell the house, find something smaller. The largeness of it makes him lonely. Truth—it's kind of upsetting. I grew up in this house, learned to ride my bike in the driveway. This house holds a lot of good moments for me.
I switched my phone off and refused to answer the door. I know Jake was there a few times, and even Cameron and Lucy, but they knocked a couple times and left. That was it.
Dad came in and told me that she'd been released a few days later, and everything was fine. Of course, I didn't say anything. I laugh about it now, because it seems so pathetic, but I hid out in the darkness of my closet. I had no idea why until I told the psychologist today. He thought it was my way of punishing myself, like they used to when I was a kid.
It makes sense.
After the fifth day, Dad told me about how he went to 'find himself' after Tina, his high school sweetheart died. He said he gave himself six months to sort his shit out, and then he'd come home. He said it helped him. It even motivated him to make the most of his life, with or without her. I wanted that. I wanted that reassurance that I'd still be able to live a normal life without her. He offered me the same thing. Six months. No more.
I agreed.
He made the plans.
All without me saying a word.
Then Amanda showed up.
Diary, I'm going to skip the part where my heart breaks, because there are no words.
I almost stayed. I almost took the few steps it would have taken to have her in my arms and fake that everything was okay.
Then I remembered what I’d caused. I remembered the first thought I had when I decided to leave her there in that hospital. What if I leave and her life is better? Like my asshole parents left me, and my dad came along. He gave me this life, gave me a home, and somehow, made me feel worthy of it.
What if someone else offered her that? Some other guy she meets a week from now, a month from now, a year from now? What if he could give her the world, and all I could give her was a broken heart, and a broken arm? Then what?
I told her I loved her. She needed to know.
And then I left.
*
Thirty-two weeks post Amanda.
I've been MIA, and for that, I'm sorry, Diary. Truth is, I've been doing better. The meds help.
I wrote to her. It took all the courage in me to actually send it. I wonder if she burned it. I probably would have.
*
Thirty-five weeks post Amanda.
Rebekah, that girl from France that I wrote about before, she tried to kiss me. I pulled back so fast I think I scared her. She said she didn't know I was with someone. I told her I wasn't. Not really. But then again, really. Does that make sense?
She said even if they didn't know it, or I didn't know it, my heart belonged to her.
'Tell me about her' she said.
So I did.
Not all of it. Just the good stuff. It felt nice to talk about her. To remember her the way I wanted.
When Rebekah left, my thoughts were still on Amanda. I always thought about her.
*
Thirty-eight weeks post Amanda.
Jamal and Manny organized for me to come back to medic camp, just for a few days. I was excited to see them again. But what was even more exciting is why they asked me to come back.
A fully recovered Amuhda waited for me.
Call me a pussy, but she was a sight for sore eyes. I admit, I cried.
‘Hello Mr. Loma,’ she’d said, with the quietest, softest voice I'd ever heard.
I smiled huge. First time I'd smiled like that since leaving Amanda. She had to have a translator, but we talked for a bit. She said I was handsome, and that I was her prince. I was no one’s prince, but I'd let her call me whatever she wanted. Then she asked me if I would marry her. Poor girl. I told her I couldn't. I said my heart belonged to another girl. Her name was Amanda. She found that hysterical. Amanda and Amuhda. I loved her laugh. She held her stomach just like Amanda does.
Diary, I know you're sick of hearing this. But I miss her.
Nightmares: getting better.
Dreams about Amanda: Too many. And they're all so, so good, that it hurts so, so bad.
*
Forty-three weeks post Amanda.
Dear Diary,
It took forty-three weeks, but guess what? I think I'm healing. Being here has opened my eyes to so many things, and even though I didn't travel so much, I saw the world. I saw what I needed to, and that was enough. I've learnt to control my anxiety when necessary, but honestly, it's gotten a lot better—to the point where I can go a day or so without flashbacks. The heart palpitations are few and far between, the shakes . . . they're there, but it's better than screaming and pissing my bed at night.
When I was kid, I used to always find it odd when bullies made fun of other kids and asked them to go cry to their mommy. I remember wondering if they knew that some kid's moms were the cause of their cries, not the other way around.
Huh. I wonder who I cried out for.
*
Forty-five weeks post Amanda.
I have nothing to write. Just that I'm here, and I'm okay.
*
Fifty Weeks post Amanda.
It's time.
I'm ready.
Dad and I have been talking about what I'm going to do when I get home. He'd organized that I defer, so UNC still awaits. I don't know if Amanda is still there. I still haven't spoken to anyone yet. Apart from that one phone call from Jake, no one else knows anything. That's the way I wanted it. Dad said housing was full on campus dorm-wise, and he'd prefer that I live off-campus anyway, just in case . . .
Just in case.
I don't know what he meant, but I sure as shit would prefer it, too.
Because I was getting back a month or so before summer break started, we'd have enough time to get things sorted: a place to stay, a car, all that shit. I made sure he knew that he wasn't to spend a single cent on me. Not until I got there. Sixteen-year-old Loma—fuck—I'm calling myself Loma now! Anyway, sixteen-year-old me loved that Mercedes. Twenty-one-year-old me? Not so much. I'd be happy with something that gets me from A to B.
To be honest, a part of me hoped that Dad would transfer me to a different college, somewhere further away. But I knew he wouldn't. He wanted me to face things head on, deal with the consequences of my actions, all that shit.
I'm prepared. I think. Actually, I have no fucking clue. All I know is that I'm ready to face it. I'm ready to take whatever the world has to give.
'You're staying in the main house when you get home,' Dad said. It was my punishment for being gone the extra six months. Whatever. The pool house just reminded me of Amanda, anyway.
First date. Final goodbye.
Sill missing her, Diary.
Next entry. I'll be home.
*
Home.
It's been three days.
I'm still hiding out.
Bought a car, though, that's something. It's a shitty old truck. It'll do. Anything will do. Dad said he wants to sell the house, find something smaller. The largeness of it makes him lonely. Truth—it's kind of upsetting. I grew up in this house, learned to ride my bike in the driveway. This house holds a lot of good moments for me.
