She doesn’t know why she gets like this. Why she attaches herself to people so quickly or why she gets hurt so easily even though she almost always sees it coming. She wants so badly to ignore the warning signs, the red flags, on the side of the road as she drove too fast to a destination that did not exist. The smooth voice from the passenger distracted her, feeding her promising directions that went against her instincts but she was trusting.
She went along with all the, “You’re so beautiful,” the “You mean so much to me,” and the unprompted, “There is no one else.” She allowed herself to be swept up in the consistent phone calls, the laughs, the home cooked dinners. Wanting so bad to believe she was special, worth something to someone other than herself, she chose to make excuses for the, “I’ll call you back” that never came, the, “I’ll come to your house next time,” and the, “I don’t remember saying that.” She let herself be blind to everything she should have seen, silenced herself when she had things to say in order to keep the good around, hoping that if she stayed on course long enough she could prove herself wrong ⏤ that she wasn’t wrong to believe, that it did exist and they would get there together.
He didn’t talk to her for a week or so. He didn’t even let her calls ring all the way out to answer her messages. He left her guessing ⏤ was he okay? Had she done something wrong? She began to beat herself up, over and over, she did this. If she hadn’t gotten attached so fast he wouldn’t have had to dismantle himself. She tried so hard to be a balance of herself and not “too much” at the same time. Her hopes and expectations were, she felt, low ⏤ friends: honesty and respect, the two most important ingredients to any relationship whether platonic or romantic. Somehow his distancing was her fault. She knew she had done something wrong. Every time a friendship or relationship dies it is her fault, always.
Then he came back as if she was the one who left, not him.
“We don’t talk anymore, I miss you.”
She tried to be cold, done, because somewhere in her mind she knew it was not her fault. If she’s “too much” then maybe they are not the right person. She also knew somewhere in her mind that the fact that she responded in the first place that she was lying to herself. Thinking about how he asked her about therapy once or twice, that he read her writing one time and thinking about how she would hate for someone to “ghost” her with no chance to explain, she went to his house with next to no protests. Despite everything, the “maintenance required” flashing light, the passenger who suddenly became silent, she was still along for the ride. He made her feel special, pretty, smart, and almost worth a damn. Was she a sucker? Naive? Gullible? Or was she trusting? Kind? Considerate? Maybe all of the above. A mix of pushover and understanding.
So she went, enticed by the promise of dinner made an amateur chef. He cooked for her, boasting he had cleaned the house for her, responding to all her questions with ease, reasonable and probable explanations. She knows he didn’t mean to, but she felt crazy for thinking there wasn’t a probable explanation, that something must have been wrong, that she must have done something wrong, to make them drift and not something in his life. Again, she denied her instincts, driving past the large “DEAD END” sign. He had answers for everything. Plus, she reasoned, they weren’t an official couple no matter how many times he called her “mine” or his “one and only.”
She went to the bathroom while he seasoned the vegetables, his soft, “Hi beautiful, I missed you,” still fresh in her mind and on the smile on her face, once more being pulled in by his charm and confidence. That was the room he forgot to clean. There was makeup on the counter, a lip brush still wet with the red lip stain the unnamed and unknown girl forgot to take with her, a toothbrush, the electric kind she knew he didn’t like to use, was laying by his, accompanying packaging in the trash along with a razor that wasn’t hers and condoms from moments she wasn’t here to experience. She tried to stop her heart from falling or crumbling, to catch it before it reached her feet, to prevent herself from feeling stupid, used, a trained bitch who came when called and went at a moment’s notice. She almost felt pathetic.
Why keep talking to her?
He had jumped out of the car a long time ago. He had not intentions of going where he said he wanted to take her, which made her rational brain ask herself, “Did he ever even want to go at all?” If he didn’t, was he trying to let her down gently by distancing himself? If not, why did he invite her? Why sell the destination so thoroughly with even a bow placed on top with the words, “My family would like you”? She tried to remain calm even though the emergency brake had been yanked up and the car was spinning out of control because she ignored the roadblocks, the road signs, the “Road Work Ahead” signs. She was still “looking for herself,” unsure of herself and what she wanted and he knew that, sensed it, and took advantage, sweet talking his way out of every jam he got himself into and she believed every plot hole, every controlling statement, to fit into what she thought he wanted.
In the kitchen he was still cooking, oblivious to the mayhem around him while words crept up her throat to the tip of her tongue, the dreaded, the pitiful words: “Do you still like me?” Not asking was the only barrier keeping her frustrations from turning into tears. She was desperately looking for a way to keep from wrecking the whole car because somewhere inside of her was still hope that they would arrive safe and sound, no matter how damaged the car might be. Even though she knew that he was too far away to know why she was upset, too far to know that his words had brought her something he didn’t know she was missing, she still desired for him to come back to her. She knew she was valuable, she knew she was art, but she has always needed someone else to see it too and when that validation seeps away, a little bit of her confidence is chipped at with a pick and hammer held by the person who used to build her up.
Slowly, she began to untangle herself from the web of disaster she had created. By texting less, by calling less, by hanging out less, she began to feel more herself and less of what someone else wanted her to be. She jumped out of the car to save herself before it smashed into a wall of no return. The car was okay, a safety hazard to drive but technically still drivable. The keys were gone; she now realized he held the keys the entire time, able to stop and go the “relationship” as he pleased, but the map was still in the passenger seat. She picked it up and decided that while he held the keys, she now held the power of where they were to go, and how long it took to get there, and she finally felt the power she should have never lost in the first place.
