4. “O teach me how I should forget”

4

"O teach me how I should forget"

Now

I detach my tongue from the roof of my mouth with a dry click and swirl it around my mouth as I plead with all the gods I can think of to make my phone stop assaulting me. My pleas fall on deaf ears. In fact, as soon as that call gets sent to voicemail, another starts ringing immediately, a sustained, brutal attack on my senses that has me stumbling out of bed and frantically searching the pockets of my crumpled jeans to make it stop.

"Sam," I say before I've managed to put my phone to my ear. "I'm sorry. I meant to call last night before bed. Wine. There was wine. Two bottles." That's true. It must be. The memory is vague and disjointed, but I distinctly remember uncorking the second bottle after Romeo let his dog shit on my lawn. "And cheese. I had all the cheese."

"Did you see him?" Sam's voice is soft and low, easy on the ear, but his words have a bite.

I sit heavily on the bed, head pounding so hard that I have to rest my forehead against the heel of my palm to keep myself upright and try to find something to say that will lessen the blow. I come up with nothing.

"You did, didn't you?" There's no accusation in his words, just a gentle resignation, but guilt and regret stab right where my throat and jaw meet. It aches as I open my mouth to speak. Sam beats me to it. "It's okay, Jude."

"It isn't."

"How was it? Seeing him, I mean." Hope splutters and fades. "Was it…?"

"It was the same."

The sound of his breathing rushes down the line and punches me hard in the gut, taking the closeness we've shared and forcing a wedge between us, pushing me further and further away until I'm able to lift my head on my own.

"It's still him, huh?" I can tell he's nodding his head and smiling. A sad, rueful smile. Not a smile I've seen on him before. "You told me. You warned me this would happen. You said we were a bad idea." His voice is still soft, but it's breathy and uneven too. "Most people wouldn't have done that, but you did."

"I wish I wasn't like this."

"I know." Neither of us speaks for a while. Him because he's crying, and me because I don't know what to say to a man whose heart I've just stomped on for the simple reason that no matter what I do, I can't stop loving the man I hate. "You warned me," he says eventually. "The night we met, you told me this is how it would end. You were very clear. Honest…you were honest with me."

It's true. I warn everyone who comes into my life that I'm broken. Not that it makes it any better. It doesn't. The end result is the same, the person who gets on the wrong side of my obsession with Romeo leaves in pieces.

"I shouldn't have let anything happen between us," I say. "I know what I'm like. I should have walked away."

"You tried to walk away. Have you forgotten? I wouldn't let you. I knew the risk, Jude…" There's a sharp intake of breath and a jagged exhale. "And"—he sniffs—"you were worth it."

That takes the regret, hurt, and desperation I feel and squeezes it until my eyes bulge.

There's a finality to this moment, the last few seconds of a call that end a budding relationship. There always is, but this time, it's worse than usual. This time, it's a nail in a coffin. A confirmation. A fact. A life sentence.

I'll be like this forever.

I won't ever change.

Sam is amazing. He's gorgeous and sexy. A blond, sunshine boy with a wicked wit and a smile that lights up a room. If anyone had a hope of changing me, it was him. We were friends before we were lovers, good friends for a long time before anything happened between us. I thought that might make a difference.

"I'll see you around, okay, Jude? Just give me a minute, and I'll reach out when I'm ready. We can still be friends."

It's a lie. An unwitting lie, but a lie nonetheless. Sam and I won't stay friends. We won't hang out again. We won't laugh or order too much Indian takeout together like we used to. We won't talk on the phone into the early hours or make plans to meet up. We probably won't even run into each other.

"Sam," I say before he hangs up. "I wish it was you instead."