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SARAH

“ S arah!” A voice called out to me as soon as I pushed out of the air conditioned basketball arena to meet my parents and into the sweltering South Carolina heat. It’s nothing I’m not used to, but after having my body chilled to the bone, this heat and humidity is a slap to the face.

“Liam. What’s up?” I asked and changed direction as I walked towards him. I noticed Kamryn, my college roommate and bestie, isn’t with him, so he either purposefully dodged her on their way out or he made up an excuse to talk to one of his former teammates.

“I want you to help me get drafted,” he pleaded, as graduates walked by us in their black gowns and colored hoods.

My eyes widened. “Me?”

“Yes, you. I have faith.”

Is his faith misplaced? I barely know anything about the business and this summer was supposed to help me learn the ropes before diving into the actual work. But, still. Is his faith in me misplaced?

“Okay,” I said slowly. “I can’t attempt to do anything until Monday. ”

“No problem. Just call me when you can.”

Liam quickly hugs me and I mutter out, “Sure.” And then he’s off to find his and Kamryn’s family’s. My feet held me in place as I watched him walk away. Sweat formed on my neck and trickled down my back. Not just from the heat, but from Liam wanting me to get his name out to scouts. Excitement courses through my body and I use the diploma holder to fan myself before I go in search of my parents. The entire time as I wove my way through graduates I thought how perfect that this is the way my life could head. A sports agent.

I found my parents by the fountain and accepted their congrats while thinking about the next steps in my future. Can I do this? I mean, this is a male-dominated field. Am I good enough? I did my best to stay present while we were at dinner at some fancy steakhouse. My parents were talking excitedly about me moving back home. But as I was pushing the mashed potatoes around on my plate, I couldn’t stop thinking about Liam and his asking me to help him succeed, and how utterly sick to my stomach I feel at the mention of moving back home.

I stumble over my feet as the memory hits me out of nowhere. I pick up my pace trying to outrun that part of my life. Sweat forms on my forehead and trickles down my face while also sliding down my back.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

One foot in front of the other.

An uptempo EDM track flows from one ear to the other through my headphones as I pump my arms and feel the stretch in my burning legs when I see my driveway come into view from the end of the street.

My watch vibrates and I look down seeing I’ve done ten miles in under two hours. It beats my last personal record, but maybe that’s because the memories of the past made themselves known today of all days.

Run.

Run.

Run.

The truth is that I have been running. Not only in the physical sense, but in the metaphorical sense as well. It’s been two years of growth. Pain, too, if I’m being honest. Because you can’t grow without pain and if it’s one thing I’ve learned, is that growth is painful. And that eventually the painful memories run up to catch you.

I’m in the break room at the office, pouring a cup of coffee, when my cell phone rings with a call from Chance, one of Liam’s best friends in college.

“Hey, what’s up?” I ask into the phone that’s wedged between my shoulder and ear. Nothing greets me from the other end and I pull my phone from my ear to see that I’m still connected. “Chance?”

He lets out a breath. “There’s been an accident.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Liam. He uh…Sarah he died last night.”

The coffee mug I’m holding falls out of my hand and shatters on the floor. My boss flies into the break room and stops short when he must see the distraught look on my face.

My thoughts turn selfish for mere moments. What does that mean for me? How do I move forward? What happens next for me?

“I–um, what?”

What happened next was a blur. Chance tells me what little he knows, which as frustrating as his lack of information is, is better than nothing. I took off from work, packed some clothes, and drove straight to Pennsylvania. I remember Kamryn doing her best to shut me out. But I put aside my grief and focused on her. That may have been where I went wrong in neglecting myself to help her. But if I refused to focus on myself, then I could focus on her. And that seemed like a better choice at the time.

I stumble again as that time plays like a movie in my mind. The realization that I failed my friend when he put his faith in me is something I rarely talk about. Not only that, but it’s been hard for me to talk to Kamryn, my best friend and roommate from college, without thinking about Liam. While she lost her best friend, I lost someone I grew close to while helping him reach his dream. And since then, I’ve continuously doubted my career choice path. What did that say about my ability to wanting to become an agent?

I remember the day I met Liam. His good looks tripped me up and for a brief moment my mind went to some not so friendly thoughts. But then I saw the way he looked at Kamryn and knew that they had the potential to have something incredible. So I nixed those dirty thoughts and placed him firmly in the brother-friend category. But who knew that the something incredible between the two of them would lead to tragedy?

When the news broke on the accident, a lot of lives were changed that day. The invisible thread that tied us together snapped in the middle.

A lot of Liam’s friends placed the blame on Kamryn which sent her into a deeper hole. A deeper spiral. I lost two friends that day. The Kamryn I grew to love was a shell of herself. The shadows that I never imagined would weave around my best friend, proved they were there to stay. Kam wasn’t the only one to lose something. Her childhood best friend, Emily, lost her fiancée that day. Those two suffered a loss that no one their age should have had to. But eventually things turned around. Both of them are slowly finding happiness in their own way and on their own terms.

While I’m...not. Happy, that is. I’m not sad, but I’m not overflowing with happiness. I figure that’s normal. We can’t be happy all the time.

When I was reevaluating what I wanted to do with my life, I found love. I’ve been with my boyfriend, Paul, for three years. We went to the same high school but rarely crossed paths. We bumped into each other when I came home after college and things clicked with him. Our friendship was new and easy and watching each other succeed made our friendship blur to more. Happiness finally became more attainable with him because he gave me a sense of worth.

And when I got the job offer in Cincinnati over a year ago, it was too good for me to turn down. It was everything I wanted. But since then, we’ve been doing long-distance and it is not for the faint of heart. And because of that, our relationship has been strained. And I miss him. So much that my heart aches.

Missing him is what’s at the forefront of my mind when I see a car parked at the end of my driveway and a figure pacing the length. My stride falters before I realize I’d recognize that form anywhere and sprint the last twenty yards home. His head flips up at the sound of my feet smacking the pavement.

“Baby!” I exclaim as I run into his arms and he hooks his arms under my legs to keep me from falling. My legs are high around his waist and I bring our lips together. The physical connection is what we’ve been missing. That was the easiest part for us to grasp while the rest clicked into place like the final puzzle piece. Where my drive was high, his was higher. It made for more than one sleepless night and zombie-like mornings. But it was worth it. He was worth it.

Paul breaks away from the kiss and I look into the sparkling brown eyes that stopped me in my tracks that Monday at the coffee shop. His chocolate brown skin is still holding onto the summer glow, which is easier for him to keep since he lives at the beach and spends most of his weekends playing beach volleyball. He keeps his hair trim with a fade and his beard has not one hair out of place.

My face drops when I don’t see that familiar light when he looks at me. No smile to greet me and no teasing quip about how I’m sweaty and probably ruining his clothes. He slowly releases my legs and steps back when I’m on two feet.

“Oh.” My voice drops, not only in volume but in strength too. “You’re not here for that kind of visit.” It’s not a question as much as it is a statement. His lips are pulled taut as he shakes his head.

I’ve never felt dread around him. Elation? Yes. But never dread. I guess that’s what happens when someone puts you on the highest pedestal. Their disappointment never touches you.

Paul and I talk on the phone as much as we can. But with our busy jobs, those calls and texts have become less and less to where we’re lucky if we talk to each other once a week.

Motion from the side is a reminder that we’re in my driveway. And I don’t want anyone to bear witness to what might happen.

“Come inside,” I say without any of the excitement I was feeling when I saw him in my driveway.

I turn, not waiting to see if he’s following me. And each step I take to the door feels like a death march. My vision blackens on the edges until all I can see is the step that’s in front of me. My mouth pools with saliva and I feel like I’m going to be sick. This can’t be happening. How is this happening? I’ve always made sure the people in my life knew how much they meant to me. That’s my cursed people pleaser tendency that’s been my driving force since high school.

I unlock the door and push through, holding it open for Paul and flicking the lock when he’s in my foyer. Resting my back against the door, I watch him survey my space. He’s been to the city once and I wasn’t even living in this house. I suspect he asked my mother for my address instead of asking me. But now that I feel the end is right on the other side of the door, what does that say if I couldn’t even read the signs that were big and neon right in my face? Were my rose colored glasses that thick?

He finally turns to me and I take in his appearance. His shirt is crumpled and I’m not sure if it’s from the hug or his flight here. But he looks less put together than usual. He looks less like that man I’ve been loving for the last three years. Has our distance been a factor in this distraught look?

“I love you,” he starts, although he might as well have just shoved a dagger in my chest because no good conversation ever starts with a declaration of love. “But this is too hard.”

“What is?” I ask, almost desperate.

“The distance. Dealing with your freak outs is not what I signed up for. And if I’m honest, just being with you is hard, Sarah.” Paul says and tucks his hands in his pockets. “I can tell you I love you as many times as I want to. But the truth is that you’re hard to love. And I realized that loving you is not the solution.”

I don’t touch on my “freak outs” that Paul calls them because he’s always made it clear where he stands on mental health. You’re either fine or you’re not. And if you’re not fine, damaged, or broken, in Paul’s eyes you’re not worth the work for him. So I did my best to hide my manic episodes from him. Apparently my best wasn’t good enough and he uses this chance to bring it up.

“How am I hard to love? Is it because I didn’t fold the first time you said it? Was it something I did? Tell me, please.” I hate myself for begging and I almost feel like I’m clinging to him, my life raft, to keep me afloat and tell me what he needs.

“If you were easy to love and I loved you as much as I thought I did, I would have come with you when you asked me. But you are too hard to love and I need an easy love.”

Ouch. I rear back like he slapped me. The realization that I’m really not good enough hits harder than it should. But Paul pointing it out in not so simple words is him shoving that dagger in further. “Am I really hard to love or is there someone else?”

His gaze drops to the floor and my stomach falls out of my butt. “She just got out of the first trimester.”

My keys fall out of my hand and clatter to the floor making him jump. “So while I’ve been missing you and blaming myself for our lack of communication, you’ve been with someone else.” I’m angry. Angry that I stayed with someone through this move. Angry that I tied my happiness to him. I’m angry that I let him put me on that stupid pedestal. Angry that I told him I loved him. And I do. Well–did. I did love him. At least I think I did. Now I’m questioning if what I felt for him was actually love or was it contentment? Was my love for him tied to how dependent I became on him? Because in my grief of losing Liam, I clung to Paul to keep me afloat. I let him keep me afloat. I let him mold me to who he wanted me to be. Is that love? “How long?”

“Don’t make me answer that,” Paul says, and I know, despite my resistance to wanting the truth, that I need it. Because despite my need to not want the details, for my sake, I need them. I need to sleep peacefully at night and know that none of it was on me. I need to be able to move on knowing that none of it was my fault. But despite my need-to-know, I’ll always blame myself for us falling apart. But I’ll also blame him for letting us fall apart.

“How long have you been with her?”

“Nine months.”

I cross my arms over my chest and bring a hand up to my lips. Squeezing them together with an attempt to keep them from trembling. I think back through the last year and try to catalog when we went sideways. In my haze I can picture that moment. When his text responses came back hours later instead of minutes later like they used to. When he would always tell me to hold on as he went into another room and I’d hear the door close. I chalked it up to him wanting to talk to me in private. It was always him though and I walked around life blissfully unaware of what was happening back home .

“Come on, Sarah. You knew things were going to change between us the second you decided to move up here.” He says as if that excuses his stepping out on me.

“That is no excuse for cheating on me, Paul. I asked you to come with me. You could have come with me!” I shout. The tears of anger clog up my throat. Making it hard for me to speak. I feel weak. Weak that I’m letting him see a side of me that he’s responsible for. Weak that I’m crying over a man when I watched my best friend cry over two until she finally pulled herself out of the dumps.

He shakes his head like that suggestion is idiotic. “No. I was–we were building something there.”

“We could have re-built anywhere,” I say, as all the fight finally leaves my body the longer he stays here presenting his horrible case.

“No.” He says and ends that topic. Something I admired about Paul was his ability to switch topics at the drop of a hat. Because of it our relationship was never stale. But I never thought I’d come to hate his ability to end a conversation until it pertained to me. “I flew up here because you deserved some sort of closure from us. Because let’s be honest, our relationship was on the downslope the second you accepted the job up here. I’m just putting a name to it: a break-up. And I also want you to know that I’m proposing to her as soon as I land back in Charleston. I just wanted you to hear it from me first.”

I bite my tongue as the tears fill my eyes and I know that I can’t look at him anymore. Three years down the drain. A friendship so solid, ruined in his selfish moment. “Get out.” I spit as the first tear falls.

He walks a step forward and pauses as if he wants to say something more. But I move to the side, not wanting to hear whatever he wants to say and pull the door open as I do. When he crosses over the threshold I slam the door shut and lock it.

I cover my mouth with my palm as a sob lets loose. I cry over my stupid heart for opening up and letting someone in. I cry because I wasted three years on someone who gave me everything without my having to ask. I cry for being so stupid. I cry for being a stupid, hopeless romantic and naive enough to let someone in.

Hard to love, my ass.

Swiping off my tears, I head up the carpeted stairs, taking them two at a time and going straight to my bathroom to shower.

I bring my phone and speaker into my bathroom and find the most “female scream, I hate boys” playlist to yell in the shower. When the water is to my liking, I hop in and exfoliate my body from head to toe. The only way to make myself feel my best is to start from square one. And that involves an everything shower. As Kelly Clarkson sings about breathing for the first time, some of that post-breakup tension melts away from my body.

They say the best way to get over someone, is to get under someone else.

Well I vow to not only change the game, but to never fall in love again.