Every Wednesday I participate in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge.
I sat in the front seat of his truck, a beat up old Bronco with the front fender a different color than the rest of the body because a friend had hit a deer in it the previous year. I had my feet pulled up underneath me, my chin resting on my knees with my arms wrapped around them pulling them in tight. It was raining outside, too cold for a sweater, but too warm and humid for a full-on winter jacket. The heater was blasting in my face causing my eyes to dry out, but that wasn’t the cause of the tears streaming down my 16 year old face.
Earlier in the day I heard my boyfriend had been cheating on me for a while and I was aching to know if it was true. He had been acting a little strange the past few weeks, and I knew something was up. I had asked him what’s been going on and after he explained some bullshit reason about how his mom had been going through a tough time and she wanted him to hangout with her, it made me even more weary. I know this boy, and I know he wouldn’t let his mom be the reason we didn’t hang out.
I bluntly asked him if he cheated on me, and he laughed in my face. That should have been the first clue. And the second clue? Continuing to laugh while calling me stupid for even thinking that. I asked him to just simply answer the question, yes or no, as I continued crying, almost to the point of sobbing. ‘No,’ he said, looking into my eyes. ‘I would never cheat on you. Not in a million years, babe.’
Would you guess that I believed him? That I believed him as I looked into those big brown eyes and felt his cool hands on my clammy ones? Because I did, if only for a moment. I said ok, opened the truck door, and walked away. I knew that in that moment, I was letting go of him. I was walking away from him for forever because we both knew what he had done.
After sneaking back in my house and hoping my parents didn’t see my poofy red eyes, I heard my phone ring signaling me that I got a text. It read, ‘I’m sorry,’ and I knew what he was sorry for. I knew right away that he wasn’t sorry for what had just happened in the car; he was sorry for cheating on me, for not telling me to my face, and for breaking my heart.
I ignored the text and instead just laid in my bed the rest of the night questioning everything. The next day a dozen roses showed up at my door and it was hard to tell my parents that they were from my wonderful boyfriend, for no reason at all. I didn’t want to tell them that we broke up, or that he cheated on me, or that I was devastated. I just wasn’t ready for that.
I brought the roses to my room, took each petal off one by one, and flushed them down the toilet. I grabbed my phone and shot off an angry text: “A dozen roses? You think that’s going to solve everything? You cheated on me. You kissed another girl, you stuck your dick in her, and worst of all you fell for her. How could you possibly think a dozen roses is going to change or solve any of this? Go fuck yourself.”
And with that, I was done.
So this was sort of a nonfiction piece with some fiction thrown in. My boyfriend in a beat up Bronco did cheat on me, the whole scene pretty much panned out like that, and he did send me flowers the next day, though they were way prettier and more expensive than roses! We didn't break up right away, but our relationship was 'over' way before this happened, so it was something I was expecting. Oh, to never be in young love again...
