Chapter 3: Joanna

Two Weeks Later

The apartment is dead silent, save for the steady hum of the refrigerator. For two full weeks, I exist in a liminal space of heavy, dreamless sleep and waking numbness. I exist entirely in oversized sweatpants, watching the shadows shift across my bedroom ceiling while playing the last year of my life on a torturous loop. 

I try as much as I can to block out the world. I try not to look at social media, but I can’t help stalking Ken and Paula’s I*******m. Ken hasn’t posted anything since our breakup, but Paula has been keeping her 2,000+ followers updated with her life.

I feel bitter envy as I scroll through the pretty selfies she’s posted, and I am very analytical in comparing her looks with mine. Maybe if I was thinner and had clearer skin, Ken wouldn’t have thought twice before setting those boundaries with her. 

I’m also ashamed to say this (and I can’t even let Ria know about it), but I unblocked him sometime ago, desperate to hear from him. He’s called and texted, but I haven’t picked up any calls or replied any of his texts. 

Am I crazy for unblocking my emotional cheater ex so I can feel better about myself whenever his name lights up my phone screen? Yeah, I probably am. Sue me. 

On the fourteenth evening, the bedroom door clicks open.

Ria walks in, carrying a fresh cup of tea. She sets it on the nightstand, takes one look at my hollow eyes, and crosses her arms. The patient, coddling friend from the last fortnight is gone; the fierce, protective roommate is back.

"Alright, Jo. That’s enough," she says, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. "I’ve let you wallow. I’ve let you mourn. I’ve let you eat cereal for dinner for fourteen days straight. I’ve pretended not to know that you unblocked that shithead. But you are officially crossing the line into letting that scumbag ruin your spirit, and I won't allow it."

I sniff and stare at a faint scratch on my nightstand. "I didn’t unblock him,” I lie. I feel my face reddening. BUSTED.

“Uh huh,” Ria says narrowing her eyes at me. 

“Look Ria, leave me alone, okay? I want to drown in my sea of depression,” I murmur.

“Shakespeare much?” She says drily. 

“Come on, leave me alone,” I whine. 

"No." She walks over to my closet, the hinges groaning as she flings the doors open. She rumbles through the hangers before pulling one out. "Go wash your face. Put this on. It makes your ass look sublime. We are leaving this apartment right now."

I let out a wet, pathetic laugh into my pillow. "Are you insane? Look at me. I look like a Victorian ghost. I am not going anywhere."

"Which is exactly why you're getting in the shower," Ria says, throwing the green dress onto the foot of my bed. "I'm not asking you to go clubbing, Jo. But you've been breathing in the same stagnant air for a half a month. You're suffocating yourself."

"Good," I mutter, pulling the duvet tighter around my shoulders. "Let me suffocate. I don't want a change of scenery. I just want to stay right here where nothing can touch me."

Ria walks over, her sharp expression softening as the mattress sinks beside my hip. She doesn't pull the blanket away. She just rests a heavy, grounding hand over my covered shoulder.

"Joanna. Every day you spend staring at this ceiling is another day you are letting him keep pieces of you. I'm not telling you to be fine. You can cry into your drink all night if you want to. But you are going to do it with clean hair and a shit ton of alcohol."

I bite the inside of my cheek, a fresh sting pricking the back of my eyes. The sheer energy it would take to keep fighting her feels monumental. I don't want to go out. The thought of putting on real clothes makes me feel physically nauseous, but the thought of arguing with Ria for the next two hours sounds even worse.

"I'm not putting on makeup," I bite out, my voice muffled by the pillow.

"Imagine me asking you to," Ria says softly. "Deal."

"And if I want to leave after twenty minutes, we leave."

"I'll have the car running," she promises, finally pulling the covers back just enough for me to sit up.

An hour later, I feel like a total fraud. The emerald-green silk dress clings to my skin, a cruel mockery of how dead I feel inside. My hair is brushed, but my eyes are still faintly rimmed with pink.

When we step into the lounge, the low rumble of live jazz and the sharp clink of crystal do absolutely nothing to soothe the lingering storm inside me.

"Stay right here in this corner," Ria instructs, her eyes scanning the packed, dimly lit lounge. She spots a crowded velvet-roped area in the back. "The bar is a circus and you look like you're about to faint. I'm going to find the floor manager and bribe him to give us a private booth away from all these loud finance bros. Don't move an inch."

"I won't," I whisper, gripping the edge of the dark mahogany counter.

Ria disappears into the sea of tailored suits, leaving me completely exposed at the corner of the bar. I stare down at the polished wood, trying to breathe through the heavy numbness in my chest.

Then, the heavy glass front doors of the lounge swing open across the room.

A gust of rainy wind sweeps into the room, bringing with it a sound I would recognize in the dark. A laugh. A high-pitched, melodic, familiar laugh.

Paula.

My stomach completely drops, turning into a block of pure ice. I look up, my eyes instantly zeroing in on the entrance foyer. Walking in under a massive umbrella is Paula, her perfect blonde hair completely unaffected by the storm, laughing as she shakes off her coat. And holding the umbrella over her head, his hand resting casually, possessively on the small of her back, is Kenneth.

He is wearing the exact jacket I bought him for his birthday.

My heart stops. Literally stops. The air inside my lungs turns to concrete. 

she’s lying here in my arms and all i can think about why we ever broke up. 

The text message from two weeks ago flashes behind my eyes, blinding me. They are out. Together. On an actual date. They didn't even wait a month. He is here, parading her around like she was always the prize, while I was just the placeholder.

The walls of the lounge start closing in, spinning violently. The live jazz music morphs into a deafening roar. I can't breathe. My hands shake so hard against the bar that my fingernails scrape the wood. I sink into my shoulders, desperate to hide, desperate to disappear, but my knees are turning to water. I am going to faint.

I am going to throw up right here on the floor.