“Yeah. I did.”
“And maybe,” she said quietly, “I came to say good-bye.”
“If you ever need anything, Tiff, you can come to me. I mean it.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I know. You’re not all bad, Adam.”
“I hope you find everything you’re looking for, Tiffany.” I meant those words. I really wanted her to be happy.
“I hope you do to,” she replied and tilted her head to the side. “Although, I think you already have.”
I made sure she got to her car okay before I went back inside. I glanced up at the stage and remembered Roxie’s final dance, the dance she did just for me.
Tiffany was right. I had found everything I was looking for.
Roxie was it for me.
13
Roxie
I dozed off and on all night, but every noise I heard had me jolting awake. When the sun finally started to rise, I fell asleep on the couch, still wrapped up in Adam’s jacket.
A few hours later, I woke up feeling stiff and severely unrested. I hated getting up in the morning. It was my least favorite part of the day. I liked to sleep in late, hit the snooze button, and sleep longer. Morning was not my friend, but coffee was.
As I trudged bleary-eyed into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, my fuzzy brain reminded me that when I became a nurse, early mornings might be a must. I stood in the center of the kitchen, grouchy and brooding, while the coffee dripped into the pot. When there was enough for a cup, I snatched it out of the base and dumped it into a clean, white mug.
After adding a little vanilla creamer from the fridge, I cupped my hands around the cup like it was my savior and breathed in the sweet, strong aroma.
I felt sorry for people who didn’t have coffee in their life.
It was tragic.
After a few hearty swallows, I sighed. Feeling slightly less disgruntled, I went and peeked out the blinds. No one was outside watching me. There was no red car. In fact, in the light of day with a comforting cup of coffee in my hand, I was left wondering if perhaps I had imagined it all.
I almost wished I had, but I knew better.
Craig wanted something. This wasn’t the first time we’d broken up. We’d ended our relationship on several occasions. Sometimes it only lasted an hour. Sometimes a couple weeks. Once it lasted six months. Then I went back to him.
If only I’d been strong enough to not let him get to me. If only I’d realized then that loving someone didn’t mean having to be with them. It was entirely possible to love someone from afar. And sometimes it was safer.
If I had stood my ground and not let him sweet talk me back into his life, then I wouldn’t be having all these thoughts right now. I wouldn’t be flinching every time the phone rang or waiting for him to show up in random places.
The truth was those six months we’d been broken up had been painful. I never felt free of him. I never felt relieved or like I was better off. I had missed him. I almost mourned our relationship and what could have been. He was my first love, my only love. The first few months we’d been together had been unlike anything I’d ever known.
He was my entire world.
When I wasn’t with him, I counted the minutes until I was. He made me feel beautiful. He made me feel special and wanted. The chemistry between us was undeniable.
Until things started to change.
But even after that, it was hard to let go of what we had because there was this part of me that always thought it would come back. That if he loved me like that once, he would again.
I was naïve.
I was innocent.
And during those six months, I did everything I could to move on, to forget about the hurt he caused me, to forget about how much I loved him.
It wasn’t easy, and then he started coming around again. He’d show up at my job. He’d leave presents on my windshield—things he knew I loved.
I was foolish because I thought he was the only thing that could take away the hurt. The hurt he inflicted. When he put his arms around me and I laid my head on his chest, that little bit of hope, that piece of my heart that he would always own, made me overlook the truth.
And so I went back to him.
Things were good.
For a couple weeks.
And then they were worse than ever.
But instead of spiraling down into a bleak hole, I realized something.
During those six months apart, something inside me had changed. Something hardened. I was no longer the innocent girl I was at seventeen. I was jaded. I was cynical.
Around that time, I met Harlow. She was my first friend in years. My only friend in years. One of the downfalls of being with Craig was when he became my entire world, there was no room in it for anyone else.
Yeah, I got out of the tiny town I grew up in. I thought I was moving to better, more exciting things and that Craig and I would be on an adventure.
I ended up with no friends, no family, and a guy who tried to control my every move. And the adventure I thought I was getting? It came in the form of a stripper pole.
Not in a million years did I ever think I’d be a stripper.
It was just another example of how my life had somehow changed—how I changed—and I’d not even realized.
But I met Harlow. She was hell-bent on being independent, on taking care of herself. I wanted to be that way. When I heard she needed a roommate, I knew it was my chance, maybe the last chance I had at getting out.
I knew Craig wouldn’t let me go that easily, but after several months of living here and settling into my friendship with her and making plans for my life, I started to fall into a pattern of security. The night he showed up at the bar and Adam treated him to a punch-fest that led to him being hauled away in handcuffs, I thought he’d finally gotten the point.
I thought he’d leave me alone.
Then the phone calls started. The voicemail messages pleading for me to call him back. I ignored him. This time around, the pain wasn’t as bad. The mere thought of him didn’t make me ache. Like I said, I was harder, more jaded. I’d gotten back with him that last time, but there was a large part of myself I hadn’t let him back into. It was almost as if, when we got back together, I realized it wasn’t him I missed. It had been the memory of what we’d been all those years ago.
Maybe he sensed I wasn’t coming back. Maybe he sensed he no longer had me under his thumb. It was making him desperate. Instead of calling, he was following me. The best thing I could do was ignore him. Pretend he wasn’t even there. If he wanted to follow me, fine. I’d go about my life and let him see there was no place in it for him. He’d get bored. He’d move on. He’d shack up with one of his many “side items,” and she would take over the position of being bullied by him.