I turn the TV off. I can’t watch any of this stuff. These programs are supposed to help people escape from their lives, but clearly I need to move to a different country or something.
As I sit on my couch, surrounded by the disaster that is my life, I start to slip. I grab my phone, turning it on for the first time in eight hours. The screen lights up with a flurry of messages.
Please hear me out. I know I’m stupid. I know I’m arrogant. But it’s not what you think. Call me.
There are so much more. After a certain point, I wonder if he even went to bed at all last night. Finally, at the end of the long string of groveling texts, he admits defeat.
Maybe it’s better this way. You were always too good for me.
The worst part of this is my lack of motivation. I’m not sure if I want him to give up so easily. When he first asked me out, he tried everything, including gifting me a book I could have exchanged for my own castle in the English countryside. I acted like I was too good for him. It was a cheap opportunity to feel better about myself.
I’m not better than anyone. I’m just a woman who had her heartbroken.
Marc’s last text message leaves a hole. I start to remember how he was with Sammy. Careful and nurturing, always looking out for her since her mother died. He’s been the faithful watchdog I wish I had growing up. And that’s what makes this so hard. If anything, Marc deserves better.
We rode our relationship nice and slow. Everything was falling into place. The sex was great too. Marc was a real pleaser.
I sigh and head to my bed, my old source of comfort. Falling against the mattress, I calm down. It’s going to be okay. This is life. It’s just time to move on.
As soon as I close my eyes, my phone vibrates across my bedside table. Groaning, I hit the ignore button and turn to the other side. It goes off again.
Annoyed I can’t even sleep in peace, I fling the covers up and pick up the phone. It’s actually not who I expected. It’s a text from Amanda.
Are you and my dad fighting?
I’ve never met Amanda’s dad. Amanda didn’t send this text message. I figure it’s one cute little girl from Sammamish, Washington. Sammy.
I didn’t expect Amanda to stay the night. I wonder where Marc slept. The urge to text him seeps in, but I ignore it.
My first thought is that Marc is using his daughter to get me back. Of course, that’s a wild assumption. I’ve got it in my head that everything is a weird elaborate game for Marc. But if there’s something he was honest about, it was his love for Sammy.
I stare at my phone, resisting the urge to respond. But when it goes off a second time, I feel really inclined to reply.
Will you still read to me?
It cracks my heart in half.
I was looking forward to spending more time with Sammy. But after Marc and I broke up in the most public way possible, I’m not sure it’s wise to step foot in that house again.
But when she calls, I don’t resist the urge to answer. I put my ear to that receiver, and I feel regret start to trickle in. “Ms. Greenwald?”
“Hi, Sammy. How did you get this number?” I ask.
“The phone,” she says. “Rowdy misses you.”
I’m sure he does.
She’s eight years old. She’s not supposed to know how to use the latest smartphone. “Does Amanda know you did that?”
I hear her run and shut a door. “No,” she says. “Please don’t tell her, Ms. Greenwald.”
I sigh. “I won’t tell her if you promise you’ll stop stealing. It’s not a good thing to do,” I say.
“I know,” she whispers. “But I didn’t want to wait until Monday.”
Collecting my thoughts before I speak, I nibble on the edge of my lip. “Look, Sammy,” I mutter. “Life is complicated. Sometimes you like someone. Then they do something to make you mad.”
“Like Xander,” she says. “He made me mad, so I pushed him.”
“Right. Like Xander.”
As soon as I say the words, I nearly drop the phone. That’s not what I meant. It’s also a stunning admission I didn’t expect to hear. Now that I think about it, she has had a couple of very intense temper tantrums. She was learning through me, and I failed her.
“Is it like that? Did you push my daddy?” she asks.
This isn’t how I wanted the conversation to run, so I steer it back to what she just told me. “Sammy, you know you can’t push Xander.”
“He said I’d give him cooties.”
Being an adult is a weird thing. We think we act differently, that our judgments and actions are more adjusted and even noble than a child’s version of the same. In the end, we’re not too far from each other.
“You can’t push someone just because you didn’t like what they said to you, Sammy.”
“Why? My dad did something stupid, and you made him sad,” she says.
“Did Amanda tell you that?” I ask.
“She said you didn’t make him sad, but I know my dad. It’s Sunday. He always takes me to the park on Sundays, but today, he didn’t. So you had to have hurt his feelings.”
Great problem solving skills. She must’ve learned them in my class.
Without knowing what else to say, I take a deep breath and feel the need to tell her the truth. “I liked your dad a lot,” I say. “Like, a lot a lot.”
“But you didn’t like me?” she asks.
“No, Sammy. I love you. You’re one of the most amazing girls I’ve ever met,” I say. “It’s just that, I’m in a weird place right now. I didn’t expect a
